Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception

  “You're not? So … what do you call what you're doing now?”

  “I'm, uh … I'm calling you from a pay phone.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “No, so … I'll just see you around school, okay? And thanks for being so nice about all of this—”

  “Wait a minute. You're calling me from a phone booth?”

  “Right.”

  “You're risking parental wrath to talk to me?”

  This was not good. Not good at all! I could feel him smiling clear from his house in Sisquane. “Well, I … you know … I felt bad that you thought I would … And Marissa, you know … she really thought I should call …”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, like, I know better. “Seriously, Casey. I—”

  “It's okay, Sammy. I'll look for you at school. And hey! Tell me to break a leg tomorrow. We're either gonna smash or bomb—I don't think there'll be much middle ground.”

  “What's the play about, anyway?”

  “Laddies Gone Amok?”

  “All Ms. Pilson'll say is, ‘You'll see.' ”

  He laughs, “You'll see!” Then he adds, “But pretty much, it's just what it sounds like—we lads have gone amok! So have some of the lasses, but I don't want to give it away.”

  “I already heard about Billy's … uh … costume.”

  “He's a wild card, no doubt. Like that's something I need to tell you, huh?”

  I laughed and said, “Right,” then added, “Well, break a leg.”

  “Thanks,” he says, then switches into an English accent. “ 'Tis better by far than a broken heart, I say! And now, fair lass, I must be off. I have serious matters to attend to before morrow's light. I bid thee adieu!”

  I laughed again and told him, “Adieu.” And when he hung up, I just stood there, listening.

  Listening to the hum of the phone in my ear.

  TWENTY

  The next morning I didn't do any fancy curb hopping or maneuvering on my way to school. I just click-click-clicked along on my board. There was a pretty strong head wind, but the truth is, I was also feeling a little self-conscious. I didn't want to get pegged as a show-off, when all I was, was happy to ride. I mean, junior high is such the high wire. One wrong move and you're doomed. Unless you've got some good friends willing to catch you, that is.

  So I'm in the middle of thinking about how nice it is that I do have friends—and specifically that Marissa-the-Mute would have to break her silence once I told her I'd called Casey—when who do I see on the sidewalk about fifty feet ahead of me?

  Pratt-the-Brat.

  I hung back for a few kicks, then decided to lay down some rubber.

  Some high-top rubber.

  When I caught up to him, I said, “Never really pictured you as one of Heather's stooges. I thought you were cooler than that.”

  He nearly fell off his board. “Oh, hey, Sammy, how's it goin'?”

  “Pretty good, Stooge. Your germs washed right off.”

  I powered on past him, but he worked to keep up. “Hey, Sammy, wait! I was just doing a dare, you know how it is…. Sammy? Hey, come on!”

  “Don't sweat it, Billy,” I called over my shoulder. “I'm disappointed, is all. I used to think you were an original. Now I know better.” Then I dusted him. Just left him behind calling, “Sammy! Sammy, wait!”

  Like I've got time to waste on stooges.

  Marissa was already in homeroom when I gusted through the door. “Talk to me, sister!” I called across the room.

  “You did it?”

  I parked my skateboard behind the coatrack. “Everything's fine.”

  “Fine? Or fine.”

  “Fine, okay? Misunderstanding cleared up.”

  “And?”

  “And what? Don't make this into a big deal—it's not. And you were right—he never said anything about a codfish.”

  “Told you!”

  Just then Heather walks in the door, and the minute she sees me she lets out a really big smoooooooooch.

  Mrs. Ambler's oblivious. She's hunched over her desk pretending she doesn't need reading glasses, looking at someone's microscopic scrawl through her magnifying glass. So let me tell you, it's real tempting to say something back or do something back, but I'd just gotten everything straightened out, and the last thing I needed was to give Heather a reason to think she had to mess them up again. So I don't say, Hey, your daddy'd like a restraining order on you, too! or, Pratt-the-Brat confessed, Fishface, or any number of things that would have lit her fuse. I just roll my eyes and turn away.

  But she keeps at it, making little kissy sounds and acting oh-so-superior as she struts to her desk. So believe me, it's not easy keeping my lips buttoned.

  And then, real loud, Marissa asks, “Oooo. What is that smell? You smell that?” Then she says it across the room. “You guys smell that?”

  “Smell what?” Mrs. Ambler asks, with one eye looking at us through the magnifying glass for a second before she lowers it.

  Now really, I don't smell a thing. But I can't exactly say that. So I wrinkle up my nose and say, “Pweeeu! It smells like …” I look at Marissa and pull a face, like, What? What's it smell like?

  “Like … rotten fish,” she says, giving me a sly wink. “Like a stinky, slimy, rotten … codfish!”

  All of a sudden Heather's lips pooch out and her eyes get all big. And let me tell you, she's looking like a big old bass with a lure through its lip. And it's easy to see that any second she's going to start whining to Mrs. Ambler about how we're harassing her, only just then the strangest thing happens. Across the room Brandy Cavaletto says, “Oh, gross! I smell it, too,” and Tawnee Francisco says, “God, who farted?”

  Now, Rudy Folksmeir is standing near them looking like a dog that's been caught lifting his leg on the couch, but he chimes in with, “Yeah, what is that?”

  “Kids, kids!” Mrs. Ambler says, tapping her magnifying glass on the stack of papers in front of her. “If it smells that bad, just go out—” The tardy bell rings right over her speech, so she stops and shakes her head. “Never mind,” she says with a sigh. “Another glorious day has begun.”

  So all through my morning classes I was in a pretty good mood. What did I care about Heather and Billy and their stupid smoochy prank? Big deal. And since all of our classes were shortened a little to make time for the assembly, the day seemed to go by pretty quickly. And I have to admit, I was looking forward to seeing what Laddies Gone Amok was all about. Between what Marissa had told me about Billy's barmaid costume and what Casey had said, it sounded like it was at least going to be interesting.

  So when it was showtime, Marissa and I hurried over to the cafeteria and got really good seats. Center section, up close and near an aisle. We planted our fannies on the floor, saving room for Holly and Dot, then checked out the stage.

  “What's that supposed to be?” Marissa whispered, pointing to the painted cardboard backdrop on the right. “Looks like something out of Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Sure does.” It had a big yellow spiral background, with dirty, overflowing pots and pans and foamy mugs painted over it. And on an angle in front of it was an arched sign in Old English script that said BEDLAM'S TAVERN.

  On the opposite side of the stage, there was a tall wooden ladder leaning against the wall beside another cardboard backdrop—this one of a bunch of painted windows with WEARY WARRIOR'S INN stenciled across the top. And against the back of the stage were bales of hay and tables with bowls of vegetables, and an A-frame contraption with rubber chickens hanging from it.

  Just then Holly and Dot slide in, saying, “Wow. This looks like it's going to be wild.”

  Ms. Pilson is up front with Mr. Caan, hugging a copy of the script. And she's smiling and nodding and talking away, but even from where I'm sitting I can tell—she's completely amped with nerves.

  Finally Mr. Caan gives her one last nod, then clicks on the mike he's holding and says, “Boys and girls? Find a seat. We've got to get this show on the road if you d
on't want it to eat up your lunchtime!” He watches the crowd for about thirty seconds, then says, “Hey, guys—Rusty, Will, José? You can't sit there. We need both these aisles clear. That's it. Just scoot over for them, will you?”

  Now of course everyone has to turn around to watch Rusty, Will, and José find their seats, including me. And while I'm doing that, I notice Heather's red head about halfway back on the left side. She's sitting with Tenille and Monet, and you can tell—they think having to be there is the lamest thing since kindergarten.

  Holly whispers, “At least she's a safe distance back, huh?”

  Dot says, “Why's she always got to go and look like that? Why can't she just be, you know, nice?”

  I turn back around, saying, “She doesn't know how.”

  When everyone's finally sitting, Mr. Caan says, “Very good. Now, I don't have to remind you—eyes and ears up front, everyone, eyes and ears up front.” He waits a few seconds, then says, “And I know I don't have to remind you that William Rose students are …” He holds the mike out to the student body, and on cue, one out of every fifty of us mumbles, “Attentive, respectful, and kind.”

  “I can't hear you…. Let's try it again. William Rose students are …”

  “Attentive, respectful, and kind.” Mumble, mumble, mumble.

  “Well,” he says, giving up, “please do be attentive, respectful, and kind. And remember—your classmates have worked hard to put this play together for you. Treat them as you would want to be treated. And now here's Ms. Pilson to explain a little about today's production.”

  Ms. Pilson takes the mike from him and says, “You guys are in for such a treat. This play was written, produced, and choreographed by the Drama Club. As you should know by now, it's called Laddies Gone Amok. ‘Laddies' as in boys, and ‘amok' as in … crazy, wild, out of control! There'll be a little adjustment period for your ears as they become attuned to Old English, but don't despair! You'll catch on. The club has spent hours and hours and hours preparing this for you, so let's give our own William Rose Players a rousing William Rose welcome!”

  Everyone starts clapping and whistling and yipping while Ms. Pilson says, “Ladies and gentlemen, Laddies Gone Amok!”

  It's like she let loose a family of mice. Heads start popping out of Weary Warrior windows, and kids scurry on-stage from the wings.

  The two heads sticking out of the Weary Warrior windows have on big wigs and plumed hats, and around their necks are dangling rows and rows of beads. One of the wigs is blond, the other black, and I don't recognize the faces. I also don't recognize the group of boys near the rubber-chicken contraption. But it's definitely Casey standing on the fourth rung of the ladder. And of course I recognize Billy Pratt, in a barmaid's apron and skirts, stuffed to a triple-D, in front of Bedlam's Tavern.

  All the players are wearing blousy shirts and dresses— like they've just come in from the Renaissance Faire. And they're busy milling around, making like they're carrying on conversations with their neighbor, when all of a sudden a guy in big black waders bursts onto the stage, shouting, “O fate, O cursed fate! I shall find thee soon! And then thy fate shall be that of a fox before the hound!” He looks around madly, then says to Casey, “Have you seen him, m'lord? Have you? The scourge, the miscreant! The bane of my soul!”

  “ 'Tis Sir Calwell you seek again, m'lord?”

  “Aye!”

  “He's not been about today.”

  “Nor yesterday! Or so you say!” The guy in waders moves toward the ladder with his nose twitching in the air. “But there's an odor most foul, and you, sir,” he says, producing a sword from inside his coat, “might well be on task to conceal it!”

  “Not I, sir,” Casey says, but he cuts a look at the blond hanging out of the Weary Warrior window and gives her a nod.

  The guy with the sword and the waders looks up to the windows, too, but Casey isn't giving away anyone's hiding place. He's asking for a sword. The blond tosses him one while the black-haired girl in the lower window shouts, “Lords, lords! Let him rot and perish, but be calm to-night!” But then the blond calls, “Nay! The justice of a duel pleases! A duel, a duel!”

  Now, Marissa, Holly, Dot, and I all look at each other and start whispering because we can tell from their voices—the girls in the windows aren't girls at all— they're boys. And then Holly says, “And look! Those boys back there by the chickens? Isn't that Sandra Wayze and Lisa … what's her name? Lisa …”

  “Ronaldi! You're right,” Marissa says. “That's Lisa Ronaldi!”

  So while we're figuring out that all the girls are boys and the boys are girls—well, except for Waders and Casey anyway—Blondie is hanging out of the window waving her—well, his—arms at the audience, trying to get us to join in with his chanting, “A duel! A duel!”

  So we do. And pretty soon the cafeteria's shaking from the whole school shouting, “A duel! A duel!”

  So Casey and Waders give each other a little bow, then hold their swords up, tip to tip. Then Blondie makes a grand throat-cutting motion out at the audience, and all at once, we all hush up.

  What Mr. Caan would give for the powers of a cross-dressing blond.

  Anyway, Waders and Casey broaden their stances, raise their left arms for balance, and the duel begins.

  Only, thwap, flap, these are not metal swords. They're rubber swords. Really soft rubber swords. They bend and U-turn and make for really ridiculous dueling, and pretty soon the whole audience is laughing its collective head off.

  Now the rest of the cast gets in on the action, too, taking turns shouting or wailing or both. And everyone's busy, moving around. The two in the Inn are popping back and forth between windows, putting up little masquerade masks as they go from one window to the other, pretending to be more than one person, squealing stupid girlie stuff like, “Oh, m'lord,” and, “Such a dastardly duel!” and, “M'lord, be careful!” while the guys, well, girls from the back part of the stage move forward carrying rubber chickens. And after another exchange of words between Casey and Waders, Sandra and Lisa and the other “boys” start swinging their chickens. And then someone backstage lets a bag of feathers go, and pretty soon there are little downy feathers floating around everywhere.

  Now, the amazing thing is, this is not a brawl. It's more like a dance. I mean, in a brawl it's just chaos and noise. But here, the players are ducking under and hopping over flying rubber chickens, steering clear of rubber swords, saying their lines one right after the other instead of all in one big roar. It's loud, and there's a lot of action, but it's not a free-for-all—it's tight.

  And things seem to be building louder and louder, getting more and more intense—like a crescendo in a symphony or something. But then Casey presses Waders back, back, back with his sword until he backs right into Billy Pratt.

  Suddenly the whole stage freezes. Even the little feathers seem to hold still in midair.

  Now all this time, Billy Triple-D Pratt has had his back to the action, making like he can't hear or see the ruckus all around him, whistling and wiping down a little round table at Bedlam's Tavern.

  But when Waders backs into him, Billy turns to face him, then sort of hides behind his cleaning cloth. “Why, good evenin', m'lord,” he says in the stupidest girlie voice I've ever heard. “Hast thou come to Bedlam's for a spot o' tea?”

  Waders seems to forget all about the duel. He lowers his sword and says, “A spot o' tea? What sort of rubbish is this? Tea, indeed!”

  “A beer then, perhaps? Brewed straight from the root!”

  “A root beer you say?”

  “Aye, 'tis most delicious, teee-heee-heee.”

  “My, you're a saucy one, wot? All right then, a beer it 'tis.” Then he looks to the audience—first at Mr. Caan, then at the rest of us—and calls, “Wot kind of beer?” and as he cups his ear, all of William Rose shouts, “Root beer!”

  Well, except for a couple of idiots in the back who shout, “Coors!” and, “Bud!”

  “Aye, that's it, then.
”

  So while Billy pretends to pull him a root beer, Waders checks him over, saying, “Don't suppose you've seen a certain Lord Calwell about, eh?”

  Billy's eyes get all big in the direction of the audience, then he hides his face a little and giggles, saying, “Nay, sir. I heard rumor he'd left for London.”

  “Have you now,” Waders says, taking the mug from Billy.

  Then Casey comes over and says to Billy, “I've worked up a wicked thirst, too, m'lady.” He claps a hand on Waders' shoulder as he sits down next to him. “So let's toast! And then perhaps we'll duel to the death?”

  “Nay,” says Waders. “Your sword is fierce and your tongue sharp. Let's leave it be.” Then he draws his sword again and stands up, moving in on Billy. “But you, m'lady …” He lifts Billy's chin with the tip of the sword, then suddenly snags his wig off and cries, “Or should I say, Lord Calwell!”

  Billy squeals. Then after spinning in a circle, he jumps offstage and gets chased by Waders down one aisle, around the back of the audience, and up the other aisle. Then he jumps back onstage and hides behind Casey, shaking in his D cups.

  “Hold!” cries Casey with his sword out to Waders. “Methinks I have a solution!”

  The three of them huddle in the middle of the stage while all the other players cup their ears and lean toward them. And after a few seconds, Billy steps to the edge of the stage, puts one finger up, and says in a big boomy voice, “My penance, fair folk? I must kiss a codfish!”

  “What?” Marissa and I gasp at each other. Then Ms. Pilson moves forward from her spot at the side of the stage, looking from her script to Billy and back to her script. And she's frantically mouthing something at Billy, but Billy's already on his way off the stage, charging down the first aisle.

  Now, to tell you the truth, I was scared to death that he was coming right for me. But he just winks at me as he goes by and heads straight back.

  Straight for Heather.

  Heather screeches when she realizes what's happening, then makes everything even worse by trying to run away from him. She tears down the aisle, around back, and up the other aisle, crying, “Stop him! Somebody stop him!” But Billy's just hamming it up, reaching down his blouse while he's chasing after her, flinging Kleenex into the audience left and right, crying, “My codfish! My slippery, onion-eyed codfish! Don't let her get away!”