Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “What do you think?” I eyed her and grinned. “The Farewell Dance!”

  It was going to be a blast.

  THIRTEEN

  Marissa was right—I did feel like a whole new person. Everything seemed to make me laugh or smile or just, you know, skippity-do-dah inside. And maybe it was foolish or went against some verbal contract I had with Mrs. Ambler, but at lunch I caught Dot up on everything. Holly, Dot, Marissa, and I eat lunch together nearly every day, so trying to discuss it around her would be like saying, Sorry, Dot, but you're not really our friend. Besides, Dot's one of the nicest people I've ever met, and she's real good at keeping quiet about things.

  Way better than Marissa.

  So after telling her about Tango and Heather and Mrs. Ambler's reaction, I made Marissa, Holly, and Dot pile hands on top of mine and make a solemn vow that they wouldn't tell another soul how I'd tomahawked Tango with the door.

  Now, it's happened before that I've told my friends secrets at lunch, only to discover that Heather—or, more likely, one of her witless spies—is eavesdropping. But this was such top-secret stuff that I'd made real sure that we were at a table safely away from where anybody could hear what we were saying.

  But I guess that, in and of itself, was like waving a red cape at ol' Bull Brain Acosta 'cause right after we get done swearing to secrecy, Holly whispers, “Time to change topics,” and nods a nose over my shoulder.

  Sure enough, Heather's working her way through the benches. But instead of glowering like she normally does when it's killing her to know what we're up to, she's saying gushy hellos to everyone as she squeezes through, being really obvious about the fact that she's coming our way.

  When she reaches us, she scoots onto the bench right next to Dot and says, “Hey, Dotty. Hi, Missy. Holly…” Then she looks at me and says, “Saw you skipping today.”

  “And your point is?”

  She looks at her fingernails. “Looking forward to the dance?”

  I hesitate a second, then instead of telling her to go eat bees or something, I grin a little and say, “Actually, I am.”

  “Do you even know how to dance?”

  I grin a little broader. “Can't say that I do.”

  Now, I knew there was a reason she'd come to harass me. There's always a reason. And I guess the way I was answering her questions was irritating her, because she finally cut to the chase. “I hope you aren't deluding yourself into thinking you were Casey's first choice. He's only doing Danny a favor 'cause Missy can't go if you don't.”

  “Stop calling me Missy,” Marissa said.

  “Stop hanging around this loser,” Heather replied with a shrug.

  Marissa started to defend me, “Don't you call her a—”

  But I cut her off. “Forget it. She's just jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Heather snorted. “Like I need to be jealous of a twerp in high-tops?” She shook her head and said, “You're gonna wear them to the dance, aren't you? I can just picture you stepping into a limo in worn-out holey shoes with knotted laces—”

  “Hey, you should try some,” I said. “You'd probably find it a lot easier to kick-start your broom.”

  One thing about Heather—she can dish it, but man, she can't take it. Her face bloomed like a red geranium, her lips twitched for something, anything to come back with, only before she could, Vice Principal Caan was towering over us. “Heather!” he barked. “What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be within twenty-five feet of Sammy.”

  Heather rolled her eyes, scowled, sighed, and finally got off the bench.

  “Heather, where are you going?” Mr. Caan commanded. “I asked you a question!”

  She threw her hands in the air. “I'm just getting twenty-five feet away,” she said, trying to sound like the new “reformed” Heather, but sarcasm oozed through anyway.

  “You wait right there!” Mr. Caan told her, then turned to me. “Are you really going out with Casey Acosta?”

  “Going out? No!”

  But Marissa sort of elbows forward, giving him a knowing look as she says, “They're get-togethering.”

  “What?” He squints. “Are you going to the Farewell Dance with him or not?”

  I shrug and try not to blush. “A group of us are going, yeah.”

  Mr. Caan's a big guy. A strong guy. But at that moment his whole body seemed to sag. He shook his head. He closed his eyes. He took a big breath. Then he looked at us and said, “Why do you kids make life so hard on yourselves? Why does there have to be all this drama?”

  I hitched a thumb Heather's way. “She's the one you want to talk to about drama. We're just trying to eat lunch.”

  He sighed again and took off. And after he'd escorted Heather a safe distance from us, Holly snickered and said, “Kick-start your broom …”

  Dot giggled. “That was pretty funny.”

  But Marissa was not looking too happy.

  “What?” I asked her.

  Her forehead wrinkled as she said, “I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that now you have to wear your high-tops. As a matter of principle or whatever.”

  “Marissa, it's the Farewell Dance, not the prom!”

  “But we're going in a limo!”

  I shrugged. “Casey said it was casual. High-tops are part of the deal I made with him.”

  “But, Sammy …!”

  “That doesn't mean you can't wear what you want to wear.”

  “But we'll look stupid together!”

  “So? Maybe you'll look good with the other girls and I'll be the awkward one. I don't care. I can't both go to a dance and dress up.”

  “So you can dress up and stay home? Or go dancing and not dress up? But you can't do both at the same time?”

  “Hmmm. I could also stay home and not dress up. Actually, that sounds like the best choice yet.”

  “But you already said you'd go!”

  I sighed. “I know. Foolish, huh?”

  “Sammy!”

  Dot looked at Marissa and said, “If I was going to the dance, I sure wouldn't wear a dress, Marissa.”

  “But—”

  “Me either,” Holly added. “Besides, it'd be pretty uncomfortable sitting on the gym floor signing yearbooks in a dress and heels.”

  “But we're going in a limo …”

  I shrugged. “So do whatever you want. Get an updo! Wear ribbons! Rub glitter everywhere! I'll still talk to you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Marissa grumbled.

  So Marissa was not too happy, and then when the warning bell rang and we were dumping our trash, Casey caught up to us and caused some more rain to fall on her parade. “Have you heard?” he asked.

  “Heard what?” I asked back.

  He broke into a wicked grin. “The limo has morphed into a stretch Humvee.”

  “A what?” Marissa asked.

  But I said, “One of those jeep-meets-tank jobbies?”

  “Exactly!” Casey said.

  “You can rent those around here?”

  He grinned. “There's exactly one in the whole Tri-Counties, and Danny got his mom to snag it. You should see the picture! It's all stretched like a limo, sleek black with chrome detail… it's smokin'!” He turned to Marissa. “Danny hasn't shown you the brochure?”

  Marissa shook her head, and I could tell—she was gagging on her tongue.

  “So he also didn't ask you about ice-blocking?”

  “Ice-blocking?” Marissa choked out.

  “It's Billy's idea.”

  “What's ice-blocking?” I asked.

  “You've never been?” He looked from me to Marissa and back again.

  We both shrugged and shook our heads.

  He grinned. “Basically, you get a big block of ice, sit on it, and slide down a hill.”

  Marissa winced. “And that's supposed to be fun?”

  He laughed. “Actually, it can be. Depending on the hill.” He grinned at me. “And who you're sliding with.”

  “But …,” Mar
issa said, still cringing, “doesn't your… don't you get all wet?”

  “You put a towel or a jacket or something on the ice.” He scratched the side of his neck, saying, “Billy wants to do it in the cemetery—”

  “The cemetery?” Marissa gasped.

  Casey nodded. “You know, those hills at the back side of it? But I think the golf course would be way better.”

  “Danny and Nick want to do this, too?” Marissa asked, still pulling a face.

  “They're up for it, yeah.” Then he added, “Assuming you guys are …”

  “What about the girls Billy and Nick are taking?” Marissa asked, trying to buy herself an out. “Who are they, anyway?”

  “Nick's taking Olivia Andrews. You know her, right?”

  We both nodded—she was an eighth grader. Quiet, but nice.

  “He says she's up for it.” He laughed. “And Billy says he's taking his harem, but what I think that means is he hasn't asked anyone yet.”

  I scowled. “As long as his harem doesn't turn out to be your sister.”

  “He knows better than that. Besides, Heather'd never go for ice-blocking.” He shrugged. “And she told me Hummers are ‘revolting.’” Then he added real fast, “But if you guys don't want to go ice-blocking, I can totally understand—we could just go out and get dessert afterward or something.”

  His gaze landed on Marissa, who stammered, “Well, I…I… Whatever everybody else wants is fine.”

  So now they both looked at me. And yeah, maybe I should have bailed Marissa out and said, Uhhh… that's not exactly the picture we had in mind … do you really expect us to go ice-blocking in updos, dresses, and heels? But the truth is, it sounded like a blast to me. So I grinned and said, “Count me in!”

  “Cool!” he said, and since the whole lunch area was vacant and the tardy bell was about to ring, we all said, “Later!” and raced off to class.

  I was late to science, but it didn't matter 'cause Mr. Pence was busy picking up his prized model skeleton that Mason Oakley had knocked on the floor. Mason was going, “Dude, I'm so sorry! Dude!”

  “Just sit down, Mr. Oakley! Just …sit… down!”

  “Dude, if you say so. But here—I know where his arm goes. It's the femur and the ulvana, right?”

  “The radius and the ulna,” Mr. Pence snapped. “Now SIT DOWN!”

  “Sure, dude, sure. Whatever you say.”

  So Mason was heading back to his seat, hamming it up for everyone but Mr. Pence to see, when only two steps past my bench he turns and says, “Hey, I heard you're going to the dance in a Humvee!”

  I put my finger to my mouth, telling him to hush, but Roman Rivera on the bench behind me says, “In a Hummer, really? Who has one of those?”

  “It's a stretch Hummer, dude,” Mason says.

  “You jivin' me?” Roman asks. “Around here?”

  “Yeah! I saw the brochure. It's got surround sound, mirrored ceilings, three flat-screen TVs …”

  Well, that was it. Within ten seconds the whole class was hummin' about the Hummer. Everyone, that is, except Heather. It was like someone had put her kettle on high and left her alone to boil dry. And, of course, she was glaring at me like it was all my fault. Like going to a dance in a vehicle she thought was revolting was somehow going to ruin her evening.

  But whatever. That's just Heather.

  Anyway, by the time school was over, Marissa was whistling a different tune about the Hummer, too. “Everybody's talking about it!” she whispered. “Even Tenille and Monet came up and asked me about it.”

  “Running reconnaissance?” I asked, 'cause Tenille and Monet are Heather's little lackeys, although I don't know why they put up with her. Heather uses them like toilet paper.

  “No,” Marissa said, unlocking her bike. “I think they were just dying to know.”

  “So? Did you tell them anything?”

  She shook her head, and as we headed off campus, her face fluttered a bit before finally breaking into a smile. “You were right, all right? I was being stupid. The Hummer'll be fun, and I'll just wear, you know, casual clothes.”

  “Hooray!”

  But she was still all fluttery. All trying to contain something that she just wanted to blurt out but was sort of afraid to. So finally, I said, “What?”

  “Well …” She fluttered some more.

  “What?”

  “I don't know… all the questions I got about the Hummer…all the people who came up and talked to me…I actually felt” — she cringed as she looked at me—“popular.”

  I eyed her.

  “I knew you'd look at me like that! I knew it!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that!”

  “Well, come on, Marissa.”

  “I know, I know,” she grumbled.

  “You didn't even want to go in the Hummer.”

  “I know, I know!”

  “And now you think it's cool?”

  “I'm being totally shallow, huh?”

  Her eyes were begging me to say no, so I said, “Nah.” And I also refrained from saying anything about how Heather had been acting in science. Instead, I said, “Just remember—popularity around here lasts about as long as a Hummer rental, so don't start thinking it's yours.” Then I frowned and kinda mumbled, “Who'd really want a Hummer anyway? Expensive, rotten gas mileage, lots to maintain… too much trouble if you ask me.”

  She grinned at me. “Only you would make some connection between being popular and owning a Hummer.” She dug up a sorry-looking package of cheese crackers and said, “But I think popularity makes you hungry!” She wolfed some down, then held the package out to me.

  I shook them off. “No thanks.”

  She ate some more, then tucked the rest away. “Well, how about I help you walk Captain Patch?”

  “Oh!” I said. “I forgot!”

  She swung onto her bike. “Come on! We'll walk the dog and talk some more about the dance, okay?”

  “Thanks!” I said, tossing down my skateboard, because the truth is, I didn't really care what we talked about. I was just glad to have my best friend back.

  Glad to feel like me again.

  Glad to be believing that the mess I'd gotten into was finally over.

  FOURTEEN

  The whole way over to Mrs. Willawago's, Marissa rattled on about her vision of the Plan: After school we'd go over to her house 'cause obviously the Hummer couldn't show up at the Senior Highrise. We'd get ready there, and when the doorbell rang, we'd both answer the door so as not to get embarrassed by her parents—if they were actually home—or her annoying little brother, Mikey. She went on and on with details, and I just sort of agreed to everything because basically, I didn't care. I was just happy to be able to go to the dance as me, not some foofoo version of me.

  When we reached Hopper Street, Marissa got off her bike and I picked up my board. She was now on the subject of how generous Danny's mom was to spring for the rental and how it wasn't just that we were going to the dance in a Hummer, it was that we were seventh graders going with eighth graders to the dance in a Hummer.

  “Hold on, hold on!” I said. “And what do you call Billy Pratt?” Because not only is Billy a seventh grader, he's probably the most immature seventh grader at William Rose Junior High.

  “I call him crazy!” She laughed. “But he would have been an eighth grader if he hadn't been held back.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Danny did. They went to the same preschool.”

  “Danny and Billy did?”

  “Uh-huh. You've got to ask them about the Nap Nazi sometime.”

  “The Nap Nazi?”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “It's a crack-up.”

  Now, part of me was feeling really left out. I mean, when had she had these humorous encounters with Danny and Billy? Where was I when they were discussing Nap Nazis? But we were almost at Mrs. Willawago's, and the mailman was coming toward us, whistling away.

  “Good afternoon!”
he sings out as we converge in front of the Train House. He hands me Mrs. Willawago's mail and says, “Have a good one!” and continues on his way.

  “Gee, Sammy,” Marissa says, “if the mailman knows you, you're here way too much.”

  “I know,” I said. “It's been almost a month of this, and I don't really see an end in sight.”

  “So? Are you just going to keep doing it forever?”

  “I don't know. It's not like I mind …”

  She whispered, “All that God-talk would drive me crazy.”

  “Aw, you learn to ignore it.”

  But then I noticed a strange letter in Mrs. Willawago's mail. The printing was in pencil and in all caps, which at first made me think it was from a grandkid or something. But then I started wondering because (a) it was addressed to Annie, not Grandma or even Mrs., (b) there was no return address, and (c) Willawago was spelled “Williwago.”

  And then I noticed something else, which made my heart start beating faster. “Mrs. Willawago!” I shouted, running up the cowcatcher. I opened the door. “Mrs. Willawago?”

  “Merciful heavens, what is it?” she said, hobbling toward me.

  “Look at this letter!”

  She smiled at Marissa and said, “Hello, there. Nice to see you again,” then took the letter from me. “What's this?”

  “Look at the Ls in Willawago!” I said, pointing.

  “What about them?”

  “See how they shoot up like that?”

  “So…?”

  “That's what the Ls in SELL OR SUFFER looked like!”

  “I don't remember that …”

  “Do you still have that rock?”

  She blinked at me. “Why, no. The police have it.”

  “You've got to show this letter to them!”

  “Samantha, honestly. I haven't even opened it yet.” She frowned and grumbled, “And I don't know why you think you can tell so much from so little.”

  “So open it,” I said with a shrug.

  She did and pulled an odd-sized piece of paper from the envelope. It wasn't as big as binder paper or as small as a notepad. It was somewhere in between. It looked like old paper, too. A little discolored around the edges, and the lines on it were a real faint green.

  The message, though, was loud and clear: