Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

  There were other kids around and everything, but I didn't see my friends, so I decided to go drop off my backpack and skateboard in homeroom. That's one nice thing about Mrs. Ambler — unlike a lot of the other teachers, she unlocks the classroom early so you can drop off your backpack or just meet up with your friends and get in out of the cold. Usually she's at her desk grading papers or reading a book, but lots of times she's going between the classroom and the office, taking care of teacher business.

  Now, since I was so early, it crossed my mind that I might have the chance to ask Mrs. Ambler how Heather got on the ballot. Or maybe I'd just ask her how kids on the ballot were nominated.

  Of course on second thought, that might make it look like I was sore because I hadn't been nominated for anything, which I didn't care about, but I didn't want it to seem like I cared. I mean, looking like you care is way worse than actually caring.

  It's truly… pathetic.

  But thinking all that through turned out to be a big waste of mental energy, because when I arrived at the classroom, no one was there. Well, no people, anyway. The birds were there, but it wasn't until I was inside that I noticed that one of them was out of the cage. And flapping for the open door.

  Fast.

  The doors at my school are heavy-duty metal. Every one of them has a small wire-mesh window, a kick-down doorstop, and a hydraulic closer so that it automatically shuts. Most of the classrooms have a whole wall of windows right next to the door, so I don't know why they're such heavy-duty doors, but they are.

  And in all my junior high experience I can honestly say that I'd never been in a hurry to close a classroom door before. Open and dash in, yes. Close? Never.

  So when I whipped around and pushed on the door to make sure the bird didn't escape, I learned something new about hydraulic closers—they can't be rushed. I mean, there I am, pushing like crazy on that door, but the stupid thing's fighting back, taking its old sweet time, closing at its own sweet pace.

  So I drop my skateboard, plant both hands on the door, and really lean into it. And all of a sudden shh-whack, the closer gives way and the door slams shut.

  Phew.

  I look up for the flyaway bird but freeze with both hands still on the door. There, a foot above my head, is one beautiful, fluffy, blue-and-green bird butt sticking straight out of the doorjamb. And above it, pointing up to heaven, is one perfectly still, outstretched wing.

  “Oh no,” I cry, whipping the door back open. But with a little thwump, the bird drops to the floor.

  I pick him up and whimper, “Oh no! Oh no, no, no!” but it's plain to see—little Tango has danced his last dance. I hold him in the palm of my hand and stare. There isn't even any blood. He's just kind of…broken. And inside I feel broken, too. How can this be?

  And as I'm standing there, holding this poor broken bird in my hand, I glance up, and through the door's window I see someone coming up the walkway toward the classroom.

  My heart stops midbeat.

  It's not Mrs. Ambler.

  No, it's someone much, much worse.

  TWO

  There was only one thing I could think to do.

  Hide!

  I looked around frantically, then slid open Mrs. Ambler's closet and dove in, skateboard, backpack, dead bird and all. I found myself tramping lost sweatshirts, old backpacks, papers, and books. And it smelled like stinky feet, but I didn't care — I fit, and that's all that mattered. I slid the door almost all the way closed and held my breath.

  Then there she was, pushing through the door— Heather Acosta.

  I actually happen to be really good at hiding in closets because for almost two years now I've been living with my grandmother in a seniors-only building—something that may not seem like a big deal but is, seeing how me getting caught would mean her getting evicted.

  In other words, we'd both be living on the streets.

  So I've become real good at hiding in closets and peeking through cracks in doors because that's exactly what I do when someone unexpected comes to the apartment.

  But still, experience or not, I was shaking. I mean, eviction is one thing, but Heather catching me with terminated Tango in hand?

  That would be death by gossip squad.

  So it took me a minute to realize that Heather was acting strange. She was moving sort of twitchy, glancing over her shoulder, sort of tip toeing. And the look on her face was almost euphoric. Like she couldn't believe her good luck.

  No doubt about it—that girl was up to something.

  But what?

  I leaned a little closer to the opening in the closet door and watched as she hurried over to Mrs. Ambler's desk. She didn't seem to notice that the birdcage was open or that little Hula was inside it, all alone. She was focused on casing the desk.

  She checked over the top of it quickly, then leaned sideways so she had a better view of the walkway through the windows. Then she rolled open a drawer. “C'mon… c'mon, c'mon!” she muttered, pushing it closed and opening the next one. Then I heard her say, “Yes!” and suddenly she had a stack of blue papers in her hand. She checked the windows again, then slammed the drawer closed and stashed the papers in her backpack.

  What had she stolen?

  Tests?

  But what tests? Heather didn't have any classes with Mrs. Ambler, just homeroom. And why steal more than one test? She'd taken a whole pile of them.

  Then it hit me—ballots! She must be stealing seventh-grade Personality ballots!

  But…why steal them now? We hadn't even voted yet.

  With a sickening thunk, the reason clicked in my brain. And just as I'm having the frightening thought that Heather is way smarter than I am, the classroom door opens and Tawnee Francisco and Brandy Cavaletto walk in.

  “Hi, guys!” Heather says, cool as a breeze as she moves toward the door.

  “Hey, Heather,” they say back, and as they're heading for their desks to drop their backpacks, Heather sails out of the room, taking her backpack with her.

  So there I am, an eyewitness to one of Heather's sneaky crimes, unable to do anything about it. I mean, I couldn't just pop out and say, Stop, thief!

  I had a dead bird in my hand.

  And yeah, Heather's crime was premeditated while mine was accidental, but still, something about what I'd done felt much worse than what Heather was doing. So she was going to win Friendliest Seventh Grader by cheating.

  Me, I'd murdered a love bird.

  Then I hear Tawnee say, “Hey, Brandy, look. The bird-cage is open,” and right after, Mrs. Ambler walks in. “Mrs. Ambler?” Tawnee asks. “Did you leave the birdcage open on purpose?”

  There's a moment of hesitation, then Mrs. Ambler says, “No!” and hurries over to her desk. “Good girl, Hula,” she coos as she shuts the cage. Then she starts looking around. “Tango?” she sings out. “Here, pretty bird, come here, sweetheart!” She makes little ticking noises with her tongue as she moves around the room. “Tweet-tweettweet! Here, pretty bird! Tweet-tweet-tweet!”

  My heart's absolutely ka-blaming inside my chest because she's moving closer and closer to the closet. And part of me wants to jump out and cry, I'm so sorry! It was an accident! and beg for her forgiveness. But I'm hiding in her closet like a criminal.

  I looked guilty as sin!

  “Come on, buttercup!” Mrs. Ambler twitters, only two feet away from the closet door. But just as I'm about to collapse from the shakes, she turns to Tawnee and Brandy and says, “I don't understand—where could he be?”

  “I don't know, Mrs. Ambler,” Tawnee says. “The cage was wide open when we came in.”

  “But … who opened it?”

  Tawnee and Brandy both shrug.

  “Was anyone here when you got here?”

  Tawnee and Brandy look at each other. “Uh … Heather was.”

  “Acosta?” Mrs. Ambler asks, and there's a twinge of fear in her voice.

  The girls nod.

  The warning bell rings, so Mrs. Ambler move
s around the room faster, looking all over. “Tango…here, pretty bird… come on, fella …”

  Tawnee checks the bookcases and the floor beneath the windows. “He didn't crash into a window…I don't think he's here.”

  “Then where is he?” Mrs. Ambler's face is all pinched up like she's about to cry. “And who opened the cage?”

  Then Brandy says, “We used to have a lovebird, and he could unlatch the cage by himself.”

  “He could?”

  Brandy nods. “Once he figured it out, he did it all the time. We clipped his wings so he couldn't fly away, but we still kept the cage locked.”

  “But if Tango opened the cage, where is he now?”

  I should have just stepped out of the closet right then. And if Mrs. Ambler had been alone, I would have. But Tawnee and Brandy were there, and they weren't the kind of girls to keep something like me popping out of the closet with a fluffy little bird corpse to themselves. They'd spread the news like fertilizer, and in no time the story would grow and blossom. There'd be no way of trimming it back. I'd be the Lovebird Murderer until the day I died.

  So I just stood there, my knees wobbling like crazy, my hand all sweaty around the broken bird.

  Then Tawnee says, “Uh …maybe you should ask Heather?”

  Kids were already filing in. And pretty soon everyone was flapping their lips about Tango. Then right before the tardy bell rang, Heather slid in.

  “May I see you a moment?” Mrs. Ambler asks, pulling her aside and maneuvering her over to guess where?

  The closet.

  “Yes, Mrs. Ambler?” Heather asks like a total innocent. I can see the profile of both their faces. Can count Heather's earrings … one, two, three, four, five …

  What if they can hear me breathing?

  Mrs. Ambler keeps her voice low as she says, “You were in the classroom earlier this morning?”

  “This classroom?” Heather asks, and it's easy to see she's buying time.

  Mrs. Ambler snaps, “Yes, Heather. This classroom. What were you doing in here?”

  “What I was doing in here?” Heather asks.

  Now, this is typical Heather tactics. Act innocent and avoid the question. If anyone questions your innocence, act insulted. If that doesn't work, threaten to sue.

  So when Mrs. Ambler says, “Yes, Heather. What were you doing in this classroom this morning?” true to form, Heather gives an innocent shrug and says, “I was just dropping stuff off. Why else would I be in here?”

  But Mrs. Ambler's got her eyes locked on Heather.

  “Do you have something valuable in your backpack?”

  “Uh … valuable?”

  “Yes, Heather, valuable.”

  “Nooo …”

  “So why did you take your backpack with you?”

  Heather hesitates, then tries to recover by saying, “Look, I just swapped books, that's all. I always take my backpack with me!”

  But Heather's eyes are shifty, and Mrs. Ambler can tell she's guilty, only she doesn't know it has nothing to do with her bird!

  Mrs. Ambler crosses her arms and says, “A minute ago you said you came in here to drop stuff off. What is it? Swap books, or drop stuff off?”

  “Both! And why's it matter!”

  “Now would be a good time to tell me the truth,” Mrs. Ambler says. Her voice is hard, and it's making me shrink way back in the closet.

  “I am telling you the truth!” Heather whines.

  Mrs. Ambler shakes her head. “You never come to homeroom early, Heather. I may have been a fool to think you'd turned over a new leaf, but I'm not stupid.”

  “I…I don't know what you're talking about!”

  “I can see in your eyes that you do! Just tell me, okay? Where is he?”

  In a heartbeat, Heather's face smooths back. “Where is he? Where is who?”

  “Tango!” Mrs. Ambler cries. “Where'd you put my bird!”

  “How should I know where Tango is!” Heather puffs up and starts squawking like an angry jay. “I can't believe you're accusing me of this. I didn't touch Tango!”

  “You're lying, Heather. I saw it in your eyes.”

  Heather gasps. “You can't just call me a liar! It's against the law!”

  “So is stealing my bird.”

  “Why would I want to steal your stupid bird? And where is he, huh? Where is he if I stole him? Here — you want to check my backpack?” She swings it off and rips it open.

  But Mrs. Ambler doesn't even look. “Where did you go after you were in here, Heather? Where did you take my bird?”

  I'd never seen Mrs. Ambler like this before. And she sure wasn't following proper protocol or whatever teachers are supposed to do when they're mad at a student. She was just letting Heather have it.

  So Heather zips up her backpack, swings it on, and gives Mrs. Ambler a steely look as she says, “I've got a roomful of witnesses here. You've called me a liar, and you've called me a thief. Apologize, or I'll sue for slander!”

  Mrs. Ambler just stands there, looking her in the eye.

  “Fine!” Heather huffs, then spins around and storms out of the room.

  The class is dead quiet as Mrs. Ambler goes to her desk and plops down in her chair. And everyone seems to be holding their breath as she just sits there, staring at her birdcage.

  Time ticks by. Mrs. Ambler doesn't lead the Pledge. She doesn't read the announcements. She just sits there.

  Then finally, she stands and says, “A show of hands, please. How many of you come to homeroom early, rearrange your books, and leave again with your backpack?”

  Not one hand goes up.

  “Sometimes I drop something off,” Cassie Kuo offers. “Like my lunch? Or a project?”

  Mrs. Ambler heads for Heather's desk. “What does she have first period?”

  “Math,” Monique Halbig says.

  “Second?”

  “Social studies,” Derrick Stern says.

  Mrs. Ambler digs through Heather's desk, then announces, “Both books. No lunch. No project.” She shakes her head. “She's lying. I could see it in her eyes.”

  At this point I'd gone from facing the gossip squad to seventh-grade suicide. If I got caught now, kids would think I'd tried to frame Heather. I could just hear them: Sammy was in the closet the whole time, can you believe that? And we thought Heather was sneaky… man!

  And I know it would have looked that way, but I really wasn't trying to be sneaky. I was just scared. And if it had been Marissa out there getting blamed, I would have bit the bullet and stepped out. But this was Heather the Horrible—the person who'd terrified me into diving for the closet in the first place.

  Then a little voice started whispering in my ear. This is perfect! it told me. Heather's framed you for all sorts of things this year… so what if she gets blamed? It would serve her right!

  So I stayed hidden. And when the passing bell rang and kids filed out, I listened to the little voice some more. Put the bird down, it whispered. Put him under that old jacket. That way if you get caught leaving the closet, you may still be able to lie your way out of it.

  Now, I know from experience that the trouble with one lie is that it usually takes more lies to cover it up. And if you don't watch out, you wind up telling lies to cover up the lies that are covering up the original lie.

  But the fact is, I saw no way of telling the truth. So I ditched Tango under a jacket, wiped my hand on my jeans, and let my mind turn to the business of cover-up lies: I'd “missed” homeroom, so I needed a note from Grams excusing me for being late. But getting a note from Grams would mean having to explain things to her, and let's just say that it's been a long time since Grams attended junior high. There was no way she'd understand why confessing what I'd done would be seventh-grade suicide.

  Besides, just thinking about telling her I'd killed a bird and hid in the closet made me queasy. It sounded so… cowardly.

  So I decided to do what lots of kids do when they miss school—forge a note.


  But I couldn't exactly forge a note in the closet. And I couldn't exactly go to the media center to compose one, either.

  No, I had to get off campus, then come back with the note and act like I'd overslept or something.

  The trouble was Mrs. Ambler. How long would I be trapped in this closet, waiting for her to leave the classroom?

  Lucky for me, she must've been anxious to talk to Vice Principal Caan about Heather and the bird because she grabbed her birdcage and filed out with the rest of the kids when homeroom was over.

  I didn't waste a second. I slipped out of the closet, out of the classroom, and beelined over to the service alley that delivery trucks use to bring in cafeteria food. The coast was clear, so I ran down the alley, squeezed my backpack, my skateboard, and myself through the chain-link gate, then hit the sidewalk.

  My heart was like a jackhammer inside my chest as I escaped school, praying that no one had seen me. And when I reached the end of the block, I dared a look over my shoulder.

  Nobody was watching.

  Nobody was chasing.

  I took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. Just a few simple lies, I told myself. I could handle this. Just a few simple lies, and it'd be all over.

  No one would ever know.

  THREE

  It was weird being off campus during school. I felt like I was ditching, even though I was really trying to get in to school.

  The first chance I got, I pulled over and started writing the note.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  Please excuse Samantha for being late. She overslept.

  Thank you,

  Then I forged my mother's signature.

  Well, I forged the signature my grams uses when she forges my mother's signature. Goes with the territory when you live illegally with your grandmother because your mom's in Hollywood trying to make it as a movie star.

  Anyway, my version of my grandmother's forgery was awful. It looked like a little kid trying to forge their forged parent's signature.

  So I practiced the signature a bunch of times, then started over on a new piece of paper. But I got nervous when it came time to sign my mother's name, and once again it was awful.