Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

  So we stand there, looking around, and Heather says, “So why aren’t you dancing?”

  Jared shrugs. Amber twitches her tail.

  “You’re not letting this Sammy thing get to you, are you?”

  Jared snickers. “I’m not.”

  Amber hits him with her tail.

  I pipe up with, “What Sammy thing?”

  Heather laughs. “Sammy …” She looks at Jared. “What can you say about Sammy?”

  Jared just laughs through his nose and shrugs, but Amber puffs out like a cat ready to fight. “Well, I can tell you this—she’s strange.”

  Jared grins. “But she’s got good taste.”

  Amber whacks him with her tail again.

  “How’s she strange?” I ask. Like I really want to know.

  Amber rolls her eyes. “She wears green shoes, for one thing.”

  “And she’s got the hots for Jared, for another.” Heather winks at Jared and says, “Not that that’s so strange. She just won’t leave him alone.”

  Jared smiles back at her, and Amber’s so back-combed about me that she doesn’t even notice what’s going on right beneath her whiskers.

  I ask, “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. She’s been making harassing phone calls, and from what I understand, they’re pretty embarrassing!”

  Amber shakes her head. “Where does she get the nerve?”

  “That’s Sammy for you.”

  My stomach’s churning like a cement truck. It feels sick and heavy, like it’s going to slosh over any minute. And as Heather sets me up, bit by bit, I know that what I’ve got to do is get away from her so I can get to work on my plan, but I can’t just leave. I’ve got to stand there and smile while this ball of cement sets up in my stomach.

  I say, “Sounds like you don’t like her very much, either.”

  Heather laughs and says, “What’s there to like? She’s nosy and sneaky, and she thinks she’s so smart.” She grins at Amber. “But at least she’s not horning in on my boyfriend.”

  Amber stands up. “Can we talk about something else?” She holds out a paw to Jared and says, “I’m ready to dance now.”

  Jared takes her hand but gives Heather a sly little wink as he walks away.

  That about sends Heather into orbit. She grabs me by the arm and shakes me. “Did you see that? Did you see the look he gave me?” She keeps on shaking. “It’s working! It’s working!”

  Well, I knew darn well what was working, but I probably would’ve asked her anyway just to see if she’d tell me or not, only I couldn’t. I was afraid to move, let alone breathe. See, with all that shaking Heather was doing, the cord of the monitor had slipped loose and I could feel it, slithering like a snake down my body.

  I grab my side and say, “Uh, I really need to use the bathroom. Can you tell me where it is?”

  She’s got her eye on Jared. “Oh, sure. It’s down that hall where the towels were. First door on the left.”

  I smile and say, “Thanks,” and then hobble my way over to the bathroom as fast as I can.

  The minute I’m inside I lock the bathroom door and let go of the cord, and—thunk!—the big part of the baby monitor falls to the floor. I tuck the thing under my arm, then I check the hallway, and sneak my way down to Heather’s room.

  The light was on, so I clicked it off and peeked out her window to see which way the bedroom faced. I was relieved to see streetlights—at least I wouldn’t have to go snooping in her backyard later.

  I turned the light on again and started searching for a place to plug in the monitor. I decided the only place that would work was under the bed. Trouble is, I couldn’t reach the outlet without crawling under the bed. So there I am, with fifteen princess skirts tangling me up and the scarves from my pointy little hat falling in my face, trying to reach the outlet, when all of a sudden I hear the door open.

  I scrunch the rest of the way under the bed and hold my breath. Then I hear Heather say, “Come on!”

  I can’t see who she’s talking to because I’m surrounded by polyester cowhide, but when I hear this fake baby-girl voice say, “Does she ever come in without knocking?” I know she’s with Monet Jarlsberg.

  Monet sounds like a Barbie doll with a mosquito stuck up her nose. And the fact that she’s Heather’s little pipeline to the cool crowd makes her annoying and sneaky. Really, considering how many people Monet’s stabbed in the back, I’m surprised she’s lived as long as she has.

  Anyway, I hear their footsteps getting closer and closer to the bed, and all of a sudden Heather is groping around under the bed, saying, “Nah. Anyway, she’s too busy mixing up more punch.”

  Now my heart’s having a banging good time with my chest, and I’m doing my best to inch away from Heather’s hand when I notice a pack of cigarettes peeking out from under the corner of her bedspread.

  Her hand’s hopping around like a frog on a griddle and she’s saying, “They were right here!” and I know if I don’t do something quick, she’s going to look for them, and then Princess Nikki will be busted. So I scoot the pack of cigarettes a few inches closer to her, and when her hand hops onto them, whoosh! they disappear.

  I let out a big sigh, but the next thing you know Heather and Monet are flopping onto Heather’s bed. And they don’t just sit there. They bounce. And every time they do, the box spring crushes my shoulder, and no matter how I try to move, here comes the bed, smashing me like a giant princess tenderizer.

  When they settle down, I hear Heather say, “Here. I don’t get my allowance ’til next Friday, so I’ll give you the rest then.”

  “That’s what you said last time, and you never did.”

  By now I’ve pulled the corner of the bedspread aside so I can hear better, and I can smell cigarettes burning away up there. Heather blows out smoke. “Oh, c’mon, Monet. You didn’t have anything good last time. If you’ve got something good, I’ll get you the rest on Friday.”

  Monet starts to argue, but then she sputters and spits and starts hacking away like she’s going to die. And there goes the bed again, bouncing up and down, turning me into a princess patty.

  Heather laughs. “I thought you said you did this all the time!”

  “I do!” Monet tries another puff, but pretty soon she’s hacking again.

  Heather says, “Just tell me what you heard, would you?”

  Monet says through her coughing, “What do you want first—Jared and Amber, or Sammy?”

  And then I remembered—Monet had been sitting one table over at lunch when we’d been talking about crashing Heather’s party.

  So now I’m pulverized and worried. Real worried. What if Monet knew I was planning to crash the party? I didn’t think we’d been loud enough for anyone to hear, but we were excited and maybe someone had heard. Especially if that someone had been paid to listen.

  So there I am, suffocating under polyester cowhide, dying to know if I should leave Heather’s party through a window or not, when Heather says, “Jared and Amber.”

  Monet giggles. “Amber is mad.”

  “At Sammy?”

  “A little at Sammy, but more at Jared.”

  “Why? He can’t help it that that loser Sammy’s all gooey over him.”

  Monet squeaks, “ ’Cause he’s eating it up! I heard Amber tell Jill that all he does is talk about his ‘animal magnetism’ and how he’s powerless to stop her. She told Jill that it’s turning him into an egomaniac. Can you believe it? Like his ego could’ve gotten any bigger.”

  Heather doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she asks, “You think she’s going to break up with him?”

  “Oh, who knows? You saw her out there in your living room—she’s like glued to him. Gag me.” Then she laughs. “Maybe if Sammy was here …”

  Heather snickers and says, “So tell me about Sammy.”

  There goes my heart again, ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom. Monet says, “She’s real upset about everyone teasing her about Jared. What an idiot! Did she think i
t wouldn’t get around?” She coughs a couple of times and says, “She’s gotta be kinda weird. I mean, who would paint their shoes green?”

  Heather snickers some more. Now normally I’d want to pop out from under the bed and tell Monet to spray Off up her nose, but for some reason it’s easy just to lie there with a box spring in my face, listening. And the more I listen, the more I understand that breaking up Amber and Jared and framing me for it is so important to Heather that she hasn’t told anyone about it. No one knows what Heather’s up to.

  No one but me.

  And no one is going to be able to get me out of the mess I’m in.

  No one but me.

  NINE

  I was so relieved that Monet hadn’t overheard anything about my plan to crash the party, that when Heather stuffed the cigarette pack back under her bed it didn’t even faze me. And after they got done hosing the room down with air freshener and marched out the door, there I was, under Heather Acosta’s bed, all alone.

  I didn’t waste any time. I popped the monitor’s plug into the outlet and clicked on the switch. Then I pulled myself out from under that polyester cow, straightened out my costume, turned the key of Heather’s music box a few times, and snuck back to the bathroom.

  Once I’d locked myself in the bathroom, I took out the other half of the monitor and turned it on. And when I heard music coming through that pink and white receiver, I did a little princess victory dance.

  When the music started slowing down, I turned the monitor off, stuffed it into my tights, straightened myself out, and headed back to the party.

  I hadn’t been in the living room more than thirty seconds when Dot comes buzzing over and whispers, “Where have you been?”

  Marissa comes up behind me. “Did you do it?”

  I smile and nod. “It’s a done deed.”

  Anyone looking at us would’ve known we were up to something because Marissa’s and Dot’s eyes are bugged way out, and we’re huddled up like football players. So I take a step back and try to act like I’m talking about homework. “You know Monet Jarlsberg? Guess who’s been paying her to spy on people?”

  They look at each other and then back at me. “Heather?”

  I nod, and Dot says, “She’s been paying her?”

  “That’s right, and guess who she was spying on today at lunch?”

  Dot fades into an albino bee. “Does she know?”

  “No, but I’m ready to get out of here. How about you?”

  So we’re about to head for the door when Marissa whispers, “Your dot’s running.”

  It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. I blot my cheek with the back of my hand and, sure enough, there’s eyeliner smeared on it. I say, “Is that better?”

  “No, it’s worse!”

  Dot’s busy trying to fix it when all of a sudden Marissa takes off. And as I’m wondering where she’s going, my ears hear something that my brain’s not quite receiving. It’s kind of like when Grams is waking me up to go to school: “Samantha … Samantha … say, Samantha, it’s time to get up.…” But it’s not Grams’ voice I’m hearing, and it’s not “Samantha” that’s drifting into my brain. It’s “Nikki … Nikki … hey, Nikki! What’s going on?”

  When I finally figure out that it’s Heather talking to me, I slap a hand over my cheek like I’m busy thinking and squeak, “Um … well, actually, we’ve got to get going. But it sure was a great party!”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I had the best time, though.” I giggle and tilt my head and let the scarf on my pointy hat drape in front of my face a bit. Then, because it seems like she’s going to ask me something else, I say, “And those are still the coolest earrings I’ve ever seen. Where’d you get ’em?”

  Heather prances around in her leather and chains. “At the mall.” Then she whispers, “They were only two bucks.”

  “No way!”

  And you’re not going to believe this, but she pulls them off her earlobes, snap, snap, and hands them to me.

  I keep my cheek covered up while I say, “No, really, I can’t.” But before you know it I’m standing there holding the ugliest earrings on earth, saying, “Heather, you’re something else.”

  My feet had absolutely no problem finding their way to the door or down the street. And by the time Dot and I got to the end of the block I was so relieved to be out of there that I just stood on the curb for a minute, looking at the moon, wondering how long it would take for Heather to figure out who Princess Nikki really was.

  * * *

  By the time we had all met back at Dot’s and gotten out of our costumes, it was pretty late. And when Dot’s dad found out that Marissa and I were planning to walk home, he insisted on driving us instead. I had him drop me off at a house two blocks from the Senior Highrise, and then ran the rest of the way home.

  When I walked through the door Grams was half-asleep on the couch, but she didn’t stay that way for long. She made me tell her all about the party, and even though she kept one hand in front of her mouth, underneath it I could see a smile. And when I was all done, she couldn’t help it anymore. She busted up.

  When she’s all done laughing, she puts her arm around me and says very seriously, “Samantha, I know that growing up isn’t easy. Even for kids like Heather, who make it look easy—it’s just not. And it’s too bad that people like Heather have to make it rough on people like you, but I want you to know I’m proud of you for not taking her shenanigans lying down.” She looks at my feet and says, “I’ve also been thinking that there are a few things I could do to make life a little easier on you. I think it’s high time we went out for a decent pair of shoes.”

  I nod and say, “I do want another pair of shoes, Grams, but if I get another pair now, Heather’s going to know that she got to me. I don’t want green shoes, but if I get another pair now, she’ll think she’s the reason.”

  Grams frowns. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I must have been really tired because I don’t really remember getting ready for bed. I do sort of remember Grams easing off my shoes and tucking me in, but the next thing I know I’m waking up to sunshine and the jingling of keys.

  I look up, and there’s Grams, coming through the door with a basket full of folded laundry, and perched on top of it are my green shoes. “Sorry for waking you, dear.”

  “Where are you going with those?”

  “Where I’ve been is to the basement. And I’ve spent the last hour and a half in the laundry room trying to get these things to come clean. I prewashed them—I bleached them. It’s hopeless, Samantha. I know you’re attached to them, but look here—they’re practically worn through on the bottom.” She puts down the laundry basket with a thud. “Heather or no Heather, it’s time I took you to the mall for a pair of real shoes.”

  “Grams, no! Not the mall!”

  “Why not the mall? They have perfectly good shoes at the mall.”

  Grams may act like she accepts my high-tops, but not-so-deep-down inside she hates them. Green or not. If she had her way, my poor little toes would be covered in buckles and bows. And buckles and bows or not, I hate new shoes. They pinch your toes and bite your heels and rub you raw until they’re finally broken in, and then they’re not new anymore. Why pay all this money for new shoes and have your feet feel like they’ve been gnawed on by a grizzly bear, when there are shoes out there that have already gnawed up somebody else’s feet and are ready to start being nice?

  So I jump up and say, “But they’re expensive! Why don’t I just take the SMAT bus over to the Thrift Store and look for a pair there.”

  “Another pair of … those?”

  “Grams, high-tops are the best. They’re comfortable, they last a long time, and they’re only a few bucks over at the Thrift Store.”

  She sighs. “Well, they’re practical, I suppose. They’re just not very ladylike.”

  So we sit down to a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and gr
apefruit, and after we’ve cleaned up, Grams digs through her purse and hands me a ten, a five, and five ones. “Is this going to be enough for bus fare and shoes?”

  “It’s plenty, Grams. Thanks.” So off I go, over to the mall to catch the SMAT bus.

  Santa Martina doesn’t have big city buses. We’ve got little ones, like shuttle buses. They look like dog carriers for people, if you ask me, but they’re actually pretty nice inside. Sometimes there’s a bum or two kind of passed out in the back, but usually I sit up close to the driver.

  I was the only one waiting at the bus stop when it showed up, and since there were only a couple of other people on board, I got to sit right behind the driver.

  So, we’re roaring around town, having a good time stopping at bus stops and pumping diesel exhaust into the air, when I see a sign for Morrison Street. And we’re about two blocks past Morrison when I remember that Hudson had said Chauncy’s brother lived somewhere near Morrison Street. So I’m turning around, trying to see something that’s already long gone, when the bus driver comes squeaking up to a red light and says in the mirror, “Something wrong?”

  I know it’s not a bus stop, but the bus is stopped, so I jump up and say, “I’ve got to get off here.”

  He pushes his hat back and scratches what’s left of his hair. “I can’t do that.”

  “But I … I … I’m …” I open my eyes wide and hold my stomach. “I’m gonna barf!”

  He slams that door open, and I’m off faster than a bull at a rodeo. After he zooms away, I cross over to a gas station and dig through the phone book at the pay phone. There was only one LeBard listed, so I figured that LEBARD, D.W., 123 ELM CT. must be Chauncy’s brother.

  I didn’t know where Elm Court was so I went up and asked the gas station attendant. He points back down Broadway with his squeegee and says, “Take a right on Morrison. You’ll run right into it.”

  So off I go down Broadway, and when I hit Morrison I take a right and, sure enough, there’s Elm Court.

  Elm goes way around in a circle. It’s like the world’s biggest cul-de-sac with an island of houses in the middle. Some of the houses have peaky-pointy roofs and look like little dollhouses from Denmark, and some of the houses have flat roofs and look like little adobe forts, but all of them are really tidy and have perfect little yards.