Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

by Wendelin Van Draanen

“Believe what?”

  Mr. Tiller turns around and taps on the podium for us to settle down. And looking at him, everything seems pretty normal to me. He’s got on a polo shirt, some random slacks with a little chalk dust on them here and there, and … and … green high-tops!

  He gives me a quick grin and a wink and calls, “Hey, you clowns, settle down! We’ve got a lot to cover today. Pass your homework left. Let’s go!”

  For the rest of class it was quiet in there. Nobody asked about the shoes, nobody giggled, nobody passed notes or whispered. And while Mr. Tiller’s up there moving X around, I start to get the feeling that people are looking at me. When I look to my left, all of a sudden Mary Mertins and Rochelle Quin go back to looking at the board. When I glance to the right, there’s Isa Jung and Sommer Hernandez staring at me. They give me nervous little smiles and go back to watching Mr. Tiller.

  When the passing bell rings, people walk clear around me and act like they’re afraid to look at me or something. And when everyone but Marissa’s gone, I say to Mr. Tiller, “Thanks.”

  He grins. “It’s already been a most interesting day—and it’s been my pleasure.” He waves an eraser at us. “Go on. Get to class.”

  So off we run, and the whole way to history Marissa’s saying, “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”

  At lunchtime, I give the blow-by-blow about Heather’s little meltdown twice before I remember to tell about finding Chauncy’s books and toasting Mr. Bell. Marissa says, “This is unbelievable! The Skeleton Man’s behind bars and Heather’s safely under sedation somewhere—we should celebrate. What do you think, Sammy? What do you want to do?”

  I laugh. “I want to go buy a new pair of shoes!”

  She says, “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. I was thinking maybe I’d go down to the Thrift Store—see if anything’s come in. Anyone want to come?”

  Dot asks, “Is that the place you were telling me about with that crazy bag lady?”

  I laugh. “That would be the one.”

  Dot says, “You bet! Let me call my mom!”

  So she calls her mom, I call Grams, and Marissa leaves a message at her house. And before you know it, school’s out and we’re catching the downtown SMAT bus to the Thrift Store.

  The first thing we see is CeCe, all wrapped up in orange and pink scarves, dangling jewelry, digging through a box of stuff this man’s brought in.

  Dot whispers, “Is that her?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow—she’s something.”

  We go over to a table and pretend to check out cracked dinner plates so Dot can check out CeCe a little better. CeCe says to the man, “Look, I’m not in the business of paying money for garbage. Most of the stuff you’ve got here couldn’t line a dodo’s nest.” She pulls something out of the box. “Look at this—what the devil would you do with this? Wear it?”

  All of a sudden my heart’s bumping like a basketball going downcourt. I grab Marissa’s arm and say, “Holy smokes! Look!” because I know darn well what you can do with what CeCe’s holding. Put out a fire, for one thing. Wear it on Halloween if you’re a Marsh Monster, for another.

  Marissa starts doing the McKenze dance. “We gotta get it! We gotta get it!”

  Dot and I block her from view and say “Shh!” because the last thing you should let Tycoon CeCe know is that you want something.

  When we get her to settle down, we go back to checking out cracked plates. CeCe tells the man, “I couldn’t give you ten bucks for the whole box. This stuff just won’t move.”

  He stands there a minute, thinking, so I step up to him and say, “I’ll give you ten bucks—for just that sweater.”

  He holds it up. “For this?”

  Very gently I take it from him and check the label. Sure enough, it’s a Louis d’Trent. I dig a ten-dollar bill from my pocket. “Yeah. Here you go.”

  He laughs. “Done!”

  Well, CeCe’s looking like a bee in a pickle jar. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The man shrugs. “These ladies just paid me ten dollars for the sweater. You wouldn’t give me ten for the whole box!” He picks up his stuff and says, “I think maybe I’ll have a garage sale after all,” and walks out the door.

  CeCe stands there blinking over the top of her glasses at him. Then she turns to me and says, “What’s the big idea?”

  Now I just want to get out of there. Trouble is, Marissa’s so excited about finding the sweater that she says, “I don’t believe it! This is so cool! That just saved us four hundred and ninety bucks!”

  CeCe’s ears perk up like a coyote at a gopher hole. “I don’t get it. How’s this save you four ninety?”

  I tug on Marissa. “Come on. We’re gonna miss our bus!”

  But she’s so excited she keeps right on talking, “That sweater’s a Louis d’Trent! My mom had one just like it, and Sammy used it to put out a fire. You don’t understand—this is going to keep me from being grounded for a year!”

  I yank on her and say through my teeth, “Let’s get out of here!”

  CeCe comes swooping down on us from behind her cash register. “Don’t you walk out of here with that! Don’t think for a minute you can come into my establishment, put a monkey wrench in a deal I’m making, and then walk off with a five-hundred-dollar sweater! I was going to buy that box from him—I was just making the deal!” She reaches over, pulls ten dollars out of her cash register, and says, “Here! Take this. That sweater is mine. Come on now, take it!”

  By now Marissa’s got the picture, and let me tell you, we’re backing away as fast as we can. And when CeCe says, “Stop right there or I’ll call the police!” we turn around and run.

  And we keep on running until we’re safe and sound on the SMAT bus. After we catch our breath, Dot laughs and says, “You don’t think she’s really going to call the police, do you?”

  “CeCe? Nah.” Then I laugh and say, “If you really want someone to call the police on us, we could go to Heather’s house and ask for the monitor back.”

  We all bust up, and finally Dot squeaks out, “No, that’s okay! She can have it!”

  We get off the bus at the mall, and we’re all going off in our own directions when Dot hollers from the newspaper stand, “Hey! Sammy, come here. Look! You’re all over the front page!”

  EIGHTEEN

  Dot was right. There I was, on the front page of the Santa Martina Times. And somehow I wound up there two nights in a row. The first time I was standing between Officer Borsch and Muscles, looking like I was trying to keep them from killing each other. The headline read COPS CLASH AT COURTHOUSE and gave what Hudson called a “speculative overview” of what Muscles and Officer Borsch were fighting about. The article wasn’t too far off, so I guess they were shouting even louder than I thought.

  The second picture showed me shaking hands with Muscles in front of Bargain Books, and under the picture was the whole story about Mr. Bell and the way he’d robbed Chauncy. That headline read HALLOWEEN HEIST! KID CATCHES COSTUMED CROOK. The article mentioned that Muscles was getting a promotion—to what I don’t know. I don’t think they’ll make him chief of police or anything, but if they give him a new partner he’ll definitely be celebrating.

  A few days after I was on the front page I decided to go over to Hudson’s. I found him up on a ladder scraping leaves out of his gutter. He sees me and comes down a few rungs. “Say, young lady, I’m glad you stopped by. Chauncy wants you to pay him a visit.” He comes down the rest of the way. “Why don’t you go over there now?”

  Well, it’s not like Hudson to try to get rid of me, so I say, “Why?” Then I remember that the last time Chauncy talked to Hudson was years ago. “You talked to him! When did you talk to him?”

  Hudson grins and says, “The most recent visit was less than an hour ago.”

  “The most recent visit?” I put my hands on my hips. “All right, tell me everything. How is he?”

  He gives me a buttoned li
ttle smile and says, “Why don’t you go over and ask him yourself?”

  I roll my eyes and say, “Hudson!” but I know it’s hopeless.

  So I head over to Chauncy’s, and I’m about to pound on the door when I realize that something’s different. The door still looks like a medieval instrument of torture, but through it I can hear music. The kind Grams listens to late at night when she thinks I’m asleep. The kind where violins answer cellos, where horns shout and oboes whisper. The kind where if you close your eyes and wait, you can feel clouds and rain and sunshine.

  Chauncy’s got electricity! And when I realize that, well, my eyes start watering and my nose starts sniffing, and pretty soon I’m standing there in the middle of a bunch of twigs, crying.

  And when I finally quit watering twigs, I take a deep breath, reach up, and ring the doorbell. And who answers? Mrs. D.W. LeBard.

  She says, “Samantha! Oh, Chauncy will be so happy to see you!”

  I mumble a hello and she lets me in, saying, “Follow me.”

  The Bush House might have looked the same on the outside, but inside it was really different. And it’s not that there was new furniture or anything; it’s just that the curtains were open, and with all that light you could see that there were definitely no vampires in Vampire Heaven.

  Anyhow, I followed Chauncy’s sister-in-law to the back window and we watched Chauncy and Douglas pointing and passing the binoculars back and forth. After a minute Mrs. LeBard says, “It almost destroyed all three of them.”

  “What did?”

  “The smoking. And the blame. But look at them now. They’re talking again.” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  I’m about to tell her that all I did was stick my nose where it wasn’t supposed to go, when Chauncy notices me and waves me outside.

  As I’m walking out there, I see something I never really thought I’d see—Chauncy LeBard smiling. Really smiling. From ear to ear, from head to toe, he’s smiling. And his eyes are twinkling as he buzzes, “Miss Sammy, I am forever in your debt.” He motions to his brother, “I know you’ve met Douglas …”

  I grin and say, “You bet.”

  D.W. grins back. “Please forgive my previous lack of manners. I’m afraid I was being a stubborn old goat.”

  We all laugh a little, and then Chauncy says, “Good news! Princess’s eggs hatched.”

  “Baby Fuzzballs? Can I see?”

  He smiles and hands me the binoculars. Sure enough, there’s Fuzzball, busy as a bee, hopping around her nest, pushing who-knows-what down the throats of her chicks. When I get all done looking, I hand the binoculars back to Chauncy and say, “Congratulations!”

  Just then Douglas comes back from inside the house and says, “My brother and I have discussed what we could give you as a way of saying thank you for all you’ve done, and we’ve decided we’d like you to have this.”

  He holds out a book. A plum-colored book with a little frog in the corner. I blink at it a minute and then hand it back. “I can’t take this.”

  Chauncy buzzes, “Please. We want you to have it.”

  I take a deep breath, and for some reason my hands are shaking and I’m feeling kind of weak. I look back and forth between them, and finally I nod and say, “Thank you.”

  I hang around a little while longer, but when it’s time for me to leave I decide to go around the house. I zigzag my way through branches and thorns, and when I get to the sidewalk I turn around and look back for a minute. Then I see the FOR SALE sign next door and it hits me that I’m holding a book that could practically buy Grams and me a house. I turn the book over, and over again, and I realize that there’s no way in the world I’m going to sell this book. No way.

  I decide that maybe I’ll head back to Hudson’s. Hudson’ll understand. He’ll bring out some tea, and we’ll sit there on the porch and talk about Chauncy and Douglas and books and life.

  And when we’re done talking, I’ll walk home and tell everything to Grams. And when she gets done deciding that the first thing we should do in the morning is put the book in a safe-deposit box, well, I’m going to do something I don’t think you’re supposed to do with a rare and valuable book—I’m going to read it.

  Not to pray my way out, like most people. No, to work my way out. It’s a long story, but I was doing time at St. Mary’s because Vice Principal Caan thought twenty hours of community service was a good way to make up for the way I’d used and abused the school’s PA system.

  And really, I didn’t mind. Helping Father Mayhew in the church after school was a whole lot better than detention. Trouble is, while I’m in the middle of scrubbing dirt off Baby Jesus’ stained-glass face, Father Mayhew discovers that something’s just been stolen.

  And the only people in the church are him—and me.

  ONE

  Father Mayhew isn’t the kind of man you’d ever steal from. And it’s not because he’s big and blustery or mean, because he’s not. It’s because he’s priestly. Now, lots of priests walk around during the day acting holy, but when they’re all alone, there’s no doubt about it—they pick their noses and burp and pass gas just like you and me.

  Not Father Mayhew. Well, okay, maybe he burps now and then, but you can bet he says, “Excuse me!” to God when he does it. The point is, Father Mayhew is holy. Very holy. He walks with a glow, if that makes any sense, and he never raises his voice. Ever.

  I think part of the reason he never raises his voice is because of his accent. He’s Irish and his A’s and R’s kind of roll around in his mouth a bit before they come out. That, and he says lad and lass a lot, so he always sounds friendly, even when he’s talking about burning in Hell.

  Father Mayhew has medium brown-gray hair that kind of waves back over the top of his head, and his nose and teeth are just your ordinary sniffer and chompers. It’s his eyes that are unusual. They’re speckled. I think they’re brown to begin with, but they’ve got so many green and blue and yellow spots in them that it’s hard to tell. And when you look at them, you realize that everything else about Father Mayhew may seem ordinary, but his eyes are definitely complicated.

  I first met him about two weeks after my mother dumped me at Grams’ so she could run off to Hollywood and become a movie star. Grams figured that she finally had her chance and decided to have me baptized, so she hauled me to St. Mary’s, and after a long meeting with Father Mayhew, well, there I was at the altar, getting doused with holy water while Grams sprinkled the ground with tears.

  It didn’t mean a whole lot to me, but I knew it was important to Grams. Funny thing is, after I got splashed with holy water, St. Mary’s felt kind of like home. Father Mayhew started saying, “Good afternoon, Samantha,” when he’d see me walking by, and when he’d ask me, “How are you, lass?” his complicated eyes would twinkle a bit, like he really wanted to know.

  So when Grams talked to Father Mayhew about having me serve my twenty hours of detention at St. Mary’s, he was very sympathetic and seemed glad to have an extra hand helping out.

  When I reported to Father Mayhew’s office for my first day, I saw a bucket of white paint, a roller, and a stack of rags on the floor, and Father Mayhew, removing pictures from the wall behind his desk. “Good afternoon, Samantha,” he says, “I thought painting might be good penance.” He leans an oil painting of the pope in front of one of Jesus on the cross. “Sort of a cleansing process, eh, lass?”

  Then he removes a painting of cows grazing near missionaries hoeing a field. I jump back a little, because behind it is a wall safe. He laughs at my expression. “We have to have some place to keep our collections, don’t we?”

  I nod, but it still seems kind of strange, having that safe appear from behind cows grazing and missionaries hoeing.

  “Now, take your time, lass. I only get ’round to this every ten years or so, so she’ll need at least two coats.” He whistles through his teeth and says, “Here, Gregory … Come on out, lad. She’s all right.”

 
Out from under his desk comes a dog. And he’s not the kind of dog you’d ordinarily do a double take for. He’s just a Welsh terrier—fairly small with wiry brown and black fur, and ears that kind of flip forward at the tips. But I do look at him twice because he’s got a carrot in his mouth. A nice slobbery, droopy old carrot.

  I look up at Father Mayhew to see if he knows his dog’s hauling around vegetables, but he knows, all right. He laughs. “He’s a taste for carotene, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to break him of it.” Then he ruffles Gregory’s ears and says, “There are worse habits, I suppose.”

  Father Mayhew goes over to open up a window, and I kneel down and say, “Hi, boy!” to his dog.

  Gregory wags his way over to me, panting and smiling right through his carrot. I laugh and scratch his chest, and then Father Mayhew turns from the window. For a moment he just stares, and then he says, “Well, I’ll be.”

  I say, “What?” and stand up, because his eyes are looking extra complicated.

  He shakes his head. “Gregory is not what you’d call a social animal. The nuns are scared to death of him. Not that he’s given them any real reason, mind you, but he does tend to growl at strangers.”

  He whistles for Gregory to follow him and says over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. If you need anything, I’ll be next door at the parish hall. Just come down.”

  I get busy rolling paint, and pretty soon I’m humming to myself because sprucing up Father Mayhew’s office doesn’t feel like detention at all. It’s almost fun. And I’m getting the knack of rolling way up the wall without splattering myself in the face or bumping into the ceiling, and I’m stretching out with a really loaded roller when I hear, “Glory be! What a fine job you’re doing!”

  Well, there goes the roller, hump, right into the ceiling, and while I’m thinking Rats! because now there’s a big white blotch on the ceiling, splat! I catch a drop of paint, right on my forehead.

  So while I’m wiping paint off my face and out of my hair, I look over my shoulder and what I see taking up the whole doorway is a nun. A big, loud nun. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and between her front teeth is a gap the size of a Popsicle stick. She says, “Child, you are dripping,” and then rushes in to save me from raining paint all over the office.