The Care and Feeding of Rubber Chickens: A Novel

By Scott William Carter

Seventeen-year-old Trevor can't catch a break. Just when he finds out that Janna, the girl of his dreams, is finally available, his mom tells him he's being shipped off to a boarding school because of his awful grades. A desperate call to his dad, who owns a rubber chicken factory in Las Vegas, gets him nowhere. His father is more interested in enlisting Trevor's aid writing what he sees as the perfect gag gift – a how-to manual about rubber chickens. That's Trevor's life for you. Everyone around him is totally and utterly insane.

But there's still Janna. He's had a crush on her since sixth grade. Can he get himself to say the words to her that he's been rehearsing for years? He finally musters the courage to visit her house and find out.

That's when everything goes crazy.

*****

Grade 10 Up - "My dad owns a rubber chicken factory." With this zany first line, readers are launched on a surprisingly poignant coming-of-age journey. Part buddy story, part road trip adventure, and part ruminations on the difference between love and infatuation, Carter offers up a vivid portrait of a young man – Trevor Livingston – who blunders into a thousand-mile quest to tell the girl of his dreams how he really feels about her. Although the book is appropriate for more mature young adult readers, adults may find even greater enjoyment in Trevor's distinctive voice and abundant references to popular culture – Star Trek and The Princess Bride, for example, are favorite targets. Fans of Carter's award-winning first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, are certain to find this heartfelt look at the angst and insanity of modern adolescence an equally riveting read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flying Raven Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466162181

Scott William Carter

Scott William Carter is the author of Wooden Bones and The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, which was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a “touching and impressive debut.” His short stories have appeared in dozens of popular magazines and anthologies, including Analog, Ellery Queen, Realms of Fantasy, and Weird Tales. He lives in Oregon with his wife and two children. Visit him at ScottWilliamCarter.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

My dad owns a rubber chicken factory. I figure I’d better get that out of the way right up front. This is actually a very serious story—somebody dies, you know, and what could be more serious than that?—but if you're reading along about all this serious stuff and then suddenly you come to this little fact that my dad owns a rubber chicken factory, and I just toss it in there like I'm mentioning the weather or the color of our house, well, you might get the wrong idea. You might think maybe I'm pulling your leg and it's all one big joke.

But it isn't. It's not a joke at all. It's just not my fault that everyone around me is totally and utterly insane.

I'm not going to tell you who died. I mean, I'm going to tell you eventually, but if I tell you right now, you might just stop reading because you'll think this is a bummer kind of story. But I never said it was a bummer sort of story. I said it was a serious story. There are bummer parts (remember the dying thing), but people generally end up happy in the end. Well, most people. This is real life, after all. Things don't always end happily for everyone in real life.

This isn't really about the person who died. This is about me—Trevor Livingston. And I don't die, obviously, or I wouldn't be writing this. It's not that kind of book. Though Mom is into Tarot cards pretty heavy, but it's all a lot of dinky-doo if you ask me. No, I'm alive. At least in the flesh and blood sense.

The other person who is alive is Janna. She's the girl I had sex with for the first time, and I want you to know that she doesn't die because if she did, well, I don't think I'd be up to writing this book so soon, and really, I don't think I'd want to write it all. I mean, it would just make the whole thing pointless and I'm not going to spend all this time putting this on paper (okay, on computer, but eventually it'll be on paper) if it's pointless. I'd just talk to a therapist like everybody wants me to do. Personally, I think this is better.

Me and Janna. That's what this story is really about. Well, mostly me, I guess, but I can't really talk about me without talking about her. It's also about sex, because before Janna I was a virgin. I thought Janna was a virgin, too, but it turns out she wasn't, which is part of the reason somebody died.

But I'm starting to get ahead of myself.

I really need to start with the day I burned our house down.

Which wasn't even the worst thing that happened that day.

* * * * *

June 15. The Saturday one week after the last day of school—the last day of my junior year. It was a focal point in time. I know that sounds a bit over the top, but it's true. A lot of things came to a head that day, none of them good. The crazy thing was, it didn't have to be that way. For starters, I could have lost my virginity—that would have certainly changed how I looked at the day. All I had to do was say one three letter word.

YES.

Of course, I also would have had to be somebody else. There's never any getting around that, no matter how hard I try.

Back to the focal point in time. If you're a fan of Star Trek—and I'm not talking Next Generation or Deep Space Nine or any of the other watered-down claptrap that came after Gene Roddenberry's brilliant original creation—then you have to agree that City on the Edge of Forever is by far the best episode. It's right up there with Shakespeare. Yeah, it's not written in iambic pentameter or anything, but if we're being honest—and I'm going to do my best to always be honest with you, since it's the least I can do—that's actually a plus for most people. (Sorry, Mr. Wilson. You're still my all-time favorite English teacher.)

Since I can't assume you're all Star Trek fans, I’d better give you a quick recap. (And really, I'm perfectly aware some of you may just be reading this book for the sex scenes. Don't worry, I included them in all their glory, so you'll get your money's worth. Perverts.) Here's the CliffsNotes version: After Bones accidentally injects himself with cordrazine, he goes temporarily nuts and hurls himself into the Guardian of Forever, transporting him back to 1930's New York City just before World War II. Something he does changes time and allows Hitler to win the war, which of course means Starfleet is never created. When Kirk and Spock journey back in time to save humanity, it turns out that Bones prevented a woman named Edith Keeler from dying in a traffic accident.

This chick? Well, she started a peace movement that delayed the United States from getting into the war, allowing Hitler to build the bomb first. Game, set, match. All they have to do is let her die, right? One problem: Kirk has fallen in love with her. He's got to choose: humanity or the woman he loves?

So we get this gut-wrenching scene in the street where Kirk actually stops Bones from saving her. Horrified, Bones says, I could have saved her! Do you know what you just did?

And Spock gently says, He knows, doctor…. He knows.

All right, I know it looks kind of silly when I write it all down like that, but trust me, it's full of awesome. On an awesome scale of one to ten, it's an eleven. Scratch that. It's so off the charts it wouldn't even bother to compete. Don't believe me? Go watch the episode. Think I ruined it for you? Not a chance. Could someone ruin the Grand Canyon by describing it? It's that good. Seriously.

Look, I realize this makes me look like a total nerd, being a Trekkie and everything, but I told you I was going to be honest. I've had it with pretending to be something else. And in my defense, I don't dress up and go to conventions or anything. Well, one convention, yes, but that was only because Rick's dad is a closet Trekkie and he wanted to bring some kids along to give himself cover. But I didn't dress up in a costume.

And anyway, you don't need to go to conventions to be a Trekkie. All you need is to love the show. It's like God. You can choose the organized religion part to go with it if you want, but that's really your choice. One really doesn't have anything to do with the other.

Anyway, June 15. After what happened that day, everything changed. Would I go back and change it all if I had my own Guardian of Forever? Well, I'm not sure. That's part of the reason I'm writing this. I'm trying to figure out where I screwed it all up, or even if I did. It's not like I have a Hitler who enslaves humanity in my story. That would make it easy. Everybody knows he screwed up.

* * * * *

It began like any other day that week—a slow drifting up out of sleep, trying to ignore the sounds of the rest of the world actually trying to do something with its day. The annoying trilling of the chickadees in the garden. The grumble of Viktor's lawn mower. Mom blaring Fox News in the kitchen. It was a war. Every day they were determined to ruin my sleep and I was determined to outlast them.

Finally, when Mom shouted she was leaving for her Pilates class (adding something about the day's chores being on the counter), I declared the battle won and started the thirty-minute process of dragging myself out of bed. Outside, Viktor had moved on to the hedge below my window, the shears clicking in a steady rhythm. Viktor has Tourette's, so every now and then I heard him curse in Russian: Khuy! Pizda! I heard the clink of the slot on the front door and the day's junk mail dropping on Mom's bearskin rug—a sign that it was probably closing in on noon.

I grabbed my robe and my iPod touch, shuffling downstairs while checking to see if I had any emails from Janna.

No luck. Just some Viagra spam and some Facebook game junk. That was six days since I’d heard from her now, one day short of the record. I was really starting to worry.

Heading down the carpeted stairs, I saw shafts of light from the skylights that looked like gold columns—way too bright for somebody still blinking away the bleariness in his eyes. The house was so quiet I could hear the swishing of Mom's angel clock on the grand piano in the living room. Other than that, the house was still, all ten thousand square feet to myself.

(I realize that some of the things I've described make us sound rich, and I guess we kind of are—or at least Dad is—but please don't hold that against me. I was born into this life. I didn't choose it.)

The thing about pivotal moments in time is that when you get right down to it, there's so many things that could actually be pivotal. Was Bones saving Edith Keeler the pivotal moment, or was it when he shot himself with that cordrazine? My first possible pivotal moment came when I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and bent to pick up the bills and assorted New Age junk Mom got on a regular basis. If I'd actually gotten a chance to look at what was in the mail, things might have gone differently.

I was still bent over when the mail slot creaked open and someone shouted through the crack.

Dude!

Now, the thing about me is that I scare easily. I'm not saying that justifies the high-pitched shriek that escaped my mouth, but what I am saying is that it's not really my choice. It's just me, you know. It's generally why I avoid situations that might lead to me being scared—horror movies, walking alone at night, clowns. Especially clowns. So that combined with how deathly quiet the house was, it was pretty much a guarantee that I was going to scream like a topless blond in a horror movie.

About one-point-five seconds after being startled witless, I recognized the voice and my fear turned to anger. I tried to throw open the door, but it was locked, so I had to fumble with both the dead bolt and the knob before trying again—but I'd forgotten the chain. So I undid the chain and finally opened the door. It really took all the drama out of the moment. Story of my life.

My friend Rick was bent over at the waist, gasping for breath. His skin was flushed pink, or maybe more of a purple since his regular skin color was about the same as our walnut dining room table, a slightly reddish brown. Sweat beaded his forehead. His scalp, visible underneath his fine fuzz of black hair, glistened.

Rick! I said. Are you trying to give me a heart—

Dude, he said again, between gulps of air. It was always Dude with Rick—it was like a name and a greeting all rolled into one. Dude, it's—it's happened.

What?

He held up a hand for patience as he tried to get on top of his breathing. Short and on the heavy side, Rick was not made for running. Rick was not really made for anything other than sitting in front of a computer writing game software. Even his eyebrows—nearly a unibrow except for a tiny sliver of flesh between the thick black caterpillars—gleamed with moisture. Dark bands surrounded the armpits of his pinstriped shirt. His yellow bow tie was off-kilter.

Even in the heat of summer, Rick always wore long-sleeved shirts and bow ties. He didn't wear a pocket protector. I don't think I could bring myself to stay friends with him if he did—but everything else about him screamed GEEK. Tan Dockers instead of jeans. Penny loafers instead of sneakers. Big front teeth that would have put any horse to shame. If you're thinking that all this meant Rick was beat up a lot in high school, well, you're actually wrong. Despite also having a high-pitched voice that grated like fingers on a chalkboard, he almost never got beat up.

When I asked him once what his secret was, he just shrugged and said it's because of his winning personality. My theory is that it has more to do with how far out there he is with his geekiness. He's not even trying to pass. It's like kids think it's not even worth their effort because it'd be like beating up a cripple.

Of course, it might also have been because he helped all the popular kids with their Spanish. That was one advantage of his Puerto Rican heritage—that whole bilingual thing.

Rick, I said, will you please tell me what's going on?

Janna broke up with Musclehead, he finally managed.

It took me a few seconds to process. It wasn't because I didn't understand him—oh, I understood him just fine—but because I'd been hoping for this moment for so long I'd pretty much given up on it actually happening. It's like a priest who's been hoping his whole life to witness a miracle but can't actually believe it when he sees it. He's just too afraid get his hopes up.

Wait, I said, wait, you're saying—

Yep, it's done. They're no longer—no longer an item. Hoo boy, I need to sit down.

Rick stepped inside and collapsed onto the bottom stair. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. I closed the door, still not sure if this was all real. Maybe I was up in my bed dreaming.

How do you know? I asked.

Maria, he said. That was his twin sister, although nobody believes they're twins because Maria is gorgeous in every conceivable way and Rick is, well, Rick. She saw Musclehead down at Starbucks this morning. Maria was getting a cappuccino—I guess she was coming back from some kind of early bird sale at Macy's. She said she wanted to get some new shoes—

Rick, I pleaded.

Right, right, sorry. Anyway she was there at Starbucks and Musclehead was there. She says they got to talking and he asked her out. She laughed and said what, one girl isn't enough for you? And he said, what do you mean? And she said, well, what about Janna? And he said, oh, we broke up last week. And she says wow, that must have been hard. And he just shrugged and said it was her call. And she says, really, why? And he wouldn't say. He said they just wanted different things. This whole spiel left Rick winded again, and he collapsed on his elbows, breathing hard, beaming up at me with his buck-toothed smile.

I swallowed. What different things? I said.

Rick shrugged. I don't know. But dude, don't you see? Now's your chance to make your move!

"But why did they break up?"

How should I know? And anyway, what difference does it make?

I don't know. I mean, it could make a big difference.

Rick snorted. How?

Well, um, for starters…maybe, maybe she wanted kids or something.

He shook his head. Dude, we're in high school, remember?

Still.

Still what? You're acting crazy! Isn't this what you always wanted?

Well, yeah. Kind of.

Kind of! You're out of your mind! You've been obsessed with this girl for what, the last five years?

I think obsessed is a little strong—

You told me when we were in sixth grade that you were going to marry her. That was the day after her family moved to town.

Well, um, sure—but I was like twelve.

Dude! With Musclehead out of the way, all you’ve got to do is ask her. It's true love, you said so yourself!

I never said—

"You said she was your Buttercup, just like in The Princess Bride. Why are you getting all wishy-washy now?"

He was really getting worked up. I suppose I was to blame, since he was one of the few people I confided in at all about my real feelings toward Janna, and since he was the only one, I probably talked about her a little too much around him. Like all the time. Like to the point where he'd tell me to do something about it once and for all or he was going to stop being my friend.

I dropped the mail in the wicker basket by the front door—that was going to come back to haunt me later—and slumped on the stairs next to him. I felt weirdly depressed. It was all wrong. I'd been waiting for this moment forever, and now that it was here, I didn't know what to make of it.

You're sure about this? I said.

Yes! Rick cried. I confirmed it with Maria that it really was Musclehead. No doubt about it.

Musclehead wasn't his real name, of course. We called him that at my insistence. This was partly because he was a muscle head, one of those two-hundred-pound football players who spent too much time in the weight room, but it was mostly because of his real name. Kirk. Can you believe that? There was no way I was going to soil the name of one of the greatest fictional heroes ever created simply because the girl of my dreams had made the unfortunate choice of dating a guy whose parents were too stupid to realize that you can't just assign that hallowed name to any random male, especially one who would eventually think that inflicting needless pain on innocent kids by snapping them behind their ears was a fun hobby.

Not that I had any personal experience with that. Not as much as some kids, anyway.

Dude, he said, you need to go talk to her.

I stared blankly ahead. Right.

Like now.

Yeah.

He snapped his fingers in front of my face. Hey, Earth to Trevor! Are you hearing anything I'm saying?

I hear you! I said, getting defensive. Geez, man, I'm just—I'm just trying to take it in, you know. It's—you're right, it's kind of a big deal.

Exactly! It's the moment you've been waiting for. You can go comfort her. She probably needs a shoulder to cry on.

Now I realized one of the reasons I was depressed. It wasn't because Janna had broken up with Musclehead. It was because she had broken up with Musclehead and hadn't emailed me. Or called. Or stopped by out of the blue when she was walking Bo, her chocolate lab—which she'd only done a couple times, but man, those were always good days. She hadn't done any of those things and how long had it been? If she'd broken up with Musclehead last week, well, that could mean as few as two days or as long as a seven. If she'd needed a shoulder to cry on, why hadn't she come to me?

Uh oh, Rick said.

What?

You're getting that look again. The Vulcan look.

That was another thing about me—I tended to turn inward when I was upset. Mom called it my stone face, but I liked Rick's description better. I'm fine, I insisted.

Uh huh. Look, dude, are you going to waste this opportunity or not? Because I'm telling you, another guy won't. And then it will be too late.

Maybe—maybe's she's not even home.

He sighed. I realized how pathetic I was being. For once in my life, I didn't want to be pathetic. Rick was right. I'd been waiting for this moment forever. I'd even typed up imaginary conversations on how it would go when it finally happened. How would I feel if I delayed a couple more days and then found out some other guy got to her first? You can't always know all the pivotal moments in time, nobody can, but you do know some of them. This was one. Deep down I knew it was true, and I'd never be able to live with myself if I let it slip away.

All right, I said. I’m going to go see her.

Chapter 2

Of course I delayed. I didn't want to, not really, but I'm a Kung Fu master of procrastination and it's hard not to do something you're good at. It's like if you're good at making jokes and somebody tells you to stop making jokes—it's just fighting against your nature. Better to just make jokes and let everyone else deal with it.

But even with all my delaying—even taking forty-five minutes to shower and dress, another fifty-two minutes to slow-chew a bowl of Frosted Wheats, and another twenty-seven minutes to find my shoes, Rick harassing me the whole time, we still ended up walking out the front door about two o'clock in the afternoon.

Viktor was at the bottom of the steps, edging the grass that lined the cobblestone walk to the front gate. I wouldn't even mention our gardener except he becomes pretty important in this story—way more important than he should have been, but that's how things work out sometimes, right? Sometimes stuff you think is just minor turns out to be a big deal, and the reverse is also true. I have more experience with the latter, honestly. I worry about stuff that almost never turns out to be important.

The oak trees cast their dappled shade on the lush green grass. I wasn't really one for the outdoors, but I have to admit that Viktor had turned our yard into a work of art. It was right up there with the White House grounds in sculpted beauty: perfectly domed rose bushes, neat walls of boxwood, manicured Japanese maples in crimson bloom.

He stopped and wiped his forehead on his tan uniform. In all the years he'd worked for us—pretty much my entire life—I'd never seen him wear anything else. I think Mom bought it for him.

Eh-lo, Mister Trevor, he said. His accent was still pretty thick, despite all his years in our country. "Going, are you? Otyebis!"

Anyone else might have been shocked at this outburst, especially since Viktor had a deep voice and looked like a slightly taller Vladimir Putin, the kind of guy you'd see as a henchman in a lot of Law and Order episodes, but I was used to it by now. I kept walking, doing my best to ignore him.

Yeah, I said.

Excuse me, Mister Trevor. But I must ask. Did you do these chores Madam Livingston ask of you?

I passed him without saying a word. The thing about Viktor that really annoyed me was that for some reason he thought of himself as some sort of surrogate father. Like that's what I needed. I already had a father. Maybe he owned a rubber chicken factory, maybe he was like a thousand miles away down in Las Vegas, but he was still my father. It wasn't like he'd died.

Where you go, Mister Trevor? he called after me.

Out, I said.

"Does—does Madam Livingston know where—Nyet! Nyet! Nyet"

Goodbye, Viktor.

Then I was through the gate and headed down the street to meet my destiny.

* * * * *

The Grangers—that was Janna's last name, Granger—lived in a two-story, Waltons-like house with dormer windows and a wraparound porch. It was on the other side of the street from Barnaby Park, the biggest park