Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy

  For more than forty years,

  Yearling has been the leading name

  in classic and award-winning literature

  for young readers.

  Yearling books feature children’s

  favorite authors and characters,

  providing dynamic stories of adventure,

  humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.

  Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,

  inspire, and promote the love of reading

  in all children.

  ALSO BY WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN

  Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief

  Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

  Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf

  Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary

  Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy

  Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes

  Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception

  Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

  Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

  How I Survived Being a Girl

  Flipped

  Swear to Howdy

  Shredderman: Secret Identity

  Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger

  Shredderman: Meet the Gecko

  Shredderman: Enemy Spy

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Text copyright © 1999 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons

  Interior illustrations copyright © 1999 by Dan Yaccarino

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.

  Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids and www.wendelinvandraanen.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  eISBN: 978-0-307-54540-4

  Reprinted by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers

  v3.1_r1

  To the woman who knocked on my door looking

  for a jacket, and walked away with one …

  and a piece of my heart.

  Special thanks to those colleagues at St. Joseph High School who have given me encouragement and support, especially Dave Siminski, Greg Sarkisian, Toni Jetter, Brenda Curlee, Phyllis Sabo, Sheila Zierman, Lanny Ahler, Susan Schmitt, Sharon Domingues, Ann Morris, Elizabeth Gregory, and Barbara Rieger. Thanks, too, to Greg, Dave, Sheila, Staci Cochiolo, and Jim Armstrong for their technical advice and help with research.

  Also, thanks, as always, to Mark and Nancy. Where would I be without you?

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Preview of Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf

  Not to pray my way out, like most people. No, to work my way out. It’s a long story, but I was doing time at St. Mary’s because Vice Principal Caan thought twenty hours of community service was a good way to make up for the way I’d used and abused the school’s PA system.

  And really, I didn’t mind. Helping Father Mayhew in the church after school was a whole lot better than detention. Trouble is, while I’m in the middle of scrubbing dirt off Baby Jesus’ stained-glass face, Father Mayhew discovers that something’s just been stolen.

  And the only people in the church are him—and me.

  Father Mayhew isn’t the kind of man you’d ever steal from. And it’s not because he’s big and blustery or mean, because he’s not. It’s because he’s priestly. Now, lots of priests walk around during the day acting holy, but when they’re all alone, there’s no doubt about it—they pick their noses and burp and pass gas just like you and me.

  Not Father Mayhew. Well, okay, maybe he burps now and then, but you can bet he says, “Excuse me!” to God when he does it. The point is, Father Mayhew is holy. Very holy. He walks with a glow, if that makes any sense, and he never raises his voice. Ever.

  I think part of the reason he never raises his voice is because of his accent. He’s Irish and his A’s and R’s kind of roll around in his mouth a bit before they come out. That, and he says lad and lass a lot, so he always sounds friendly, even when he’s talking about burning in Hell.

  Father Mayhew has medium brown-gray hair that kind of waves back over the top of his head, and his nose and teeth are just your ordinary sniffer and chompers. It’s his eyes that are unusual. They’re speckled. I think they’re brown to begin with, but they’ve got so many green and blue and yellow spots in them that it’s hard to tell. And when you look at them, you realize that everything else about Father Mayhew may seem ordinary, but his eyes are definitely complicated.

  I first met him about two weeks after my mother dumped me at Grams’ so she could run off to Hollywood and become a movie star. Grams figured that she finally had her chance and decided to have me baptized, so she hauled me to St. Mary’s, and after a long meeting with Father Mayhew, well, there I was at the altar, getting doused with holy water while Grams sprinkled the ground with tears.

  It didn’t mean a whole lot to me, but I knew it was important to Grams. Funny thing is, after I got splashed with holy water, St. Mary’s felt kind of like home. Father Mayhew started saying, “Good afternoon, Samantha,” when he’d see me walking by, and when he’d ask me, “How are you, lass?” his complicated eyes would twinkle a bit, like he really wanted to know.

  So when Grams talked to Father Mayhew about having me serve my twenty hours of detention at St. Mary’s, he was very sympathetic and seemed glad to have an extra hand helping out.

  When I reported to Father Mayhew’s office for my first day, I saw a bucket of white paint, a roller, and a stack of rags on the floor, and Father Mayhew, removing pictures from the wall behind his desk. “Good afternoon, Samantha,” he says, “I thought painting might be good penance.” He leans an oil painting of the pope in front of one of Jesus on the cross. “Sort of a cleansing process, eh, lass?”

  Then he removes a painting of cows grazing near missionaries hoeing a field. I jump back a little, because behind it is a wall safe. He laughs at my expression. “We have to have some place to keep our collections, don’t we?”

  I nod, but it still seems kind of strange, having that safe appear from behind cows grazing and missionaries hoeing.

  “Now, take your time, lass. I only get ’round to this every ten years or so, so she’ll need at least two coats.” He whistles through his teeth and says, “Here, Gregory … Come on out, lad. She’s all right.”

  Out from under his desk comes a dog. And he’s not
the kind of dog you’d ordinarily do a double take for. He’s just a Welsh terrier—fairly small with wiry brown and black fur, and ears that kind of flip forward at the tips. But I do look at him twice because he’s got a carrot in his mouth. A nice slobbery, droopy old carrot.

  I look up at Father Mayhew to see if he knows his dog’s hauling around vegetables, but he knows, all right. He laughs. “He’s a taste for carotene, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to break him of it.” Then he ruffles Gregory’s ears and says, “There are worse habits, I suppose.”

  Father Mayhew goes over to open up a window, and I kneel down and say, “Hi, boy!” to his dog.

  Gregory wags his way over to me, panting and smiling right through his carrot. I laugh and scratch his chest, and then Father Mayhew turns from the window. For a moment he just stares, and then he says, “Well, I’ll be.”

  I say, “What?” and stand up, because his eyes are looking extra complicated.

  He shakes his head. “Gregory is not what you’d call a social animal. The nuns are scared to death of him. Not that he’s given them any real reason, mind you, but he does tend to growl at strangers.”

  He whistles for Gregory to follow him and says over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. If you need anything, I’ll be next door at the parish hall. Just come down.”

  I get busy rolling paint, and pretty soon I’m humming to myself because sprucing up Father Mayhew’s office doesn’t feel like detention at all. It’s almost fun. And I’m getting the knack of rolling way up the wall without splattering myself in the face or bumping into the ceiling, and I’m stretching out with a really loaded roller when I hear, “Glory be! What a fine job you’re doing!”

  Well, there goes the roller, bump, right into the ceiling, and while I’m thinking Rats! because now there’s a big white blotch on the ceiling, splat! I catch a drop of paint, right on my forehead.

  So while I’m wiping paint off my face and out of my hair, I look over my shoulder and what I see taking up the whole doorway is a nun. A big, loud nun. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and between her front teeth is a gap the size of a Popsicle stick. She says, “Child, you are dripping,” and then rushes in to save me from raining paint all over the office.

  She gets the roller away from me, then grabs a rag and wipes my hands and face like I’m a little kid. “There now, that’s better,” she says, then flashes her gap again. “I’m Sister Bernice—or Sister Bernie—whatever you prefer. Who might you be?”

  I smile back at her. “Hi. I’m Samantha Keyes—or Sammy—whatever you prefer.”

  She throws her head back and laughs, then sticks her hand out. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sammy.” And as she’s pumping my hand up and down, she says, “I’m with the Sisters of Mercy. Father Mayhew’s expecting us. We were told we could find him here …?”

  What I really want to ask is, The Sisters of what? but instead I say, “He said he’d be at the parish hall.” And I’m about to tell her how to get there when two other nuns appear in the doorway.

  Now, no one has to tell me these nuns are with Sister Bernice. They’re wearing black habits, too, which is what you might expect all nuns to wear, but they don’t. Sister Josephine and Sister Mary Margaret never wear habits. They dress in gray skirts, simple white blouses, and sensible shoes—not as sensible as high-tops, but definitely sensible. And even though they don’t wear habits, Sister Josephine and Sister Mary Margaret are still very nun-like. You just can’t tell from three blocks away that they’re nuns like you can with the ones that do wear habits.

  Anyhow, I guess I was staring, because Sister Bernice follows my gaze and says, “Mercy me, that was fast, Sisters! Did you find a good spot?”

  The tall one with red bangs says, “An excellent spot, right by the parish hall.” She smiles at me. “And who have we here?”

  Bernie puts an arm around me. “An angel—nothing less! This sweet thing was busy rolling over the sins of the past, bringing new life and spirit into the chambers of the holy.”

  The other two kind of look at me and smile, and I’m not real sure they know what Sister Bernice is talking about so I say, “I was painting Father Mayhew’s office …?”

  They say, “Of course you were, dear,” and “After all these years we’ve come to understand Sister’s way with words.” The taller one puts out her hand and says, “I’m Sister Abigail, and this is Sister Clarice. It’s nice to be with you in God’s service.”

  Now, I’m not about to break it to them that their little angel was painting holy walls so she could work off some junior high detention time. I just shake hands and say, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Sister Bernice says to the other two, “So you found a spot over by the parish hall? Sammy here tells me that’s where Father Mayhew can be found. Shall we continue our pilgrimage and make his acquaintance?”

  So off they go, their habits shushing through the church, and I get back to covering up the sins of the past.

  And I’m just finishing the first coat when Sister Josephine comes hobbling into the office. She asks, “Where’s Father Mayhew?” then peeks under the desk and mumbles, “Hope he took that overgrown rabbit with him.”

  I put my roller down. “He left a little while ago—said he’d be over at the parish hall.”

  Sister Josephine is old. She’s hunched over and walks with a cane—a thick black cane with a lot of nicks and scuffs on it. Some of the kids at school used to go to St. Mary’s School when they were little and they say that the one thing they remember about third grade is Sister Josephine’s cane. She’d pound it on the floor to get them to be quiet, she’d slap it against the chalkboard to get their attention, but mostly what they remember is that she’d whack it against their shins if she caught them lying or cheating.

  Anyhow, she’s standing there, hunched over, and all of a sudden her cane starts shaking. I’m not talking about a little quiver, either. That cane’s got a serious wobble to it. And at first I think she’s going to faint or have a stroke or something, but then I realize that this is one mad nun.

  So I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  She points her cane at the wall like a pistol. “This is how it always goes. We ask and ask and ask for something and before you know it, he gets what we’ve been asking for!”

  I don’t know exactly what she’s talking about, but before she starts firing that cane around I say, “Did you need some painting done, too?”

  Down comes the cane, whack, onto the floor. “Our entire house needs paint, inside and out! Sister Mary Margaret and I have been telling him that for years. He always says there’s no money for it, and here he is, having his office painted again.”

  I should’ve just stood there nodding or something, but instead I blurt, “I’m just doing this one wall. Father Mayhew said it hasn’t been done in ten years.”

  “Ten years! I think it was just last year Christmas he had this wall painted.” She takes a deep breath, then mumbles, “One of these days …” and then hobbles out.

  I watch her go, and then get busy on the second coat, wondering just how black and blue Father Mayhew’s shins are.

  It didn’t take long to paint the wall again, and as I’m wiping up the last drips, Father Mayhew walks in with Gregory trotting along behind.

  His shins don’t seem to be bothering him at all, and he’s in a great mood. “Ah, beautiful job, lass,” he says, then winks a complicated eye at me. “A clean slate feels good, doesn’t it?”

  I know he’s talking about more than just the color of his wall, so I nod and get busy closing up the can and wrapping up the roller. “Did Sister Josephine find you?”

  He smiles. “That she did.” Then he raises a brow and says, “Ah, the paint. That’s what’s upset her,” and I can tell that Josephine waved that cane all around Father Mayhew, but never actually fired off about the paint.

  So I say, “You want me to do some painting at their house tomorrow?”

  “Hmm … That’s sweet of
you, lass, but no. It’s across town, and besides, there’s a lot of sanding needs to be done. It’s really a job for a professional, I’m afraid.”

  “Did those other nuns find you?”

  “Ah, the Sisters of Mercy. That they did.” He winks and says, “Perhaps we’ll have the money for some professional painting after our guests’ fundraiser.”

  “So that’s why they’re here?”

  “That’s the reason. They’ve come to help out with the Thanksgiving food drive, but it looks like they’ll be doing much more than that.” He goes over to his filing cabinet, takes a carrot out of the top drawer, and says, “That Sister Bernice is a fountain of ideas. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.” He gives Gregory the new carrot, then smiles at me and says, “Run along now, lass. Tomorrow I’ll have you clean the windows in the church, if you don’t mind?”

  I say, “Sounds fine,” and head for home.

  And the next day there’s Father Mayhew, waiting for me, Windex in hand. He gets me a ladder and shows me the stained-glass windows he wants washed, and then says, “Now, if someone comes in to worship, I want you to move to the back of the church and just wait. It may take you a few days to do all the windows, but that’s all right. It’s better than interfering in someone’s time with God.”

  So I take my rags and Windex and for a long time it’s just me and the windows. Then a lady in a shawl comes in, so I wait. And wait and wait. And when she leaves, a man and a woman come in and just kind of sit in the back and cry for a while. So I wait and wait some more, feeling bad that they’re sitting there crying.

  When they left, I got back to work again, and I guess I was concentrating on buffing glass because I didn’t even notice there was anyone else in the church until I got off the ladder and stood back to look at the window.

  She was on her way out of the church before I could get a very good look at her, but what I could see was that she was thin, had a brown ponytail, and was about my age. Now, kids don’t usually come to church in the middle of the afternoon on a school day—they’re too busy running around town trying to put together enough sins to make going to church on Sunday worthwhile. So her just being there was enough to make me do a double take, but it was her shoes that made me want to go up to her and say, “Hi!”