Free Turkey Monster Thanksgiving by Anne Warren Smith

Chapter 1
My Socks Don’t Match
    D AD AND TYLER AND I like our Thanksgivings easy. Dad says that was always true—even before he and Mom got divorced and she went off to be Roxanne Winter, the famous country and western singer. He says that on Thanksgiving we’re supposed to wear our pajamas till noon. We eat popcorn, make pizza, and watch the football game on TV.
    Dad says our way is a fine way to celebrate a national holiday.
    When I found out he might be wrong, it was almost too late—less than two weeks before Thanksgiving. Claire Plummer and I were walking home after school. She had just pointed out that my socks didn’t match.
    “One is red, and one is orange,” I said. “So?”
    “Kids like you and me—without mothers at home,” Claire said, “have to do things perfectly.”
    Count on Claire to know what was perfect. Claire had been acting perfect ever since second grade—back when her mother died. I stomped my tennis shoes through a puddle. Of course, she was wearing boots.
    Claire twirled her sky-blue umbrella and tossed her blond curls—her perfect blond curls. “My father says that when you don’t have a mother, people notice socks. They also notice when your hair needs cutting.”
    “No, they don’t,” I said. I shook my long bangs out of my eyes.
    “And then they say things like ‘poor child, she has no mother.’ ”
    “This is a very boring conversation,” I said.
    “Nobody’s going to ‘poor child’ me. Do you know why?”
    I sighed. “Why?”
    “My father and I are inviting forty people for Thanksgiving dinner.”
    I screeched to a halt. I stared at her. “No way!”
    “Take a look, smarty.” She shrugged out of one strap of her periwinkle blue backpack and unzipped it. Of course, her zipper still worked.
    She pulled out a roll of paper and held it under her umbrella to keep it out of the rain. As she unrolled it, I saw name after name in Claire’s perfect handwriting.
    All at once, I envied Claire Plummer, holding that list on that long roll of paper. I could hardly stand it. The only thing Claire and I had in common—besides not having mothers around—was that we both liked to make lists.
    “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” she asked.
    I couldn’t mention pajamas and football and pizza. I decided to lie. I couldn’t help it. “We’ve asked a few people,” I said. “Not forty.”
    “Guess you can’t come to our dinner then.”
    Claire pulled out a pencil and drew thick lines through three names on her list. Dad’s. Tyler’s. Mine.
    “Wait a minute,” I said.
    She looked up. “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing,” I answered. I watched her tuck everything back into her pack.
    “We weren’t sure about inviting your little brother anyway,” she said. “He’s so messy.”
    “I bet you spilled when you were three, Claire Plummer.”
    “ I never needed newspapers all over the table. Are your invitations done?”
    “We’re on top of things,” I said. Another lie. At last, we turned the corner of Benson Street.
    “I’m excited. Only thirteen days left till Thanksgiving, Katie.” Claire looked both ways and ran across the street to her house.
    I ran up on my porch and zigzagged around the wading pool toys, Dad’s bike, and Tyler’s stroller. I could hear Tyler inside hollering one of his happy songs—the cement mixer song.
    I decided to forget about Thanksgiving.

Chapter 2
Stupid Magazine
    F IVE MINUTES LATER, THE doorbell rang. “Get it, Katie,” Dad called. He was hunched over his computer in the room he’d turned into his office. And, naturally, Tyler was so busy racing his cement mixer across the couch cushions, he never looked up.
    It was Claire. She held a magazine out to me like it was something precious. “Beautiful Living,” she said, her voice full of respect. “We had an extra.”
    I put my hands behind my back.
    “It tells what to do for Thanksgiving. My father said we really needed it. You, Katie, need it more than we