Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

  He turns it over again, and we all listen while the cafeteria fills with the sound of rain. And when he’s sure we’re all going to stay quiet, he puts it beneath the podium and says, “I carry it with me as a reminder that hidden in even the most echinate circumstance is the opportunity to produce something worthwhile, even lovely.” He holds up his book and says, “Jimmy Slater at thirteen decided to take what little was given him and turn it into opportunity.” Then he goes on to tell us how Jimmy Slater is this boy in his book who grew up on a farm in Kansas with a father who drank all the time, a mother who cried all the time, two little sisters, and a broken-down tractor.

  When Miss Pilson told us about her professor’s book, I thought it was going to be the most boring assembly I’d ever been to. But the way Professor Yates talked to us—it was like sitting around a camp fire listening to stories. And when he read from his book, it wasn’t like being in Miss Pilson’s class listening to Old English. It was like being little again and having Grams read to me at bedtime. I liked it.

  I wasn’t thinking about Heather or Jared or Amber or what color my shoes were. I was just listening. That is, until Marissa nudged me and pointed to her watch and I realized that there were only fifteen minutes left before the end of school. All of a sudden I forgot about Jimmy Slater and his farm, and my heart started pounding and my hands started sweating. I whispered, “You ready?”

  I don’t think Marissa had been paying much attention to Professor Yates because there wasn’t much left of her thumbnail. She nods, so I say to Dot, “Remember, we’ll meet you outside the front gate, right after school.”

  Marissa and I stand up and head for the back door. Marissa’s got her arm around me, and I’m kind of doubled up with one hand over my mouth and the other over my stomach. At first I thought we were going to sail by all those teachers at the back door. But Mr. Vince, who’s the eighth-grade history teacher, stops us and says, “Where do you girls think you’re going?”

  I didn’t say anything. I just held my stomach and bugged my eyes out, looking kind of panicky. Then I started panting and smacking my lips, and Marissa says, “Mr. Vince, she’s going to be sick.”

  Well, he steps aside like he just noticed a dog turd on the sidewalk.

  One of the teachers calls, “Need any help?”

  Marissa says, “No, that’s okay,” and before you know it the cafeteria doors are closing and we’re outside. All alone.

  We hurried over to the side door of the office and took out two packs of catsup that we’d saved from Marissa’s lunch. I pulled up her sleeve and start squirting. Pretty soon we’ve got a little lake of catsup on her arm, and when we pull her sleeve back down, catsup seeps through the fibers, looking just like blood. We smile at each other and say, “Let’s go!”

  Now, I’d never been inside the office during an assembly. I’d always been at the assembly. So walking into the office while the rest of the school was locked up in the cafeteria was pretty strange. It was quiet. The door to the teachers’ lounge was open for once, but there were no coffee cups, no teachers. Mr. Caan’s door was shut tight, and there were no kids waiting for him to yell at them. There were no people at the front counter or walking down the hall, either. Just as we’d hoped, the only person around was the school secretary, Mrs. Tweeter.

  Mrs. Tweeter gets up from behind her desk and says, “Why aren’t you ladies at the assembly?” Then she sees Marissa’s arm. “My dear, what happened?”

  I give her a real serious look. “She tripped and smashed her arm into a chair and—” and that’s all Mrs. Tweeter needs to come swooping in for a closer look.

  Marissa says, “It looks worse than it is. I just need a few bandages.”

  The closer Mrs. Tweeter gets, the more worried I am that her nose is going to know that something’s fishy. I pull Marissa back a little. “Mr. Caan said a cold compress would be a good idea too. Do you have any ice?”

  “A cold compress. Yes, yes, of course.” She twirls around, going nowhere, then says, “Follow me down to First Aid.”

  I don’t know if Marissa was acting, or if she was so scared she really was going to faint, but she puts her hand to her head and says, “I feel really lightheaded,” and then kind of collapses into one of the lobby chairs.

  Mrs. Tweeter says, “Oh … oh, dear! Okay. You stay right there. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I knew I didn’t have much time, so before Mrs. Tweeter’s even out the door I pull the tape recorder out of my pocket, flip over the counter, and head for the P.A. box.

  And there I am with the school’s public-address system at my fingertips and what do I do? I freeze. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, and I can’t think. My brain feels like it’s kissed an ice cube.

  Marissa’s up and out of the chair. She whispers, “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know!” I can feel time ticking away, but there I am, acting like a bug in a glacier.

  Then I remember Heather—Heather laughing at me, Heather telling stories about me, Heather making phone calls pretending to be me. And I start heating up. Way up. I punch the red button on the main panel and say, “May I have your attention! Please excuse the interruption. We have a very important announcement.” Then I hit the PLAY button on the tape recorder and let her rip.

  When I hear Heather’s voice come across the P.A., my heart lets loose like fireworks. It’s so loud. I can hear it echoing from outside, and there she is, larger than life, saying “Who does that stupid Sammy Keyes think she is? Telling me I’ve got egg breath …” and “I guess I’ll just have to give Amber a little reason to beat her up for me.” Then “Hi, Jared. This is Sammy …” and on and on about how much she loves him and would appreciate him and stuff. It’s embarrassing.

  The whole time Heather’s voice is booming around campus the little part of my brain that’s still working is wondering if any of this is getting into the cafeteria, and if it is, how long it’s going to be before Mr. Caan comes flying out of the cafeteria.

  And it felt like an hour, but I knew the whole recording was only about two minutes long, so when Heather finally says, “Sammy Keyes, that’ll teach you to call me Egg Breath,” I click off the recorder and say into the P.A., “The truth’s out, Heather,” and let go of the button.

  I’m just swinging back over the counter when I hear the side door slam open and I know—that’s not Mrs. Tweeter back with first-aid supplies. It’s Mr. Caan, and he’s seconds away from suspending us for life.

  We go crashing out the front door, down the steps, and across the lawn, and we’re barely through the gate when the dismissal bell rings.

  Knowing Mr. Caan, we figured he would chase us until he caught us. So we ran like crazy for a while and then dived into some bushes. And we’re all scrunched up, with our eyes bugged out, panting and watching and waiting for Mr. Caan’s size fourteens to come stomping by, only they never do.

  When enough time passes, we crawl out of the bushes and dust each other off. Then we see Dot, waving and shouting, “You did it! You did it!”

  I slap her hand. “Could you understand it?”

  “You could hear every word. When you said, ‘May I have your attention,’ all the teachers looked around like, ‘What? What? Who’s making the announcement? It must be an emergency!’ And then when Heather started talking about egg breath, the whole place got so quiet you could hear the flies buzzing. And when Heather says that bit about appreciating Jared, Amber charges across the cafeteria at Heather and starts wailing on her. You wouldn’t believe it! Perfect little Amber’s screaming and pulling Heather’s hair and scratching her face—it looked like she was going to kill her! And everybody’s just standing there with their mouths open, watching, until Mr. Tiller and Mr. Pele break it up. Then Miss Pilson tries to get everyone to sit down, but of course it’s too late—the whole school’s gone crazy. Then the bell rings, and everyone just charges out of there.” Dot laughs. “It was the best assembly I’ve ever been to. I can’t believe you g
uys actually pulled it off!”

  When we get done slapping each other’s hands, Dot looks around and whispers, “What do you think they’re going to do to you?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Caan’ll probably throw me in the Box for a week.” Then I laugh and say, “Maybe he’ll expel me, who knows? I guess I’ll find out tomorrow!” I turn to Marissa. “Remember: You didn’t know what I was going to do. It was all my idea. Don’t give yourself away, okay?”

  She does a bit of the McKenze dance and nods.

  We start walking, and before you know it we’re at the mall, still talking about Heather and Amber and what it’s going to be like the next day at school, and I’m nowhere near ready to go home. I’m supposed to, but a senior highrise is not exactly where you want to go right after you’ve paid back your worst enemy in spades.

  So I just keep right on walking, and Marissa asks, “Are you heading over to Hudson’s?”

  “That’s a great idea!”

  Dot says, “Hey, can I come?” because she’s heard a lot about him but she’s never met him.

  I laugh and say, “Sure.”

  When we get to Hudson’s, he calls from the porch, “Good afternoon, ladies! What a pleasant surprise.”

  I introduce Dot to him, and then quicker than she can quit whispering about his red suede boots, Hudson’s back with iced tea and crackers. “You girls are sparkling like a disco ball. I take it your research got the results you were hoping for, Sammy.”

  That got us giggling, and pretty soon Hudson can’t stand it anymore. “Tell me what you did!”

  I pull out his recorder and hand it over. “Thanks for the loan, Hudson.”

  Hudson Graham doesn’t need an instruction manual to figure out what he’s supposed to do. He presses PLAY, and when Heather’s voice starts filling up his porch he kicks those red boots of his up onto the railing and listens. And by the time there’s nothing left but static, he’s laughing so hard he almost falls out of his chair. “So, who’d you play this for?”

  I grin and say, “The whole school.”

  He looks puzzled. “How?”

  We all say, “Over the P.A.!”

  Dot adds, “During an assembly. It was the greatest!” Then she tells him all about Heather and Amber scratching and clawing and tearing each other up.

  When Dot’s done, Hudson shakes his head and says, “Unbelievable.” He raises his tea and we all clink glasses. “To research well done. Congratulations!”

  We’re all in the middle of taking our sips when the phone rings. And rings and rings and rings. And at first Hudson waves it off, but after it rings some more he gets up and answers it.

  When he comes back he says, “Sammy, it’s your grandmother. She sounds rather upset.”

  So I go inside, and the first thing Grams says is, “Samantha, why? How could you get yourself in this much trouble? Mr. Caan’s calling a parent conference! What am I supposed to do about a parent conference?”

  “Did you tell him Mom was visiting Aunt Valerie?”

  She snaps, “It’s Victoria, and, yes, that’s what I told him, but I can’t keep this up forever! And now he’s expecting me to attend this meeting.” She takes a deep breath. “I know this has something to do with Heather because Mr. Caan said that she and her mother will be at the conference tomorrow, but, good Lord, Samantha, he made it sound like you held the entire school hostage! What on earth did you do?”

  Well, I’m not about to explain it to her over the phone. I’ve tried that before, and it just doesn’t work. “Grams, please. Calm down, okay? I’ll be right home and explain the whole thing.”

  So I said bye to everyone and headed home as fast as I could. And as I hurried down Cypress it started sinking in: Maybe I’d stopped Heather from making me look like a complete idiot over Jared, but now I had a whole new set of problems—bigger than the last.

  And I wasn’t ready to jump on another runaway train; I’d just survived the last one. So when I saw Bargain Books and remembered Grams’ book, I thought that bringing it home might distract her from scolding me about what I’d done at school. At least cut it short.

  So I ran across Broadway and into Bargain Books thinking it would only take a minute to get the thing.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  FIFTEEN

  Mr. Bell was in the middle of buying books. His hair was sticking out even more than usual, and he didn’t even say hello when I walked in. He just kept digging through a big box that a man had brought in, putting the books in three different stacks, kind of frowning with one side of his mouth and smiling with the other.

  The guy who was selling the books wasn’t exactly the kind of person who mowed his own yard, if you know what I mean. He had on white slacks and a pinkie ring, which tells you something right there, but it was his feet that made me keep my distance. See, he was wearing loafers. Loafers with no socks.

  He’s got his eye on Mr. Bell like he’s dealing poker instead of stacking books, and if you were just watching him from the knees up, you’d think Pinkie Ring was just making sure that Mr. Bell was doing his job right. But Pinkie’s toes are popping around inside his loafers like little mice trying to get out of a paper bag. And the more I stand there watching those toes trying to come up for air, the more I wonder what this guy’s so anxious about.

  When Mr. Bell gets to the bottom of the box, he pushes one stack toward Pinkie and says, “I can’t take these.” Then he points to the other stacks and says, “I’ll give you twenty for this group and a fourth the cover price for these.”

  Pinkie’s eyebrow barely goes up, but his toes practically pop through his shoes. “What? Twenty for all of these?” He picks a book off the top of the third stack. “And you’re telling me you’ll only give me two fifty for this? It’s barely used! It may never even have been read! That’s highway robbery!”

  Mr. Bell takes a deep breath and pushes up a sleeve. “I can give you thirty percent, but that would be store credit.”

  “You mean I gotta turn around and spend my money here?”

  Mr. Bell nods and points to a sign by the cash register. “It’s our policy. Twenty-five percent cash, thirty percent store credit. You can take them elsewhere if you’d like.”

  Pinkie’s toes are working up quite a sweat. He mumbles, “You’re the only game in town, and you know it. Gimme the cash.”

  Mr. Bell takes out a calculator, but before he starts punching in numbers I say, “Mr. Bell? I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just hoping my grandmother’s book came in?”

  He blinks at me like he didn’t realize I was there. “It has, Sammy. Let me finish up here, okay? I’ll only be a minute.”

  I stand back, waiting and wondering why Pinkie’s so uptight about getting rid of a few old books, when the back of my brain starts twitching a little. And while Mr. Bell’s counting out Pinkie’s money, I go up to the stacks of books and start reading the titles. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure that these are not books Mr. Pinkie Ring would be reading himself. There are romance books and gardening books and a ton of books on doll collecting.

  Pinkie’s toes finally get their way. He’s out the door and down the street before his wallet’s even back in his hip pocket.

  I say, “He sure seemed nervous.”

  Mr. Bell rolls his eyes. “Customers like that I can do without.”

  “These don’t seem like books he would read.”

  “That they don’t.”

  For a second there everything seemed to be in slow motion. The ceiling fan, the register closing—the whole place felt like a dream. “What if they were stolen?”

  Mr. Bell laughs. “Then he went through a lot of trouble for nothing! There’s no money in used books.”

  He pulls out Grams’ book from behind the counter and says, “So what kind of business is your grandmother thinking about starting?”

  At first I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I notice the title of the book she’d ordered: Establishing a Mail Order Business. “I do
n’t know!”

  I must have looked shocked, because Mr. Bell laughs and says, “People are full of little surprises, aren’t they?”

  I laugh and say, “You’ve got that right!” and head out the door and across the street. And I’ve pounded up two and a half flights of fire escape stairs when I feel this thought kind of chasing behind me. And when I get to the third-floor landing, it tackles me—boom!

  When I can move again, I don’t keep heading up the stairs. I do a U-turn and pound back down. And when I’m at the bottom, I take Grams’ book, stuff it in my backpack, and tuck the pack behind some bushes along the building. Then I start running. And I keep right on running until I’m at Chauncy’s doorstep.

  I don’t try any of the SOS stuff—I just start pounding. Pounding and yelling, “Chauncy! Answer the door! I’ve got to ask you something! Chauncy! Hey, Chauncy! I’m not going away! Answer the door!” Finally he does.

  I’m expecting him to look mad or irritated or impatient or something, but all he looks is tired. Real tired. Like he’s been up for three days without any sleep. And when I ask, “Can I come in?” he just sighs and nods and leads me down the hall.

  He sits down in the chair I found him in on Halloween, looking just about as alive as he had that night, and points to the chair next to him.

  Well sitting’s about the last thing I want to do. I’ve got all this blood pumping through me from running, but on top of that, I can’t stop moving because the more I think about what I want to ask him, the more I’m sure that I don’t have to ask him. I’m right.

  I walk around looking back and forth from him to the bookcases. “Chauncy, do you own any rare and valuable books?”

  He studies me a minute, then nods.

  I come in a few steps. “Are you missing any?”