Turkey Monster Thanksgiving by Anne Warren Smith Page B

me?”
    He was right to fear us. Tyler, the ducks, and I beat him and the boats, three times out of four.

Chapter 3
Twelve Days and Counting
    S ATURDAY MORNING, WHEN DAD brought in the newspaper, he brought in one of Claire’s gloves. “She must have dropped it,” he said. “Why don’t you take it over to her? Take that magazine back, too.”
    “I can do it Monday,” I said, “on the way to school.” I was busy right then, drawing a Thanksgiving picture for homework. I had the Pilgrims and Indians playing Frisbee and softball. I had Tyler in there, too, but I still needed to draw Dad and me. Plus some kids from fourth grade.
    “She could use a visit from a friend.”
    “Claire doesn’t have friends,” I said. I drew a big dish of blueberries in front of Tyler and colored his face blue.
    “Ahem,” Dad said.
    I put down the blue crayon. “Okay, okay.”
    When Claire opened the door, I smelled chicken soup mixed with fresh paint. I handed over her glove. But I’d forgotten the magazine.
    Claire’s face was pink with excitement. “Come see our turkey,” she said. “My father and I made it for the roof. It’s going to glow in the dark up there!”
    In their family room, the smell of paint plugged my nose. A huge plywood turkey stood beside the patio doors. Its beady eye glared down at us.
    “The pattern in the magazine was little,” Claire said. “My father enlarged it.”
    “It got big, all right.” My neck ached from looking up at that mean eye.
    “I love getting ready for Thanksgiving,” Claire said. She tugged me into the kitchen where good smells bubbled out of a pot on the shining stove.
    “Chicken soup?” I asked.
    “More than soup,” Claire said. “It’s one of our dinners for next week.” She tapped a list that hung on the refrigerator door. “Monday, Chicken Tomato. Wednesday, Zesty Hummerburgers. Friday, Macaroni Puffaroni. My father makes the exact same things my mother used to make. What are you having?”
    “Don’t know yet,” I said. “Dad decides five minutes before we eat.”
    Claire frowned as if she didn’t believe me. Then she pulled me over to a counter that was stacked with cookbooks and recipes. “Here’s what we’re planning for Thanksgiving dinner,” she said. She held up a paper that had bunches of words on it, some crossed off, some added in. “We have fifteen different things to eat so far,” she said. “Of course the turkey is the most important.”
    “Turkeys aren’t so great,” I said. “We’re having …” I stopped. All at once, pizza didn’t sound special enough. “I should get back now,” I said. “Tyler wants me to play cars.”
    “You have to play baby stuff with him?” Her nose wrinkled up.
    “Goodbye, Claire.” I zipped up my coat.
    “Just one more thing,” Claire said. “We found really nice Thanksgiving invitations.” She pulled me into the dining room.
    Someone had folded back the yellow tablecloth to make room for orange envelopes and brown and orange cards . Please Come , the cards said on the fronts. “I’m doing the insides,” Claire said. She opened one and I saw an address and phone number written in her perfect handwriting. “Too bad you won’t get one of these,” she said.
    I looked at the heap of invitations. I almost wished we were still invited. Then I remembered my lie. “We can’t,” I said. “Company.”
    “Who are you inviting?”
    “Oh,” I said, “you wouldn’t know them.” I pushed past her into the hall.
    “Who?” she asked.
    I yanked open her front door. “I have to go home now.”
    “Only twelve days left,” she sang.
    I ran across the street.

Chapter 4
“Don’t Even THINK about Company!”
    W HEN I GOT HOME , I stepped over the toys on our porch and the dirt and leaves on the floor in the hall. But I didn’t see the Legos. I slipped and fell down. My elbow whammed the closet door. “Dad!” I yelled.
    “In the kitchen,” he called back.
    I walked a narrow path between toys