Turkey Monster Thanksgiving Read online

  Before I reached for the next sheet of paper, I thought a long time. My decorations were terrific. My food was wonderful. If only we could have company!

  I made sure Dad was in his office where he couldn’t see me, and then I wrote two words in big, dark letters:

  GUEST LIST

  Chapter 5

  Monster!

  BY SUNDAY MORNING, I had a bunch of lists.

  GUEST LIST

  DECORATIONS LIST

  FOOD LIST

  GROCERY LIST

  WHAT TO WEAR LIST

  They looked great! I tacked each one, except for the guest list, onto my bulletin board. The guest list I hid in my sock drawer

  So far, that list had only nine people. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson from next door, plus Nancy, the lady who brings the mail, plus Sierra, my best friend, and her mom and dad. Plus Dad and Tyler and me. Nine! I needed lots more.

  Sunday afternoon, Claire and Mr. Plummer gave up on putting their turkey on the roof. It was too big. Instead, they set it on the lawn where it glared at everyone who walked by.

  Tyler peeked out the front window. “We should have one of those,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t want it if you could see it up close,” I teased him. “It’s a mean turkey.”

  “Mean turkey? A monster turkey?”

  “There’s no such thing,” I said.

  Dad came to look. “I don’t know how Claire’s dad finds time to do so many projects.”

  Tyler tugged at the drapes. “It IS a monster,” he said. “That turkey monster’s looking in here!”

  I pulled the drapes closed and made it dark in the living room. We turned some blankets into caves and pretended bats were flying out of the ceiling light. Then, we switched from bats to turkey monsters. Tyler kept peeking through the drapes.

  “Help, help,” he yelled. “Turkey monster’s opening his mouth!”

  I made my voice low and scary. “Turkey monsters come to life on Thanksgiving Day. They eat kids.”

  “Run, kids!” Tyler shrieked. Then we raced across the room and leaped into our blanket caves. We did that over and over until finally Dad finished his office work and made us put away the blankets.

  Later, while Dad washed Tyler’s dinner off in the bath, I found Claire’s magazine. According to Beautiful Living, everyone in the United States, mother or no mother, would be celebrating Thanksgiving the way the Plummers were doing it. Every kitchen would be cooking lots of food. Every house would be decorated inside and out.

  I flopped down on my bed with my decorations list. Where I’d written TURKEY ON THE ROOF, I crossed out ROOF. My turkey would go on the front door. Best of all, my turkey would be a happy one.

  While I cut and colored, I kept trying to think of more people for my guest list. I imagined bunches of them sitting at our pretty table getting ready to eat fifteen kinds of food.

  But if there were going to be guests, I’d need invitations. Baby turkeys would make perfect invitations. I got more paper out and pretty soon a big flock of baby turkeys lay all over my bed. On Thanksgiving Day, people would line up on my sidewalk. They’d stretch around the block like at the movies, all of them waiting to come to my wonderful dinner.

  I didn’t hear Dad put Tyler to bed. I didn’t hear him come up behind me until he was right there. “Those look like invitations,” he said.

  Snip! Off went a baby turkey’s head!

  “I told you, Katie,” Dad said. “No company!”

  All at once, words I hadn’t planned to say came out for my mouth. “These are for practice, Dad. For next year.”

  “Ah,” he said. I could tell he didn’t believe me.

  I reached for the big turkey. “This one’s for the front door. What do you think?”

  “Not evil enough,” he said.

  “Dad!”

  “No, really. I like the smile.”

  “I made a grocery list.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Next time we go to the store, let’s get some stuff to go with our pizza. I can cook some special dishes ahead of time. That’s what Mr. Plummer is doing.”

  “Hm,” he said. “Don’t you have any homework?”

  “I had to draw a picture. That was all the sub gave us. Ms. Morgan’s been sick. I hope she comes back tomorrow.”

  Dad turned the big turkey upside down and balanced it on its head. Then he made it peck at scraps of paper on my bed. “You like Ms. Morgan pretty well?”

  “The whole fourth grade likes her. She’s wonderful. Oh, I wish she …” Dad looked at me.

  “I mean,” I said, “next year, maybe we can invite Ms. Morgan to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “But not this year,” Dad said.

  “Okay, okay.” I gathered up the little turkeys. “These were a waste of time.”

  “They’re cute,” Dad said. “Use them for decorations.”

  I sighed. “I’ll stick them on the windows. They can look out.”

  “Good idea.” Dad reached for the newspaper and went to lie on the couch.

  Look out at nothing, I thought. Only an empty sidewalk, empty front yard, empty driveway.

  No long lines of happy people. No one at all coming to my dinner.

  Chapter 6

  Room Father Strikes

  ON MONDAY MORNING, MS. Morgan was back.

  I was so glad to see her, I couldn’t help myself. I imagined her sitting at my Thanksgiving table. I heard her gasp as she admired all my decorations. “May I take a picture?” Ms. Morgan would ask.

  But I couldn’t ask Ms. Morgan to Thanksgiving dinner. I couldn’t ask anyone at all.

  “Take out nice paper,” Ms. Morgan was saying. “We need to write thank-you notes to the baker we visited before I got sick.” On the board, she wrote a list of words we might need. Then, she wrote a sample note with the date and “Dear Mr. McKenzie,” at the top and “Sincerely yours,” at the bottom. “Write the middle part in your own words,” she said.

  I wrote:

  Dear Mr. McKenzie,

  Thank you for giving us rolls to eat. I think you are lucky to work in a bakery. I’m sorry you have to get up when it is still dark.

  Sincerely yours,

  Katie Jordan

  Everyone else was still writing. I pulled out another piece of paper. Just for practice, I wrote:

  Dear Ms. Morgan,

  Please come to our Thanksgiving dinner.

  Sincerely yours,

  Katie Jordan

  As soon as Ms. Morgan started to pick up our thank-you notes, I stuffed the practice Thanksgiving invitation into my pocket.

  Ms. Morgan looked at each note as she picked it up. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice.” When she got to me, she looked surprised. “Especially nice,” she said. And then, she winked.

  Why was she winking?

  She picked up all the other notes. Had I spelled bakery wrong? I checked the board. No, I’d spelled it right.

  Someone knocked at the classroom door.

  Mr. Plummer stood there, holding a tray of cupcakes.

  “Room father at your service,” he said.

  “This is a surprise,” Ms. Morgan said.

  “I brought these to celebrate your return. Chocolate cupcakes.”

  Everyone cheered.

  Claire’s dad placed the tray on Ms. Morgan’s desk. Then, he winked at Claire and slipped an orange envelope under the tray. Fourth grade was full of winks this morning.

  Mr. Plummer glanced at his watch. “Got to get back to work,” he said. He waved at the whole class, almost like Santa Claus, but without the ho, ho, ho. As he went out the door, I stopped smiling about the cupcakes.

  I’d seen the orange envelope before. Mr. Plummer had just invited Ms. Morgan to Thanksgiving dinner. Now, even if Dad changed his mind about company, she would go to Claire’s house. Not mine.

  Chapter 7

  Things Get Worse

  IN THE SCHOOL BATHROOM before recess, I took out the practice invitation. I
couldn’t even bring myself to read it. I ripped it up and threw the tiny pieces into the toilet. I flushed three times.

  My lists were at home. I couldn’t wait to flush them, too. If I couldn’t have Ms. Morgan for Thanksgiving dinner, I didn’t want to do anything.

  Claire went to ballet on Mondays after school, so Dad pushed Tyler in the stroller to pick me up. Since it was raining, we crowded under Dad’s big striped umbrella. As soon as we turned the corner of our block, Tyler started to howl. “Don’t let him peck me.” He shook a stick at Claire’s turkey.

  “That was just a game,” I told him.

  “He eats little kids,” Tyler whined. “Keep him away from me.”

  We parked Tyler’s stroller on the front porch. As soon as I got inside, I ran to get the Beautiful Living magazine, the door turkey, and the flock of little turkeys. I threw everything into the trash.

  “You don’t have to worry about Thanksgiving dinner,” I told Dad.

  “How come?”

  “It’s too much trouble. I’m not going to do it.”

  “Great!” Dad said.

  That night, Dad made his famous stir-fry. First he fried up onions and garlic. Then he threw in whatever veggies were getting bendy in the refrigerator. On stir-fry nights, Tyler ate peanut butter sandwiches. First, he stuck them full of holes with his chopsticks. Dad passed me the soy sauce and smiled at the face I was making. “He’s going through a playing-with-his-food stage,” he said.

  “He’s sickening,” I said. All at once, I was mad about no Thanksgiving. Mad at Tyler. Mad at Dad. Mad at Mom for going off and leaving us. I pushed back my chair and stood up. “We’re a stupid family!” I yelled.

  Dad stood up, too. “That’s not true.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re not having Thanksgiving dinner,” I shouted. “How can anyone eat next to … that!” I pointed at Tyler. “He has peanut butter up his nose. I’m going to throw up!”

  Tyler looked at me, surprised. He stuck his finger up his nose, checking for peanut butter.

  “We’ll talk about this later.” Dad sat back down.

  “Mom would make sure he ate right. And she’d make dinner, and we’d have company.” I scraped my plate into the garbage.

  “Your mother hated to cook,” Dad said. He tapped his plate with his chopsticks. “By the way, she called this morning.”

  I stared at him. “You talked to her?”

  He nodded. “She’ll call you and Tyler this weekend. She called me because she just got a really good manager. He’s booked her in Branson, Missouri. It’s her big break.”

  “Will she be able to do Christmas?”

  “She’ll be able to do Christmas.” Dad wiped Tyler’s face with a paper napkin.

  I went to my bedroom to hug my pillow and listen to Mom’s CD. Hearing her sing only made me realize how far away she was. How busy she was with her new life—a life without me, and Dad, and Tyler. Dad said she hated to cook. I didn’t remember that.

  But I knew one thing. If Mom was here, she’d want company. I remembered her parties. They were always music jam sessions. Instrument cases stacked in the living room. People singing backup, telling her how good she was, how she ought to go to Nashville.

  “Soon as I get my figure back, I’ll try it,” she’d said. She’d patted her tummy where it still stuck out from having Tyler.

  And Dad? Where was he? Then I remembered him jiggling up and down, burping Tyler in time to the music. His face looking as if he already knew she’d never come back.

  Chapter 8

  A Delicious Secret

  TUESDAY MORNING, CLAIRE WORE blue sunglasses. Pretty dumb since it was pouring down rain. “I have to wear these,” she said. “I look terrible. I cried all night.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Ms. Morgan called us last night. She can’t come to our house on Thanksgiving. She got another invitation first.” She lifted the sunglasses, and I could see her eyes were a little bit pink. She dropped the blue sunglasses back onto her nose. “I’m going to wear these all day,” she said with a sigh. “It’s okay. They match my tights.”

  At school, every time I looked at Ms. Morgan I thought about how she was going to be at somebody else’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. It was almost time to go home when she called me up to her desk. “Thank you very much,” she said.

  I stared at the top of her desk in confusion. What was she thanking me for?

  Her silver bracelets clinked together as she smoothed a piece of paper. “You wrote a very nice invitation,” she said.

  I stared at the note I wrote yesterday. I’d stuffed the wrong paper into my pocket. I’d turned in the invitation instead of the thank-you note! No wonder she’d winked at me.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I wanted to be sure your dad knows you invited me?” Her voice was a question.

  My mind flew in a hundred directions. Ms. Morgan got my invitation first? Well, yes, she did. “Oh, yes,” I heard myself say. “We were talking about it just last night.”

  “I’m so glad,” Ms. Morgan said. “Will there be many of us? A big group?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “For sure, you and Dad and me and Tyler.” Disgusting, gross Tyler. We would have to fix his manners. We definitely wouldn’t serve peanut butter.

  She glanced up at the clock. “Time to put things away, class,” she announced. She squeezed my hand and then bent close to me. Her dark hair smelled like vanilla pudding. “We need to keep this a secret,” she said. “Sometimes the other children think it’s not fair if the teacher goes to one child’s house.”

  She squeezed my hand again, and I raced back to my desk. Soon as I got home, I had to get my lists out of the trash.

  After supper, I curled up with Beautiful Living magazine. Every page had great ideas. “She’s coming,” I whispered. I added strings of cranberries and popcorn to my decorations list.

  As I turned the pages, I heard commercials on my radio. “You’ll want the very best for your Thanksgiving company,” the announcer kept saying. “For Ms. Morgan,” I whispered. I looked one more time at the magazine cover. For Ms. Morgan, I thought, maybe we should have turkey.

  The radio also said I needed mums from Francie’s Florist. Extra chairs from Party Rents. Mrs. Shaftoe’s frozen pies. Birdover’s cranberry candies. Plampton’s coffee.

  I wrote down everything. Just in case.

  Ms. Morgan was going to love Thanksgiving at our house.

  Chapter 9

  Claire Takes Pictures

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, I TOLD Dad I wanted to make decorations after all. I gave him a list of what I needed.

  “Fine,” he said. “The house will look very nice.”

  That day our class had a field trip to the Fire Department. The fire chief let us hold the big hose while water whooshed out at a pretend fire. She pushed a button in the truck and turned on the siren. We all covered our ears. The best part was after that when we got to practice escaping from a little house the Fire Department had built there.

  “My mom burned the carrots last night,” Sierra told the fire chief. “We didn’t have to eat them.”

  “We don’t burn food at our house,” Claire said.

  Sierra and I moved away from Claire to stand on the other side of the circle. “Are you on Claire’s guest list for Thanksgiving?” Sierra whispered.

  I shook my head. “Not any more. How about you?”

  “We’re going to Grandpa Jack’s,” Sierra whispered.

  Ms. Morgan shook her finger at us. We hushed. But now I knew Sierra and her parents couldn’t come to my house.

  After school, I let Tyler wear the Fire Department badge one of the firefighters had pinned to my jacket. I gave Dad our handouts about smoke alarms and fire extinguishers.

  “We’ll get new batteries for the smoke alarm next time we go to the store,” Dad said. “And a fire extinguisher, too. I hope we never have a fire, but if we do, we’ll be prepared.”

  “Did you get
the cranberries for me?” I asked. “And the popcorn?”

  “Sure did,” he answered.

  “I’ll make them into those strings,” I told him. “The kind you hang up.”

  “Festoons?” he asked.

  “I’m going to put festoons over every window and every door. First, I have to pop the popcorn. Then I have to find a needle and thread.”

  “If there’s popcorn,” Dad said, “Thanksgiving can’t be all bad.”

  “What do turkeys eat?” Tyler asked Dad.

  “They love corn,” Dad told him. “Corn, the way it is before it’s popped.”

  All at once I knew how to fix Tyler. “They eat little kids who spill at the table,” I whispered as soon as Dad went back to his office.

  “No, Katie!” Tyler hollered.

  “Especially if there’s company,” I said.

  “Don’t let him get me,” Tyler said. He made me pull the drapes in the living room and lock the front door. He worried about that turkey monster right up until bedtime.

  Thursday morning before school, Claire stood under her blue umbrella, gazing at her house. “Isn’t our porch beautiful?” she asked.

  I had to say yes. Enormous pumpkins marched up the corners of steps. Little pumpkins and gourds snuggled between them. Cornstalk trees stood on either side of the front door, tied with floppy orange bows. More orange bows perched at the corners of the door and windows. A wreath of greens and straw and tiny gourds filled the center of the door.

  “We’re going to make a stuffed Pilgrim lady to sit in the porch swing.” Claire twirled her umbrella. Raindrops sprayed off it into my face.

  I stepped back, out of the way.

  “I took pictures of my front porch,” Claire said. “I also took one of your porch.”

  I turned to look. All at once, Tyler’s stroller, the wading pool, the water toys, and Dad’s old bicycle really showed. “It’ll be just as nice as yours,” I said. “We’re going to use festoons.”

  “Only seven more days,” Claire said.

  That afternoon after school, I listened for Mom’s songs on the radio while I strung popcorn and cranberries. The Thanksgiving commercials were louder today. “Don’t be caught short for the holidays,” someone shouted. “Check your candle supply.” The next ad was for something to ease that stomachache that “is sure to follow your bountiful Thanksgiving dinner.”