Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

  It was a first date none of us will ever forget.

  Arg!

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mrs. Stone did wind up going to jail. Hudson, Grams, and I visited her there, which was really weird, let me tell you. For one thing, being at the jail is freaky. It's all steel doors and block walls and echoing halls.

  Mrs. Stone, though, didn't seem like a caged animal, sitting in her cell. She was acting like she had when she'd shown Squeaky and the Chick where her husband was buried—calm.

  “I'm glad it's over,” she told us, and that's when it really hit me that there is real freedom in the truth.

  Even if it puts you in jail.

  To a small degree I knew how she felt. I mean, getting my “little” secret out of the closet had been a huge relief. I guess there's something about not carrying the burden of the “sin,” as Mrs. Willawago would call it. Something about getting it out that lets you breathe again.

  And speaking of Mrs. Willawago, she was coming to visit Mrs. Stone just as we were leaving. No one had woken her up the night we'd discovered the truth—I'd just put Captain Patch in her backyard while Mrs. Stone confessed her crime.

  So bumping into Mrs. Willawago was pretty uncomfortable after the way she'd thrown me out of her house. But she just ignored me as she spoke to Grams and Hudson. “Poor lost lamb,” she said about Mrs. Stone. “But the Lord is watching over her. He will help her through this time.” Then she told them how she'd offered to post Mrs. Stone's bail, but Mrs. Stone had refused. “She's repentant, I know, because she told me jail was a fine place for her to stay.” She pulled some brochures out of her purse. “I've been to the battered women's shelter for ideas on educational opportunities and work-training programs. I'm hoping this will help her prepare for a decent life after her sins have been accounted for.”

  So it's nice that she's trying to help Mrs. Stone and all that, and if Willy-wag-a-Bible wants to stay mad at me, well, let her. If she can't balance the nice things I did against one understandable accusation, well, amen. I'm not gonna lose any sleep over it.

  Anyway, enough about them— on to my pirate pals! This last week of school has been amazingly fun. No weirdness at all. Well, except for the number of people who have asked me where I get my high-tops—that's been really weird. But where the pirates are concerned, it's been cool. Danny and Casey and Billy chum around with us at lunch. Nick and Olivia don't, but that's just fine by me. We've started calling them Nickolivia and liplubbers because they're way too into each other.

  The first couple of days we just talked about our night out as pirates—after all, we had lots to catch Holly and Dot up on. But after a couple of days we started talking about other stuff, too. Like sports and summer plans and Heather.

  Actually, I was the one who finally asked, “Where is your sister? She's been absent all week.”

  Casey scowled. “In London.”

  “London!” we all cried.

  “With my mother,” he grumbled. “She thought Heather needed a positive experience after what she'd been through.”

  “Oh, please,” I said.

  “Exactly.” He shook his head. “I get to go camping, she visits London.”

  I grinned. “Any chance she'll stay there?”

  He grinned back. “One can always hope …”

  Then on Thursday I dropped by Hudson's after school. I had myself some cookies and iced tea and some more cookies and iced tea, and what I found out was that Coralee Lyon refused to step down from her position as city council chair, so talk of a recall had turned into action toward a recall.

  “I gathered eighty-two petition signatures this morning alone,” Hudson told me.

  “You did?”

  “Why, sure. It doesn't happen on its own, you know.”

  “But … you mean you were like one of those guys out in front of the supermarket with a clipboard, asking, ‘Are you a registered voter’?”

  “I wasn't like one of those guys, I was one of those guys. I'm part of a whole committee of ‘those guys.’ We're called the Recall Coralee Lyon Committee, and we still have a lot of signatures to gather.” He grinned at me. “Want to join?”

  “Me?” I said, pointing to myself like a dodo. “I'm not even old enough to vote!”

  He shrugged. “That doesn't mean you're not old enough to help. If you really want things to change, you have to get involved.” He smiled at me. “Little strokes fell big oaks, you know.”

  When I left Hudson's, my head was swimming with that idea. I always figured I was too young to be heard. I mean, considering my experience with adults? Please. They listen about as good as wood.

  But then it hit me that things had changed this past year. Maybe not radically, but they had changed. I mean, my first day of seventh grade I got suspended for punching Heather's lights out. After that all the teachers and Mr. Caan thought I was trouble. And since Heather was so clever and I was so hotheaded, it had taken nearly the entire year for them to start seeing that I was more than a quick-fisted delinquent.

  I was a kid fighting to be heard.

  And in the beginning of the year Heather had convinced everyone that I was weird. Some kind of thrift-store-scroungin' loser. But now I have in my possession a green-sashed brassy bullfrog that says I've got unique style.

  Talk about miracles!

  But that miracle only happened because my friends decided to try a new way to make a change. And the amazing thing is, people listened.

  So last night I started thinking about different ways of making the rec center happen. I mean, now that Teri Stone no longer has her terrible secret to hide, the only property owner on Hopper Street that doesn't want to sell their land is Mrs. Willawago. And even though she isn't my best friend or anything, I still don't think it's right to force her out. So why not just build around her?

  They could start by moving the old railroad office next to the historical society—there's room for it there, and it sure would be historical.

  But then it would probably turn into one of those boring field-trip places where you went only once in your life and forgot.

  So, what if they kept the railroad office where it is and turned it into the Railroad Café—you know, part of the rec center, where kids could go have refreshments and soak up some Santa Martina history. Maybe Mrs. Willawago could even work there and tell stories about the old days—like a barkeep for teens, pulling sodas or sports drinks or holy water or whatever.

  I was so excited, I spent the whole night thinking about it. And the more I thought about the café and the rec center, the more ideas I got. They could figure out a way to do it—it could be really, really great!

  So you know what? Today may be the last day of seventh grade, but inside it feels like it's the first day of something bigger. Something broader than myself or my friends or my problems at school. And I've decided—I am going to help Hudson collect signatures.

  Coralee Lyon needs to go.

  And I am going to take my ideas about the rec center and work them into a real plan. There's got to be a way to build the rec center without bulldozing history or seizing property that isn't for sale. Why wait around and hope that things will change on their own or that someone else will figure it out?

  Because you know what? I've decided Hudson's right.

  Little strokes can fell big oaks.

  It may take time, but I'm willing to give it a try.

  PROLOGUE

  Summer's supposed to be a time of freedom. Freedom from school, from homework, from junior high head games … freedom to hang out with your friends without adults constantly hovering around, telling you what to do.

  But it seemed like school had barely let out when all my friends suddenly flew the coop. Marissa's family went to Las Vegas. Again. Holly took off on some road trip in a motor home, and Dot went to Holland to visit her grandparents. Holland.

  Me, I was left trapped in this freak-fest of a town, in an old-folks' apartment where I live with my grandmother, next door to a whale
of a woman who has supersonic hearing and the charming habit of falling off her toilet.

  I was desperate to get away.

  The trouble is, when you're desperate, you do dumb things.

  When you're desperate, you might as well face it— you're doomed.

  ONE

  If Marissa or Holly or Dot had been around, I wouldn't have been thinking about Casey Acosta at all. But since they weren't around, and since Casey does qualify as a friend (even though he's my archenemy Heather's brother) okay, I admit it—he had crossed my mind.

  More than once.

  Partly that was because I'd seen him at the mall a couple of times during the first few days of summer break. Marissa was with me the first time, and she practically choked my arm off with her grip when she spotted him coming out of Sports Central. “Sammy, look! It's Casey.”

  I wanted to say, So? but it just didn't come out.

  Then he spotted us, and the three of us wound up cruising through the mall, laughing the whole afternoon away.

  It was fun.

  Like being with friends should be.

  The second time I was by myself. I'd escaped the Senior Highrise, cruised the whole town on my skateboard looking for something, anything to do, and finally I'd wound up at the mall.

  Did I go to the arcade?

  No.

  Did I go to the music store?

  No.

  To any of the clothing stores?

  No.

  Like a moronic moth to the flame, I fluttered over to the only place I'd ever bumped into Casey at the mall— Sports Central.

  Now, I've got every right to go into a sporting goods store. I like sports. But I didn't go inside. I stood outside, pretending to window-shop, with my heart racing and my hands sweating, a shouting match going on inside my head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don't know!”

  “Why don't you just go inside!”

  “Because I don't need anything!”

  “So what! Just go inside!”

  “Why?”

  “Because standing out here is the lamest thing you've ever done in your whole entire life!”

  It was, too. I felt like one of those dingbat girls who walks back and forth past some guy's house, hoping he'll notice her. How stupid did I want to be? And what were the chances of Casey being here again? Why didn't I just call him up if I wanted to hang out with him?

  So there I was, in the middle of a total mental spaz-out, when all of a sudden someone sneaks up behind me and pokes me in the ribs.

  Before I can even think about what I'm doing, my elbow jabs back, punching deep into someone's stomach, and then wham, my fist flies up and back, smacking them in the face. And when I spin around, who do I see doubled up on the floor with blood coming out of his nose?

  Nope, not Casey.

  It's his goofball friend, Billy Pratt.

  Casey is there, though. And even though his eyes are popped wide open, his words are really calm. “Dude, I told you not to startle her.”

  I drop to my knees and say to Billy, “Oh, man! I'm so sorry!”

  He chokes out, “I'm good,” but he's still totally winded, and blood's getting everywhere.

  So I run to the pretzel stand, snag a bunch of napkins, and run back. “Here. Put some pressure on your nose. It'll stop the bleeding.” Then I add, “I'm really sorry! It was … you know … a reflex.”

  He pinches the napkin against his nose and sits up, moaning, “No problem.” He gives me a goofy grin. “I've had a stomach massage and a realignment….” He shoves a corner of the napkin up his nose, and with the rest of the napkin dangling, he staggers to his feet and says, “I am totally ready to rock.”

  The thing about Billy Pratt is, you can't not laugh when you're with him. He is always, always “on,” even when he's just been smacked to the floor by a girl. So being around him made the spastic thoughts I'd been having magically disappear. I followed him and Casey into the sporting goods store, where Casey picked out camping supplies while Billy harassed a clerk, acting like he was some hoity-toity British polo player instead of a kid with a bloody napkin dangling from his nose. “I say there, chap! These shorts say ‘one hundred percent cotton,’ but I must have combed Egyptian cotton or I break out in rashes. Absolutely wretched rashes! You wouldn't want to see, not at all! So I must know. I absolutely must know … are these combed Egyptian cotton?”

  I whispered to Casey, “Do they even grow cotton in Egypt?”

  “You got me,” Casey whispered back. “Probably just Billy being Billy.”

  He'd turned and looked me in the eyes when he'd said that, only he didn't look away when he was done talking. He just kept right on looking me in the eyes.

  Which of course made my heart skip around funny while glands everywhere burst forth with sweat. “Uh … so you're … uh … going camping, huh?” I said, showing off my brilliant intuitive talents.

  He laughed, “Yup,” and went back to picking out freeze-dried food. “Backpacking, remember?”

  He had mentioned it at the end of the school year. Like twenty times.

  “You've really never been?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He shrugged. “My dad and I got into it a few years ago. It's like camping, only cooler.”

  I hesitated, then said, “I've never been camping, either.”

  He stopped flipping through foil packages. “You? Never been camping?”

  I shook my head again.

  He stared.

  I shrugged.

  He went back to his freeze-dried selections. “Sorry. You just seem like …” His voice trailed off, and then he chuckled and said, “Now, Marissa. That I would believe. But you? You'd love camping.”

  “I don't know.” I picked out a foil pouch of vegetable lasagna. It weighed hardly anything. “You actually eat this stuff?”

  “That right there's pretty vile. But some of these are almost good.” He grinned. “And after about day four, even the vile ones start tasting all right.”

  “You going with your dad?”

  “Nah. He was planning to come, but then he got some big audition in L.A.” He hitched a thumb in Billy's direction. “So now it's just me and Mr. Entertainment.”

  “You and Billy? And you expect to survive?”

  He laughed out loud. “Yeah, my dad wasn't too hot on the idea, either. But I know what I'm doing, and he trusts me. And Billy's a good camper, believe it or not.” He hesitated, then eyed me and said, “I don't suppose your mom would let you come along?”

  It was my turn to laugh out loud. “I don't suppose … !”

  And see? That's the stupid thing about trying to be friends with the opposite sex. How can you be friends when you can't do anything together? Even going to the movies becomes a big deal. Voices drop. Eyes bug. Gossip flies. “She went to the movies with him? Alone?” All that gasping and gossiping over what? A movie? Sharing some popcorn? Sitting next to each other and laughing? Maybe accidentally touching elbows?

  Hmm.

  Anyway, it made me mad that I couldn't go camping. Not because I wanted to go and couldn't, but because I couldn't go even if I wanted to. I was a girl and he was a boy and the idea of going camping together was just insane. No, it'd have to be just him and Napkin Nose in the woods eating from shriveled foil pouches, warding off bears with nothing but sticks and their wits.

  Okay, so it was probably a good thing that I couldn't go, but still, it didn't stop me from being royally ticked off about it.

  So a couple of days later I went back to the mall because I was bored to death, and I went back to Sports Central. It was on beyond insane, because yes, I was hoping to run into Casey again, and no, I had no idea when he was actually leaving on his backpacking trip or how long he'd be gone.

  Little details I'd neglected to gather.

  I can be so bright.

  Anyway, this time I didn't stare at the lime green biker shorts display and have an argument with myself. This tim
e I just moseyed inside. And who did I find over in the camping department holding on to an empty shopping basket?

  Not Casey.

  It was a girl from school named Cassie Kuo. Or Cricket, as she likes to be called.

  And maybe she wasn't Casey, but at least she was someone I knew.

  Sort of.

  I mean, I'd had her in homeroom all year, and she had been my Secret Santa at Christmastime. She'd made me a little macaroni angel to hang on my tree, so I probably should have known her better than I did, but she's quiet and shy and I never saw her at the lunch tables or after school; she didn't hang out around town or at the ballpark….

  Not that this was anything I'd ever given any thought to, but now all of a sudden there she was, sifting through the same foil pouches that Casey had gone through, and it hit me that it was truly weird to see her anywhere outside of homeroom, especially here.

  “Cricket?” I asked, because I still couldn't quite believe it was her.

  She jumped a little, then her head snapped to face me. “Sammy?” she gasped, like I was a long-lost friend. “It's so great to see you! What are you doing here?”

  I shrugged. “Trying to get over perpetual boredom.”

  “You're bored? How can you be bored? It's summer!” Then her eyes got really big and she said, “Oh! It's because Heather's in England, isn't it? She's gone and you just don't know what to do with the peace and quiet, is that it? But where are Marissa and Dot and Holly and … all your friends?” She looked around, like, where was I hiding my posse of friends.

  I couldn't help laughing, because (a) she was being really hyper and (b) the stuff she'd said about Heather was so … bizarre. Like I would be bored because the world's most evil, conniving, mentally deranged teenager was half a world away?

  I don't think so!

  Cricket leaned in and said, “I bet Heather comes back with a phony English accent! I bet she tells everyone that she had breakfast with the queen and a private tour of Buckingham Palace. I bet she starts complaining that there's no high tea offered in the school cafeteria! I bet she starts using words like brilliant and loo! I bet—”