ALSO BY WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy
Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy
Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes
Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen
How I Survived Being a Girl
Flipped
Swear to Howdy
Shredderman: Secret Identity
Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger
Shredderman: Meet the Gecko
Shredderman: Enemy Spy
Published by Dell Yearling
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Text copyright © 1999 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
Interior illustrations copyright © 1999 by Dan Yaccarino
The jumping horse design is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-54519-0
v3.1_r1
In loving memory of my father, Peter Van Draanen,
and my brother, Mark. You’re in my heart, always.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
PROLOGUE
I should have
just said
forget it!
I mean, cruising the streets of Santa Martina on a float with a dozen dogs dressed up like reindeer isn’t exactly something I woke up that morning wanting to do. But there I was. Again. In the wrong place at the right time.
And by the time the float turned down Broadway, well, there was no jumping off. Not when I was in charge of a dog worth more than a sleighful of cash.
Of course, if I’d known what was waiting for me just down the street, I’d have jumped, all right.
Jumped and hightailed it out of there!
ONE
Grams says Santa Martina is a town just like any other town, but I don’t believe it. Sure, it’s got a mall downtown and railroad tracks that kind of cut the city into halves, and the two big streets are called Broadway and Main, but after you’ve lived there a little while you start to realize that Santa Martina is kind of strange. I mean, in the foyer of our city hall there’s a statue, and it’s not of one of the city’s founders or anything historic like a covered wagon or a war hero. No, it’s a statue of a group of people down on one knee, hailing a softball.
That’s right, a softball.
And even though I’m into softball and I’m really hoping that our team wins the Junior Sluggers’ Cup in February, I’m not so far gone that I’d erect a bronze statue like that in City Hall. Mayor Hibbs is. I’ve heard he dips to one knee as he passes the statue on his way to work, and some people say he even makes the sign of the cross. I’ve never actually seen him do it, but someone put that statue there, and it sure wasn’t Father Mayhew.
Aside from the statue there’s our calendar. Now, Santa Luisa and other towns around here put out their own calendars too, but theirs are of normal stuff—trees, birds, broken barns—things you expect to see in a calendar.
Santa Martina’s calendar has mutts. Mangy, misshapen mutts. The weirder looking, the better. The owners dress them up in crazy outfits and take pictures of them at different landmarks around town. Last year, the July dog had on goggles and a scarf, and was parachuting from the roof of the mall. And for October they had a dog chewing on a bone, right outside the cemetery gate. I’m telling you, Santa Martina is not a town like any other town, no matter what Grams says.
Having a cat, I never understood what a big deal the calendar was to dog owners. But then my friend Holly started working for Vera and Meg over at the Pup Parlor and now I know—it’s a huge deal. Holly says people come in to pick up their dogs and all they talk about is what they’re going to do to get chosen for the calendar. Then they go off and launch their pets from rooftops or strap them to motorcycles or get them to scratch up their piano keys, all so they can point to a little brass prize tag and pretend they’re a celebrity, riding with their dog in the Christmas parade.
Now I have to admit, the Christmas parade is a great parade—strange, but in a good way. For one thing, it’s at night. Everyone puts Christmas lights on their float—big ones, tiny ones, icicle ones—and when all those lights come riding down Broadway, well, it feels like Christmas.
People go all out, too, and I don’t think it’s because the first-place float gets a candy cane the size and shape of a softball bat. I think it’s because everybody wants to outdo the guy who outdid them the year before. There are flatbed trucks with forests of pine trees, and carolers standing on snow that’s been hauled down from the mountains. There are floats on wagons with lots of hay and people and real animals making up Nativity scenes. There are even motorcycle floats. Last year the Harley club entered, and when Grams saw them growling down the street on their hogs, decked out as rebel Santas, she called them “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where” and plugged her ears.
So it’s a fun parade to watch, but Marissa’s actually been in it a couple of times, and she says that’s boring. You have to wait forever in line, and then it’s stop-and-go, stop-and-go down Broadway for almost two hours. On top of that, you don’t actually get to see the parade.
So I’ve always been happy to sit on the curb, waving and clapping for wagons of sheep and “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where.” And this year I was planning to meet Grams at our usual spot, right after I got done helping Holly and Vera get the Canine Calendar float ready. The problem was, I couldn’t find the float. I ran down Wesler Street, where everyone lines up before the parade, but I couldn’t remember if their float was number sixty-eight or eighty-six.
When I got to the sixties, I stopped and asked a lady dressed up like the Virgin Mary, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”
She blinked at me and asked, “What?”
“You know, the float with all the dogs?”
Mary shook her head and went back to arranging straw around Baby Jesus. “You got me.”
So I figured it had to be eighty-six. I kept on running, past the firemen’s float, past a c
ouple of Santa’s workshop floats and a bunch of horses munching on hay through the slats of a wagon. Finally I stopped and asked a clarinet player in the Santa Martina High School marching band, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”
She straightened her hat. “The what?”
“You know—the float with all the dogs?”
She shook her head. “What number is it?”
“Eighty-six, I think.”
“It would have to be back that way. We’re one-oh-two.”
So I turned around and ran back the way I’d come. And I’m running along, dodging Santas and elves and horses and wagons, when all of a sudden I hear, “Sammy! Over here!”
Well, sure enough, it’s Holly, calling me from down a side street. I run over, and she says, “You’re not going to believe what a mess things are!”
“What’s wrong?”
“The bracket to hold up the wreath snapped, they can’t get the lights to work, and Mr. Petersen keeps yelling at everybody. He’s making the dogs so nervous that they’re snapping at each other and they won’t wear their antlers.” She picked up Vera’s little dog and said, “And Hero keeps trying to lift his leg on Lucy!”
I tried not to laugh. I mean, Lucy’s like a cross between a Chihuahua and a toy poodle, and I couldn’t imagine another dog bothering to pee on her. But it was easy to see that Holly was upset, so I just asked, “Who’s Hero?”
“That wanna-be dalmatian over there.”
I looked at the float and knew right away which dog she meant. His body was spotted like a dalmatian, but he had the long droopy ears and face of a basset hound. And on the very tip of his tail was a tuft of long red hair—like his great-great-granddaddy had been an Irish setter and was fighting to be remembered.
I laughed. “That is one strange-looking dog.”
“You can say that again.”
“So who’s Mr. Petersen?”
She rolled her eyes. “The guy who puts together the calendar.” She pointed at a man with oily hair wearing a black tuxedo with tails. “He is such a jerk.”
Now I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “He looks like a giant stinkbug!”
Holly’s eyes popped open. “He … he does …!”
Just then Mr. Petersen yelled, “And where the devil is Marique? I should never have let that prima donna in the calendar! Someone get on the phone and find out where that stupid dog is. If she’s a no-show, I’m ripping her off the cover!”
A lady with some kind of cross-eyed terrier muttered, “Good idea anyway, if you ask me,” which made the people around her nudge each other and chuckle.
One of the men working on the float called, “If she’s a no-show, we don’t need this wreath, Royce!”
“Just fix the wreath!”
I rolled my eyes at Holly and whispered, “Tell me again why you were so excited about Lucy being on the float?”
She laughed. “I don’t remember right now.”
So we’re all kind of keeping our distance from Mr. Petersen, when a girl in jeans and a red jacket comes up carrying a dog under her arm like a furry football. She says, “Mr. Petersen?”
“Yeah, what?”
“I’m Tina Landvogt.” She holds out the dog and says, “My mother’s in the hospital with a broken leg, but she still wants Marique in the parade.”
Mr. Petersen looks around for a minute, not taking the dog. “So are you gonna show her?”
Tina shakes her head. “I can’t. I’ve got to videotape the parade for my mother.” She shoves the dog into his arms and says, “Besides, she doesn’t want me to do it. She wants Vera to.”
So there he is, the world’s biggest stinkbug, holding this miniature lion like it’s a baby with a dirty diaper. He blinks around at us, then notices Vera. “You! Here! You’re in charge of this.”
Vera says very carefully, “I never said I would show Lilia’s dog. Besides, I have Lucy to show.”
“I thought your girl was showing your dog.”
“Yes, but I’m—”
“Then you can deal with this thing.”
He tried to give her the dog, but Vera wouldn’t take it. “No, Royce. I’m photographing the parade.”
“This is more important than some silly snapshots!”
Now Vera isn’t big, but she could wrestle Mr. Petersen into a flea-dipping tank quicker than you or I could spell his name. And standing there getting yelled at by the Big Bug, you could tell she was thinking that’s exactly what the man needed. She crossed her arms and said, “No, sir. I made arrangements for my dog. You find someone else.”
But in the middle of saying that, she looks around and notices me. She waits a minute, then motions me over and whispers, “Sammy, why don’t you show her?”
“Me?”
“Sure. She’s a good dog, and really, the float isn’t much without her.”
“Why’s that?”
She points over to the wreath that they’ve finally got to stand up. “Marique’s the one that jumps through the hoop.”
“What about Meg? I could run and get her—”
“No, she’s home with the flu, sicker than a dog. I feel bad even being away from her.”
Mr. Petersen sees us whispering and shouts, “You! What about you?”
“Me?” I blink at him a bunch and say, “I don’t know anything about showing a dog!”
Holly whispers, “C’mon! It’ll be fun. I’ll help you.”
“Why don’t I take the pictures and Vera can show the dog?”
Vera shakes her head and says, “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the camera. It’s got a telephoto and a zoom. There’s no autofocus and the meters are hard to read until you know what you’re looking for. I don’t think I can teach you in five minutes.”
It did look more like a cannon than a camera, so I said, “Okay, okay! I’ll show the dog.”
I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
TWO
By the time Mr. Petersen maneuvered our float forward to join the rest of the parade, Hero had run out of ammunition and the other dogs had settled down a bit. Some of them were still trying to shake their antlers loose, but pretty much they just sat next to their owners, looking ridiculous.
And I was concentrating so hard on Marique jumping back and forth through the wreath that I wasn’t really paying attention to anything else. Not until Holly called, “Hey, Sammy! Isn’t that your favorite cop?”
Now I haven’t known Holly all that long, and it’s kind of a long story, but she understands better than anyone else I know what it’s like to avoid the police. And it’s not like I’m a lawbreaker or anything. I mean, I don’t shoplift or break into houses—nothing like that. It’s just that I’m living with my grams at the Senior Highrise, and over there, kids are like rats; if someone thinks there’s one in the building, they’re going to set traps until it’s caught.
And there’s no one who would like to snap my tail more than Officer Borsch. Well, except maybe my neighbor Mrs. Graybill.
And I’d recognize Officer Borsch anywhere. Even somewhere you’d never expect to see him. Like in a Christmas parade. On a horse. And since I’d never seen him ride anything but a squad car before, to me he looked pretty uncomfortable, swaying back and forth up there in the saddle. And I know that horses are supposed to be pack animals, but let me tell you, the horse looked pretty uncomfortable, too. Like he’d never had to carry a load quite like Officer Borsch before and was having trouble getting him balanced.
I called back to Holly, “I don’t believe it!”
She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. He’s not going to notice you.”
I watched him for a minute, but then I got back to concentrating on Marique. And after we turned onto Broadway I’d actually forgotten about Officer Borsch and was starting to have fun. The street was packed with people, and when we drove by they clapped and whistled and shook their jingle-bell sticks so hard that you’d have thought Marique was jumping through fire instead of a hoop
of pine branches. Some of them even called out, “Go, Marique, go!” like she was a real celebrity.
And when we got to the place I was supposed to meet up with Grams, sure enough, there she was, with Hudson, looking everywhere but at the parade, worried. I hollered, “Hey, Grams! Hudson! Up here!” and waved real big.
Hudson grabbed Grams’ arm and pointed. And Grams’ face went from worried, clear through shocked, all the way to relieved in about two seconds. She waved back and laughed, and when Marique jumped through the wreath, she had the biggest smile in the crowd.
So we were putting along and everything was going fine, and then we hit Cook Street. Cook is where the judging starts. It’s also where the biggest crowds gather. There’s a mall parking lot on one side and a big church parking lot on the other, so there’s lots of room for people to stand.
If you’ve ever been in a parade you know: sometimes it’s real noisy—people are clapping and cheering and there’s music blaring over loudspeakers and the marching band is playing—and sometimes it’s quiet. Completely quiet. Like in class, when everyone’s talking all at once and then all of a sudden nobody’s talking.
So there we were, at the corner of Broadway and Cook, waiting, when suddenly there’s this wave of quiet. And that’s when I notice these three people dressed up like the Three Kings stepping off the curb and into the street. They’re wearing robes with the hoods up, and they’re kind of looking down so you can’t see their faces.
At first I thought they were just late joining a float, but then I notice that they’re not carrying gold, frankincense, or myrrh—they’ve got cats. Scared, panicked cats.
And while my brain’s trying to absorb the fact that the Three Kings are bearing their gifts straight toward our float, through the quiet I hear, “Maaaariiique! Maaaariiique!”
Well, Marique goes charging through the hoop and straight off the float. And while I’m calling, “Marique! Marique, come back!” she flies across the street, through the crowd, and into the darkness.
I swung my legs over the edge of the float, but we were moving forward and the bed of the truck was quite a ways up, so I couldn’t exactly jump. Mr. Petersen yells out his window, “What are you doing? Get back on!” but does he slow down? Not at all. Finally I just flip around, hang over, and let go, and as I’m getting my balance, I see the Three Kings, right at our float. I yell, “Hold on to your dogs!” but it’s too late—cats are already sailing through the air.