Cheating for the Chicken Man

DUTTON CHILDREN'S BOOKS

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Copyright © 2015 by Priscilla Cummings Frece

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Cummings, Priscilla, date, author.

Cheating for the chicken man / Priscilla Cummings.

p. cm.

Summary: High school freshman Kate has a lot on her mind, what with taking care of her heart-broken mother and looking after the family chicken farm in Maryland, but she promised

her dying father to look after her older brother who is just back from juvenile detention—and this year that seems to involve paying off the bullies at school by doing their school work.

ISBN 978-1-101-61284-2

1. Cheating (Education)—Juvenile fiction. 2. Bullying—Juvenile fiction. 3. Brothers and

sisters—Juvenile fiction. 4. Responsibility—Juvenile fiction. 5. High schools—Juvenile fiction. 6. Families—Maryland—Juvenile fiction. 7. Poultry farms—Maryland—Juvenile fiction.

[1. Cheating—Fiction. 2. Bullying—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.

4. Responsibility—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.

7. Chickens—Fiction. 8. Family life—Fiction. 9. Farms—Fiction.]

I. Title.

PZ7.C9149Cj 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2014036264

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover design by Kristin Logsdon

Hand-lettering by Tyler Hartlage

Girl holding paper in front of face © Getty Images;

Farm background © Shutterstock

FOR
HANNAH

The color of truth
is gray.

—André Gide

DAY IS DONE

T
he funeral was on a warm October day with a high blue sky and a single wispy white cloud that drifted, waiting like an angel, Kate thought. Her mother said they had been to Arlington National Cemetery before, when Kate's grandfather was buried, but that was ten years ago, when Kate was only two, and she didn't remember. Standing outside her grandmother's car, Kate brought her hopeful gaze down from the sky and took in the cemetery around them, gathering a little bit more strength from the beauty of the majestic trees that had turned the yellows and reds of autumn and shaded the endless rows of identical white tombstones.

Her grandmother had suggested that Kate and her five-year-old sister, Kerry, wear simple summer dresses because it was so warm, and carry a sweater in case it got cold later. So Kate had chosen a favorite blue jersey with tiny white dots and wore the ladybug earrings her father had bought for her a year ago at the county fair. She reached up to touch an earlobe while her
mother and grandmother finished collecting things from the car. It was a bittersweet memory, that fair, because it was the last time Kate could remember her father going anywhere fun.

After the car was locked, Kate and her family set out across the parking lot to a special building. Kate was surprised to see so many people. Tourists, she guessed, judging by their cameras and the casual way they were dressed in shorts, jeans, and T-shirts, their outfits topped off by baseball caps and sun visors. Could they tell that Kate and her family were different? That they were here to actually bury someone? Kate desperately hoped these people wouldn't be allowed at the funeral. It didn't seem right and only added to the anxiety she already felt.

After a short walk to the administration building, they were directed to a special room, which, thankfully, was just for them. Although Kate knew her older brother, J.T., couldn't be there, because Mom had forbidden it, her eyes nevertheless swept the room, just to be sure. When she spied Uncle Ray and Aunt Helen standing nearby, talking with familiar neighbors, Kate took in and let out a deep breath. Then suddenly, her best friend, Jess, was there, opening her arms.

Kate embraced her. “I didn't know you were coming,” she murmured into the mass of Jess's red curls. She and Jess had been best friends since first grade, when they met at a homeschoolers' field trip to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. They were the only two brave enough to hold a giant hissing cockroach in their hands that day.

“Of course we came,” Jess said. “We're all going to miss your dad.”

When the two girls released each other, Jess asked, “Are you doing okay?”

Kate slowly lifted her shoulders in a shrug, but thought,
Not rea
lly
.

Jess leaned in close. “I saw Brady Parks last night.”

Kate's eyebrows went up. “You did?”

“I ran into him at the 7-Eleven.”

Kate felt her heart squeezed yet again. It had been weeks since Kate had seen Brady. She had known him all her life. He lived next door, after all. He was a year older than Kate and best friends with her brother. Who knew when it happened, but at some point, probably sixth grade, a year after she entered public school, she had secretly developed a crush on Brady. No one but Jess ever suspected.

“Brady said to tell you he was really sorry to hear about your dad,” Jess told her. “He said that he and his parents would have come to the funeral, but they were afraid it might not go over so well.”

Kate's eyes widened even further, but she understood. It was Brady who had reported Kate's brother and another friend to the police after a prank ended tragically with the death of a little boy. For weeks afterward—up until the day J.T. was sent to a juvenile detention center—the boys didn't see each other, and didn't text or talk. Kate always figured they wouldn't want anything to do with each other ever again. And she just assumed that included her as well.

“Are you sure?” Kate asked. “Brady said that?”

Jess nodded, but there wasn't time to discuss it any further,
or think about it just then, because an army officer was directing them on to the ceremony.

Back outside, a slight breeze stirred the sultry air. Kate glanced downhill, across the Potomac River at the city of Washington, DC, where she was surprised to see in a straight line, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol. It made Kate proud that her father had fought in the Gulf War, and another wave of sadness rolled over her.

People attending her father's funeral got back in their cars and drove in a small caravan to a different location. Kate hadn't realized the cemetery was so big, although she knew from her grandmother that several funerals were taking place the same day, as many as twenty. Some were even happening at the same time, in different parts of the cemetery. The Tylers had had to wait three weeks for a burial date, and it had given Kate nightmares, the thought of her father on hold in “cold storage,” awaiting his turn to be buried. But in the end, the delay had given them some extra time, which turned out to be a good thing.

Kate later wrote in her journal.

We parked ag
ain. I told Kerry sh
e had to leave her B
arbie in the car. Th
en we walked the res
t of the way. Grandm
a and Uncle Ray stay
ed with Mom. Sometim
es it looked like th
ey were holding her
up. Kerry held tight
to my hand. Everyon
e followed the four
black horses that pu
lled a caisson with
Dad's casket on it.
It was sunny and get
ting hotter. I wishe
d I had my sunglasse
s. The horses' hoove
s clip-clopped on th
e hard asphalt of th
e narrow hilly road.
Once we had to step
around a fresh, ste
aming pile of horse
manure.

When we arri
ved at the gravesite
, a small military b
and was
already the
re. An open-sided te
nt provided shade fo
r two rows of chairs
that were covered w
ith the same color b
lue velvet as the in
side of J.T.'s trump
et case. Probably ju
st a coincidence, bu
t I did wonder if it
was a sign.

The cha
plain talked about D
ad. He said Jacob Ty
ler was an honest, h
ardworking man who l
oved his wife, Angel
a, and his children,
J.T., Kate, and Ker
ry. When Kerry heard
her name, she leane
d against my side an
d we squeezed hands
again. It made me fe
el good that J.T. go
t mentioned. My brot
her practically ran
the farm after Dad g
ot so sick he couldn
't work. But I worri
ed all over again ab
out what was going t
o happen to the fami
ly business and to u
s now that our fathe
r was gone.

When the
chaplain talked abo
ut how much my fathe
r loved the Chesapea
ke Bay, where he'd g
rown up and lived mo
st all his life, I s
aw Uncle Ray cover h
is eyes. The chaplai
n didn't talk about
this, but I remember
ed how Dad and Uncle
Ray, who was a wate
rman, liked to go fi
shing every so often
before dawn and how
sometimes Dad would
bring home a huge r
ockfish with glisten
ing scales that fill
ed the entire kitche
n sink. How come we
didn't take Dad out
on the bay one last
time so he could fee
l the breezes he lov
ed so much? We knew
he didn't have long
to live. We could ha
ve bundled him up in
quilts and taken hi
m out on Uncle Ray's
workboat.

Kate's journal description of the funeral ended there because after the chaplain finished and led them in prayer, the ceremony had shifted gears and Kate didn't want to write about the rest. She didn't want there to be a written record of what she had done.

“Present arms!” an officer barked in a loud, crisp voice. Everyone stood. Seven soldiers who were lined up on the hill
before them raised their rifles angled toward the sky.

“Prepare to fire!” the voice called out. Kerry, who had folded her hands for the prayer, reached out for Kate's fingers.

“Ready . . . aim . . . fire!”

Seven rifles fired at the same time, cracking open the sky. Kerry jumped, grabbing Kate's hand with both of hers, and startled birds scattered, their wings beating the air. Three times, the order rang out. Three times, the soldiers fired simultaneously, their volleys honoring her father's military service.

When the guns fell silent, Kerry's grip let up, but Kate held her breath with anticipation because she knew that, in a moment, a bugle—or a trumpet—would sound taps.

Her mouth went dry as she counted to herself: One . . . two . . . three . . .

Day is done . 
. .

The poignant and familiar opening notes rang out somberly.

Gone the sun . . 
.

People shifted uncomfortably. Uncle Ray put an arm around the shoulders of Kate's mother. A lump formed in Kate's throat while she tried to figure out where the trumpeter stood.

From the hills . . .

Somewhere behind them.

From the lake . 
. .

All those years of Brownie Girl Scouts. Kate couldn't help but hear the words in her head as taps was played.

From t
he skies . . .

Neither could she help but turn her head to look. He was hard to see, but through misty eyes, Kate discerned her brother's tall, lean profile on the crest of a small hill about fifty yards
behind them. He wore black pants and a dark jacket, and Kate could tell that his hair had been cut really short. The silver instrument in his hand glinted in the late-afternoon sun. Miss Laurie, his counselor at the juvenile detention center, must have made time in his schedule for him to practice. Good for J.T., Kate thought, sighing with relief. A subtle, secret smile slowly graced her lips.

All is well . . .

On the song's highest note, Kate slowly faced forward again. She didn't think anyone else had looked back, the way she had. So no one else in her family would ever know.

Safely rest . .
 .

A tear slid down her cheek.

God is ni
gh . . .

As the trumpet's last note lingered in the still air, Kate held her breath against a wall of overwhelming sadness but took comfort in knowing that not only had she honored her father's dying wish, she had protected her brother as well.

Miss Laurie, I'm calling for my mother again. . . . She wants you to handle it this way because J.T. being there, it might upset some people. . . .

The lie had been so easy.

A small lie, yes, but so what if you did it for your family?

After taps, two soldiers lifted the American flag that covered her father's coffin and straightened it with a dramatic snap before folding it, over and over, into a neat triangle. Like a reflection in a mirror, the two soldiers wore identical crisp blue uniforms. Their eyes connected as if by rods, their faces stern and expressionless as the folding flag drew them together, step
by step. The flag was presented to Kate's mother by the chaplain on bended knee. “On behalf of the president of the United States . . . a grateful nation. . . .”

When Kate turned to look again, the crest of the hill was empty. J.T. was gone, having quietly, and quickly, disappeared. As they had discussed.

Kate had done what she had to do, and no one else knew. No one else would ever need to know.

Only later did Kate look back on her father's funeral and wonder if that kind of thinking was where her own downfall began.