I’m kicking him like mad, trying to break free, and as I’m looking around for something to help me out, I notice the toaster right above me. I let go of the pillowcase, pull the plug out of the socket, and with both hands I reach up and yank the toaster free. Then blamo! I slam it on his head.
For a second there, he collapsed. And I thought he was knocked out for good, but before I can get back to the phone he starts to groan and move around a bit.
So I’m looking around for a way to keep him down, when I get an idea. I sit on his back, hard, then pull his hands together and wrap them up with the cord of the toaster.
He groans and his hands start twitching, and I can tell—he’s coming around. So I put his hands in the slots of the toaster and push down the lever. Then I pull the end of the cord to the wall socket and say, “Mr. Bell, if you make one little move that I don’t like I’m going to have to toast you.”
He starts to roll over, so I plug the thing in. Just for a second.
He yelps, and his eyes open wide, and he whispers, “You’re crazy.”
I just stay there with the plug poised near the socket. “I’m serious.”
He lies there for a second, looking at me, and then all of a sudden his head flops down and he starts crying. And pretty soon he’s sobbing like a baby, so I drag the phone over with my foot and say, “Hello?”
The emergency lady says, “I’m right here. Are you all right?”
“I could use some help.”
“It’s on the way. Actually, they should already be there.”
The way my luck with the police department had been running I was expecting his Royal Rudeness to come cruising through the door, so I was pretty relieved when two policemen I’d never seen before came barging in.
I call, “Back here!”
They come swinging through the gate and whip off their sunglasses. Then they just stand there, looking at Mr. Bell lying on the floor with his hands in a toaster.
They ask me what’s going on, but I can’t tell them that I’m about to toast this guy because he stole some books from a man with no voice—it just wouldn’t translate right. So I try starting at the top, but telling about being plowed over by a skeleton, stomping out a fire, and finding Frankenstein tied to a chair isn’t making things clear either. About halfway through, one of them puts up a hand and says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
So I sigh and do something I never imagined I’d do. “Could you just call Officer Borsch or his partner and tell them we’ve caught the Skeleton Man?”
The next thing you know they’re filling the room with static, ten-fouring and ten-nining into their walkie-talkies. Finally one of them says, “Officer Emerson’ll be right over,” and then goes about reading Mr. Bell his rights.
When Muscles comes flexing through the door, he’s waving a paper in his hand. He laughs and says, “You’re telling me I cashed in all my favors for a search warrant I don’t need?”
I kind of laugh too. “Sorry.”
He takes one look at Mr. Bell, handcuffed and looking kind of small in a chair against the wall. “That’s him?”
I say, “That’s him. I haven’t found the skeleton suit, but I found the pillowcase, and I found these in his desk.” I hand the books to him, and after a minute of looking them over he says, “These are worth a hundred thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
They all kind of gawk at them, then Muscles says, “So what happened since I saw you at the courthouse? I thought you thought it was the brother.”
So I tell him that the candlesticks winding up at the Thrift Store bothered me—how it didn’t make any sense for Chauncy’s brother to throw away something with a lot of sentimental value. And then I tell him how Mr. Bell had said that he was looking for a buyer for his store and how when I mentioned Chauncy he acted like he didn’t even know him.
Then I start telling him how Mrs. Graybill and Mr. Belmont were talking to Mr. Garnucci and how Mr. Garnucci called Mr. Belmont “Mr. Belmont” because he didn’t really know him, and how he called Mrs. Graybill “Daisy” ’cause he did know her. And I’m just warming up to the point of all this when Muscles shakes his head and says, “Sammy, you’re losing me again.”
I take a deep breath and say, “When I was at Chauncy’s today and we found out about the books, I offered to ask Mr. Bell if anyone had tried to sell him some rare books. And Chauncy said, ‘They wouldn’t go through Tommy,’ like he knew him. At the time I didn’t think about it, but after I heard Mr. Garnucci talking in the lobby, well, it all clicked.
“I think that Mr. Bell is the one who appraised Chauncy’s books and that he’s been dying to get his hands on them ever since. Chauncy could tell you for sure. So could his brother.”
Mr. Bell is sitting with his hands handcuffed in his lap, and he’s crying. He looks up at me and says, “Sammy, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Or Chauncy. Things just got out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about them! And then the nightmares started. That place going up in smoke … those books, wasted. Gone forever …” He puts his head in his hands and starts bawling. “Why couldn’t they have been mine?”
One of the police officers puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Come along, Mr. Bell. It’s over.”
So they take him away, leaving me with Muscles to answer a bunch of questions for his report.
When Muscles finishes writing everything down, he walks me to the curb and shakes my hand. And as he’s pumping away, saying thanks for all the help, this guy pops out of nowhere and takes our picture. We’re both kind of stunned, wondering what’s going on, when the photographer puts down his camera and says, “Joseph Jennings, Santa Martina Times. We understand there’s been an arrest made here tonight. It was Thomas Bell, the bookstore owner—is that correct?”
Before I can say a thing, Muscles puts one of his iron arms up and says, “I’m sorry, we’re not at liberty to answer any questions at this time.” Then he says to me, “You need a ride home?”
I just laugh and say, “No thanks,” because getting a ride from him would take a whole lot longer than jaywalking.
So I wave good-bye and cut across the street. I suddenly remember that I stashed my backpack and as I’m digging it out of the bushes I’m thinking that I’ll probably be up all night explaining everything to Grams.
And normally that would have been fine. It’s just that the next day was going to be a big day at school.
A really big day.
SEVENTEEN
Grams forgave me around midnight. Then she wanted to spend the next hour talking about what not to say at Mr. Caan’s meeting the next day. And after she went to bed I still had to do my math homework, so it felt like I’d slept for all of ten seconds when the alarm clock went off.
While I’m in the shower trying to jump-start myself, Grams is in the kitchen making oatmeal and talking to someone on the phone. And when I get done inhaling my breakfast, Grams puts on her coat and says, “Hudson’s on his way over to give us a ride. He’s probably already waiting.”
A ride. What a relief! I throw my backpack on my shoulder and say, “I’ll meet you out front.” Then I run down the fire escape, around the building, and over to the parking lot where Hudson is just pulling up in Jester.
The whole way to school Hudson kept asking me questions about Tommy Bell and the books, and by the time we pulled into the school parking lot he was saying, “I think it’s about time I paid Chauncy LeBard a visit. This recluse business has gone on far too long.” He turns to Grams. “I’ll be right here when you get done.” Then he says to me, “Any chance you’ll be coming home with us?”
I grin and say, “Oh, there’s a big chance of that, but if my plan comes off it’ll be just you and Grams.”
Grams is halfway out of the car, but when she hears that she stops cold. “What plan? We didn’t discuss any plan!”
“Grams, don’t worry. It’s nothing bad. I just hope it works.”
She gets out of the car, an
d I can see her shaking her head at Hudson, but he says, “Just relax, Rita. The meeting will be over before you know it.”
So off we go, up the steps, in the front door, past Mrs. Tweeter and straight to Mr. Caan’s office. And right there in the hallway are Heather and her mother, waiting.
Mrs. Acosta’s outfit is a little more conservative than the one she was wearing at the Halloween party. At least, I think she thinks so. She’s got on white high heels, a purple mini skirt, a fluffy white blouse, and only three bracelets.
And we’re all standing in the hallway pretending like we’re not looking at each other, when Mr. Caan comes over and ushers us to a meeting room with a table and some padded folding chairs. He says, “I think we’ll be more comfortable in here,” and then motions for us to have a seat.
Grams and I sit on one side of the table, and Heather and her mother sit on the other, and we’re all kind of staring at our hands folded nice-and-neat in our laps. Mr. Caan sits at the head of the table and says, “I’d like to begin by thanking you for coming.” He clears his throat. “I realize there is a history of tension between these two young ladies, and I feel it’s time we dialogued about the root of the problem so that maybe we can eradicate it once and for all. To start with, though, I’d like to address yesterday’s events.” He looks at me. “Now then, Samantha. I understand your frustration over the rumors about you and Jared. However, do you agree that using the school’s public-address system to settle the score with Heather was entirely inappropriate?”
Before I can put together a nice way of not lying, I blurt out, “What would you have done if you were in my shoes, Mr. Caan?”
Heather snickers, which makes Mr. Caan turn to her and say, “You find that humorous, Heather?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t see you in a pair of green high-tops.”
Mrs. Acosta elbows her and whispers, “Heather!”
Heather just shrugs. “Well I can’t.”
Mr. Caan takes a deep breath and then says to me, “What I would’ve done in your position is talk to one of my teachers or a counselor or even an administrator. What I would not have done is taken it upon myself to hold the entire school hostage to my revenge!”
I look down and say real quietly, “Mr. Caan, if I’d thought of another way to prove she was lying I would’ve done it. But you’ve got to understand—Heather is not rational. She gets mad over nothing, and she’s got this way of getting the popular kids to believe her. How can I compete with that? What am I supposed to do? Run around to all the kids at school and say, ‘Hey, listen to this! This is proof that I haven’t been calling Jared—Heather has’? Like they’d believe me. And you can’t reason with Heather. She gets so mad over stuff and, really, I never know what’s going to set her off next.”
I’m keeping my voice low and steady and mostly staring at my lap, but I’m keeping an eye on Heather, too. When I get to the part about her getting mad over nothing, she starts to say something, but her mother puts a hand on her shoulder and stops her. And I can tell that she can’t wait for her turn to say some pretty choice things about me, so I finish by taking a deep breath and looking straight at her when I say, “I’m sorry to say this, but I really think Heather needs professional help.”
Her mom jumps up. “What? How dare you! If anyone around here needs a psychiatrist, it’s you! The lies you make up, the embarrassment you’ve put my daughter through! This is beyond belief!”
I give Grams a secret little wink, but she’s looking pretty worried.
Mr. Caan stands up. “Now, calm down, Mrs. Acosta. We need to get to the bottom of this, and I think we’re off to a good start.” When Heather’s mom sits down, he says, “Okay now, Heather, what do you have to say in response to Samantha’s observations?”
Heather bats her eyes at Mr. Caan and sniffles, “She’s just a mean, mean person. I don’t do anything to deserve being treated the way she treats me. That tape … it was just something she faked. Can you believe anyone would do something like that?”
Now as she’s trying to come up with some tears to make her lies a little more convincing, I’m pulling a pair of earrings out of my sweatshirt pocket. A pair of rubber ring earrings with fake rubies on them. And as Heather’s whining away I very slowly reach up and clip one to my left ear. Then I clear my throat just a little so Heather’ll glance over at me. And when she does, I give her a little smile and clip the other earring to my right ear.
For a second she just stares. Then she chokes out, “Where did you get those?”
I shake my head back and forth so the earrings dangle a bit. “At a party. I told the hostess they were the coolest earrings I’d ever seen, so she gave them to me.”
Heather starts breathing real hard through her nose, and you can just see her thinking, It can’t be … It can’t be! So I give her a little smile and say, “They didn’t exactly go with my princess costume, but it was real nice of her anyway.”
That does it. Heather lets out a screech and comes clawing across the table at me. And before anyone can stop her she’s on top of me screaming, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
I fall backward and call, “Help! Mr. Caan, help! There she goes again! She’s crazy! Somebody, please! Help me!”
Mrs. Acosta yells, “Heather stop it! Stop it! What’s gotten into you? Heather!”
Before Heather can gouge me up too badly, Mr. Caan pulls her off of me and holds her arms behind her back. But does that stop her? No way. She kicks and screams, “I’m going to get you for this! I hate you! I hate you!”
Mr. Caan yells at Mrs. Acosta, “Follow me!” and then hauls Heather out of the room.
Twenty minutes later he finally comes back. He sits down and says with a big sigh, “Her mother’s taken her home.”
Grams gives him a prim look. “I do hope you’ll have her seek some professional help. You can’t have that kind of behavior in a learning institution, for heaven’s sake.” Then she says, “Do you understand now what kind of stress Samantha has been under? What with the way that girl taunts her and teases her and got the whole school believing Samantha was calling that boy?”
Mr. Caan puts up his hands. “I can understand why Samantha did what she did, but there still has to be some disciplinary action for her use of the P.A. system.” He looks at me and says, “My inclination yesterday was to suspend you.” He chuckles. “Indefinitely.” He takes a deep breath and says, “In the light of what’s just transpired, I’m not going to do that, but a detention is going to have to be assigned.” He straightens his watch a bit and then looks me in the eye. “Last night I added up the hours you should serve for your various infractions, and it came to twenty. Twenty.”
Grams says, “Mr. Caan … really!”
Mr. Caan puts up a hand. “Twenty hours of after-school detention does seem a bit extreme, considering the circumstances, so what do you say we have Samantha put those twenty hours to better use—maybe doing a community service of some sort?”
I’m still stunned, thinking Twenty hours! but Grams is right on top of things. “St. Mary’s Church is always looking for volunteers this time of year to help with the Thanksgiving food drive. We could have her help out at the church and get Father Mayhew to verify her hours for you.”
Mr. Caan thinks about that for all of two seconds. “Great idea.” He looks at me and says, “And now I think you should be getting to class, young lady. You’ve missed enough school as it is.”
So I jump up, give Grams a kiss on the cheek, and off I go. And I could probably have just skipped English altogether since there were less than ten minutes left in class, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I tried just sneaking in, but Miss Pilson turned around from writing on the board just as I was scooting into my seat.
She stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost. Then she blows up at her bangs and finishes assigning an essay for homework. When the bell rings and everyone else goes charging for the door, she says, “Samantha! A word, please,” which, translated
, means she’s going to use a lot of big words to tell me how mad she is at me.
I go up to her, but before she can get a good string of adjectives together I say, “Miss Pilson, I’m sorry that I interrupted your assembly. I really liked Mr. Yates, and I was into hearing about his book.” I let out a sigh and say, “I know his coming to the school was a big deal for you. I’m sorry.”
She stares at me a minute and kind of moves her lips from one side of her face to the other like she’s got words in there trying to punch their way out. Finally she says, “Do you realize the mayhem you caused? It was complete chaos in there! I was mortified!” Then she sighs and says, “Martin Yates is not the kind of man who likes to be upstaged, Samantha. I doubt he’ll ever agree to give another talk at this school.”
I shuffle around a bit. “I really am sorry, Miss Pilson.”
As I’m leaving she says, “Samantha? Why would Heather do such a thing?”
I shrug. “I guess she doesn’t like the color of my shoes.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t quite understand, but I leave anyway, knowing that she’ll figure it out—after all, she’s an English teacher.
I slip into math class as the tardy bell’s ringing, and right away I know something’s up. In Mr. Tiller’s class you’re in your seat with your pencil sharpened and your homework out before the bell’s done ringing or you’re in trouble. But as I’m sliding into my seat I see half the class waiting in line at the pencil sharpener, and the other half in their seats, stretching their necks around the people in front of them.
All I can see is Mr. Tiller up there erasing the board. So I stretch my neck clear around Henry Regulski, who sits in front of me, but before I can see anything Henry whips his curly head around and says, “Check it out! I don’t believe it.”