Oh Be A Fine Guy, Kiss Me

Chapter 7 Chicken Little

Chapter 7 Chicken Little

"How's Plan PTSBINTEB going?"

"What's Plan P-T-S-D something?"

I sighed at Babushka, shaking my head at her confusion. "Plan Putting The Stink Bombs In The Enemy's Bags, silly. Not PTSD. This isn't war. At least, I hope not. Because you know, war means unnecessary pain and death inflicted on soldiers who are fighting on behalf of higher powers who couldn't be bothered to use their brains for better. In fact--."

"Gotcha," she said interrupting me.

All day long, the pro Shakespeare club had been sneaking the egg roses in the backpacks of the opposite party. Every time a classroom began to stink up, an egg rose would pop up from someone's bag, bringing forth much embarrassment to the person whom the bookbag belonged to. Believe me, it was much funnier than passing out single roses.

Babushka and I were sitting next to each other at the cafeteria table, waiting for the guys to return with their lunch trays.

I prodded my food with a fork, discovering the mystery meat to be more than just a raw mystery. It looked nothing close to anything I had ever eaten in the meat department. Trust me, I have attempted things like a snake's heart.

"Are you trying to dissect the food?" Babushka asked me. Michael, Toby, and Viktor chose that moment to enter the scene and start settling in their seats--across from Babushka and I.

I gave Toby a sideways glance, not knowing whether or not I should ignore him or not. Mom wasn't exactly thrilled yesterday and even though I hated having her concerned, she needed to realize Toby had no clue about my affiliations. It was better to not get him suspicious by avoiding him like he was some evil clown or the son of the previous president.

I decided to proceed making commentaries about my food.

"I honestly believe," I said moving around the square glob, "mouth to mouth resuscitation will resurrect this . . . chicken, pork, lamb, or whatever meat it is."

"Believe me, the chicken would rather die than be revived by you," Toby said, stuffing his mouth with a piece of the mystery meat.

So it is a chicken.

"I beg to disagree," I said. "I think the chicken would love me. It'd be like my baby! We'd go around the neighborhood, spreading joy and positivity. I could dress it up in little sweaters like people do with their poodles, but instead of putting my baby on a leash or in my purse, I'd let it be free. In fact, I'd adopt it and name it . . ."

"Okay," Toby said sounding exasperated. "Why don't you just eat Chicken Little and save everyone the trouble? Better yet, I can eat it if you don't want to." He reached his fork towards my chicken and I smacked his hand my own plastic fork.

"Don't touch my baby," I said giving him a strict look. "Don't even think about eating him . . . or her." I immediately slapped my forehead with my palm. "Ya allah! I don't even know the gender of it."

How was I supposed to name it?

My friends laughed at my realization. Actually, Toby simply rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. For a few odd seconds, I saw him watch me from a sideways glance. Catching him, I wiggled my eyebrows questioningly.

He sighed and turned away.

I wondered what that was about.

He didn't know about my identity, right?

============

"I still have two dozen egg roses left in my car trunk. And I have the perfect plan for where they should go." Babuska gave a mischievous smile.