Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

  He’s still in a bit of shock over the sweater, but he says, “Sure,” and leads me into the house.

  Now I knew that telling Grams I’d been watching rare and exotic birds with Chauncy would not exactly fly as an excuse for being so late, but I figured if I told it fast enough I might be able to get out of trouble before I was really in it.

  Once again, I figured wrong. She kept interrupting me with so many questions that finally I had to say, “Grams! Just let me tell you what happened, would you?”

  When I was all done straightening everything out and I was sure she was done being mad at me, I said, “Grams, I have to ask you a favor.”

  Silence.

  “Grams?”

  “What is it?”

  “The whole school is going to a Halloween party tonight, and I really want to go.”

  “You went out last night, Samantha.”

  “I know, but this is really important. I have to go.”

  She was quiet for a minute. “Why do you have to go? Whose party is it?”

  Well, what am I supposed to do? Lie? Not to Grams. “Uh … Heather’s.”

  For a minute I thought the phone went dead. “Heather Acosta’s?”

  “Um … yeah.”

  “But you hate Heather Acosta.”

  “You’re right, I do, which is why I have to go!” So I tell her about the miserable day I had being the girl-in-green-shoes-with-a-crush-on-Jared-Salcido and how I’ve got to prove that Heather’s the one making the phone calls.

  “But how is sneaking into Heather’s party going to help you prove that she’s the one behind the phone calls?”

  “I don’t know yet, Grams. I just know that I can’t sit around while she does this to me!”

  I could feel her thinking, and after a long silence she says, “Promise me you’ll be careful. That Heather has an evil streak.”

  “I know, Grams. That’s why I’m going.”

  I told her good-bye and was about to hang up when she says, “Samantha? Please be careful. And don’t go into any strange houses to put out fires tonight, okay? I worry.”

  “I know you do, Grams. I love you, too.” But as I’m hanging up the phone, I’m thinking—I’ll be going into a strange house, all right, only it won’t be to put out a fire. This time, I’ll be starting one.

  * * *

  When I got to Dot’s house the porch was still full of jack-o’-lanterns, but they were looking a bit limp—like they were tired of smiling and having moths buzz in and out of their mouths all night. And when I rang the bell, Dot’s dad answered the door and he looked kind of limp—like he was tired of smiling and having kids buzz in and out of his house all night.

  Dot, though, was full of smiles and didn’t seem tired at all. She grabbed my arm. “C’mon! I was just about to go up in the attic.”

  Dot’s attic had exactly what an attic is supposed to have—boxes and boxes of junk. And with five kids in the family, believe me, there were boxes and boxes and boxes of junk. And I’m banging my head and bumping my elbows and in general just beating myself up trying to follow Dot through this maze of boxes, but I’m happy. I’m in an attic.

  It’s easy to get sidetracked when you’re looking for something in an attic. You start looking for one thing and pretty soon you’re finding all sorts of other neat stuff that can keep you busy for hours. And being in someone else’s attic—everything’s a sidetrack because you’ve never seen any of it before.

  Anyhow, Dot’s way ahead of me, saying, “I know it’s here someplace. I remember helping Dad label it. I thought it was back here.” Then I come across an open box just crammed full of stuff. And maybe I should’ve been polite and just ignored it—I mean, going through someone’s attic is kind of like going through their dresser drawers. But there it was, and there I was, and I couldn’t help it—I started nosing.

  One of the first things I found was a strange-looking metal funnel with a handle on it. I held it up and said, “Hey, Dot! What’s this?”

  She looks up from her rooting around. “A meat grinder.” She pushes some hair out of her face and says, “Hey, get over here and help me find the box. I think it says ‘Halloween’ on it.”

  So I put it back and make my way over to Dot. We look around for a while, but I sure don’t see any box marked HALLOWEEN, so I start opening up unmarked boxes, looking for anything that seems vaguely spooky.

  I was finding toys and clothes and dishes and stuff, but there wasn’t a bat or a witch in sight. And I was starting to feel like I was looking for snow in the desert when Dot calls out, “Here it is!” and yanks open a big box.

  As she’s pulling out miles of pink and lavender skirts, something in the box I’d been looking through catches my eye. It’s kind of like a walkie-talkie, only I’d never seen a pink and white walkie-talkie before. And the two parts didn’t look anything alike. One part looked just like you’d expect a little girl’s walkie-talkie to look—only I couldn’t see where you would talk into it. The other part was about twice as big, and it rested in a base with a plug.

  Dot’s all excited about finding the princess costume, and she’s holding it up saying, “Isn’t it terrific? This is going to be great!” but by now I have to know what this pink and white contraption is. So I ask, “Dot, what is this thing?”

  She looks over and says, “Oh, that’s just a baby monitor.”

  I’ve spent zero time around babies, so I don’t know what a baby monitor is. I stare at it, and finally I just come out and ask, “What’s it do?”

  Dot picks up all the parts of the princess costume and says, “My mom used to use it when my sister was napping. You know—she could do the dishes and stuff downstairs while my sister was asleep upstairs, and she could hear when my sister gagged or woke up or something.”

  I sat there staring at it, thinking, and I could feel my heart speed up a little. “Did she ever take it outside? Like when she was gardening or something?”

  Dot looks at me like she can’t believe I’m still asking questions about a stupid baby monitor. “Sure. All the time.”

  “Do you think your mom would mind if I borrowed this?”

  She shrugs. “Not a bit.”

  Then I remembered the Louis d’Foo-Foo disaster sitting in a bag downstairs. “What if something happens to it? Is she going to be upset?”

  “Hmm … I don’t think so. She was saying at dinner the other night how she should really get up here and take all the baby stuff down to the Salvation Army. I’ll ask her, but I’m sure it’s okay.” She looks at me and says, “What do you want it for, anyway? You know someone who’s going to have a baby?”

  I laugh. “No, but I’ve got a plan and if it works, I know someone who’s gonna have a cow!”

  * * *

  Marissa had forgotten about going over to the Bush House. At least she’d forgotten until her mother asked her if she’d brought the Marsh Monster sweater home. And when she joined Dot and me in the Land of Yellow, the first thing she asked was, “Did you get it?”

  “Oh, I got it all right.” I held it up for her to see.

  She practically cried. “What are we going to do?”

  “I guess we’ll have to tell her what happened. I’ll tell her, if you want.”

  “She is going to kill me!”

  We spent the next few minutes trying to figure out some way to save Marissa’s life, but finally we decided that there wasn’t much we could do about it right then, so we got busy changing for Heather’s party.

  Dot transformed into the Bee, and Marissa decided that she’d rather wear a gypsy costume of Dot’s than wrap up in another mountain of toilet paper, and by the time they were dressed we were already an hour late. And since Dot kept insisting that she was the one who should put makeup on my face, I just sat there waiting, trying to decide the best way to sneak the monitor into Heather’s party.

  When the Bee and the Gypsy were done getting ready, they slapped me in a chair by the mirror and got to work. Now it’s not that I th
ink girls who wear makeup are wacko or anything, although girls who wear red or blue eye shadow have a few marbles on the loose. It’s just that I don’t like it. Mascara makes me feel like I’ve got bird wings up there flapping around, and lipstick makes me feel like I kissed raspberry syrup. And foundation? You can have foundation. It’s like smearing peanut butter on your face, and if you think I’m walking around with peanut butter on my face, you can think again. Green paint, yeah. Peanut butter? Forget it.

  Anyhow, after about fifteen minutes I’ve got birds flapping on my eyes and syrup on my lips, my hair’s knotted up in some kind of genie-do, and they’ve snapped a pointy little hat with wispy scarves onto my head. And when they slapped that mask on my face, even I didn’t recognize me.

  Dot wrestles me into ten layers of skirts and then says, “Put these on” as she hands me a pair of ballet slippers.

  I can tell by looking at them that they’re not going to fit, but wearing my high-tops would be like carrying a banner saying HERE’S SAMMY! SO I push and yank and pull a bunch of faces, and then there they are: cute little pink feet at the bottom of my legs.

  I take the small part of the monitor and snap it inside my tights, then I let down about half of the skirts and say to Marissa, “Hold this up, would you?” I take the big part of the monitor and press it against my side with the antenna facing down and say to Dot, “Can you wrap the cord around my waist?”

  When Dot’s all done wrapping, I tie the cord off and straighten out the skirts and we all smile at each other, because, really, you can’t even tell it’s there.

  I turn around a couple of times and try on a new voice—a kind of high, cutesy one. “What do you think my name should be? Tiffany? Wendy? Nikki?”

  Both of them shout, “Nikki!”

  Then Dot says, “Oh! Oh! You’re supposed to be my cousin, right?” and before I can answer, she sits me back down in the chair and pulls out her black eyeliner. And very carefully on the bottom of my cheek she paints a dot. Not too big, not too small—just enough so no one will question that Princess Nikki is Dot’s relative.

  We all look in the mirror and laugh, and I say, “C’mon! We’ve got a party to crash!”

  EIGHT

  Heather was dressed up as a bimbo rock star. That crazy red hair of hers was ratted up on top, and she had on enough leather to cover a couch, including a pair of black boots that went up to her knees. And wrapped around all that leather were so many chains and studs and belts, that she looked like a Doberman pinscher that got tangled up chasing a cat around a tree.

  We weren’t stupid enough to all go up to her door at once. Marissa waited down the block a few minutes while Dot and I rang the bell. And when Heather answers the door, Dot says, cool as can be, “Hi, Heather. Great outfit!” Then she nods toward me and says, “This is my cousin, Nikki. I hope you don’t mind that I brought her …?”

  Heather looks me up and down. “No, that’s great. Come on in.” Then she notices my dot and says through all her rock star makeup, “Does everybody in your family have one of those?”

  Dot looks at me so I try out my Princess Nikki voice. “Every single one of us—even the cats.”

  Heather gives me a funny look. “The cats?”

  I grin. “Yeah, we’re raising leopards.”

  At first she thinks I’m serious, but then she starts laughing, and pretty soon we’re all busting up over the lamest joke of the year. And when we’re all done laughing I say, “Cool earrings,” because she’s got on the ugliest earrings I’ve ever seen. They look like someone cut a circle out of an inner tube and glued on red marbles.

  Heather smiles real big. “Thanks!” She looks at me a little closer and says, “Your name’s Nikki? You’re all right.”

  Just then the doorbell rings and, sure enough, it’s Marissa. Heather says, “Well, well, Marissa. I didn’t think you’d show up without that loser friend of yours. What’s she doing tonight? Painting her shoes?”

  Marissa does a bit of the McKenze dance and looks around. “Wow, this is some party!”

  And it was. There were people everywhere. Heather’s house is kind of spread out and has lots of wood paneling and scrap metal sculptures hanging on the walls—copper windmills and birds and stuff like that. And the farther into the house we wandered, the more rooms there seemed to be, and every single one of them was packed with kids from school. I’m not talking just seventh graders. There were eighth graders, too. Lots of them.

  And part of me’s feeling kind of bad. Here are all these people, having a good time, liking Heather Acosta, and I’m the one person in the entire school that Heather hates. It doesn’t matter to them why she hates me; all they know is that Heather hates this girl named Sammy, and anyone who could give such a terrific party must be right. Not that it makes any sense; it’s just the way that kids who don’t think about things think.

  So I’m wandering around with Dot, looking at everyone eating Halloween cookies, feeling like a cat in a dog kennel, when all of a sudden Heather comes up behind me and says, “Hey, did you get some punch?”

  I hate to admit it, but I didn’t see her coming. And hearing Heather’s voice right there in my ear made me jump. On top of that, it was weird having Heather be nice to me, so after I get done jumping I kind of stand there batting my wings through the holes in my mask. “What?”

  She laughs. “C’mon. There’s punch and cookies and stuff in the kitchen. Want some?”

  I say, “Sure,” and then Princess Nikki kicks back into gear. “I’m starved!”

  Dot and Heather and I are all heading toward the kitchen, and I can tell from the way Heather’s looking at me that she’s ready to start asking me questions. So I say, “This is an awesome party, Heather. I can’t believe how many people are here. You must be really popular!”

  That makes her smile real big. And she’s about to say something like, No joke! when this lady comes out of the kitchen calling, “Heather! Heather, bring me some towels, would you? The punch spilled.”

  At first I thought this woman was something out of a weird sixties movie. She had hair the color of a new penny, and it swooped right over her left eyebrow, clear around her head, and into a monster beehive.

  And that was just her head. On her body she was wearing a hot pink scoop-neck blouse with sleeves that looked like little pink petticoats. And green spandex pants. I’m talking lime green. And on her feet were gold high heels with big fake jewels going across the tops.

  Then I noticed the dainty sapphire necklace that she was wearing, and it slowly dawned on me that this was not a woman in costume. This was Heather’s mom.

  So I’m standing there taking all this in, when Heather says, “C’mon.”

  I make myself quit staring at her mother and follow her down the hallway. And when Heather sees that Dot is coming with us she says, “Why don’t you go talk to Marissa, Dotty? She looks lonely.”

  I turn toward Dot and roll my eyes, but before you know it I’m going down the back hallway alone with the Doberman.

  Heather gets some towels from a closet near the end of the hall, and then opens the door to a room nearby. She says, “Give me just a sec,” then goes over to a full-length mirror and plays with her hair and rearranges her chains a bit while I stand in the doorway watching.

  It doesn’t take me long to figure out that this is Heather’s bedroom. There are posters all over the walls—mostly of rock stars and movie stars. Her bed’s not very big, but it looks big because it’s got a king-size black-and-white fuzzy cowhide bedspread hanging clear down to the floor. An end table by the bed is covered with the same material, and sitting on it is a music box and a twelve-inch plastic cow. And I’m wondering what the deal is with cows when I realize that the one on her end table isn’t just a knickknack—it’s a phone.

  I guess Heather saw me staring at all her cow stuff because she says, “I used to think it was cool, but now I’m sick of it. I’m trying to talk my mom into letting me redo my room, but she’s being her usual t
ight self.”

  “Your mom seems pretty cool to me …”

  Heather snickers. “My mom’s a joke. She’s forty years old, and I swear she thinks she can still pick up twenty-year-olds.” She blows some air out the side of her mouth. “She’s probably out there right now, flirting with an eighth grader.” Then she laughs and says, “With my luck she’s trying to pick up Jared.”

  I can’t resist. “Jared? Is that your boyfriend?”

  That makes her little chains jingle. “Don’t I wish. No, but he’s the cutest guy at school, and knowing my mom, she’s probably out there asking him to dance.”

  I didn’t think I could ever laugh at anything Heather Acosta said, but the thought of Heather’s mom with her tornado top and spandex bottom dancing with Mr. Cool was enough to make anyone laugh, even me.

  And when I started laughing, so did Heather. So there we are, the worst enemies in school, cracking up together. When we wind down I ask, “So why don’t you go ask him to dance?”

  She crosses her eyes. “Because Amber’s here.”

  “Amber?”

  “His girlfriend. She is such a witch. No one can even talk to Jared without her grabbing his arm and trying to get him alone. I wish I could—” A smile spreads across her face. “C’mon.” Then she does something that makes every hair on my body shoot straight out. She links up with me. She’s got the towels in one arm, and she links her other arm through mine and yanks me along. And I’m stammering, “What? … wait …,” but the next thing you know she’s delivered the towels to her mother and we’re in the den, standing in front of Jared and Amber.

  Jared’s dressed up like a baseball player, and he’s slouched on the couch looking pretty bored. Amber’s perched on the armrest, with the tail of her cat costume and one arm wrapped over his shoulders.

  Heather says over the music, “Hi, guys! Are you having a good time?”

  They nod, but you can tell—they’re not.

  “This is my friend Nikki.”

  They barely look at me. “Hi.”