Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “The … ?”

  “It’s All Souls’ Day, remember?”

  Her eyes bug out at me through her glasses. “You’re picnicking at the graveyard?”

  “Hudson says it’s a tradition in other cultures. I thought it would be interesting to check it out.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Lots of chaperones, don’t worry.”

  Then I swing on my picnic pack and sneak out of there.

  Casey’s already waiting at the main gate when I get to the cemetery. “Hey,” I tell him, giving him a hug. He’s wearing a backpack, too, so there’s a little interference, but it’s still nice.

  I pull away and smile. “You ready?”

  He laughs. “For what, I’m not sure, but yeah. Lead on.”

  The gate’s wide open, so I grab his hand and pull him through it. “You know what All Souls’ Day is?”

  “Uh … I’ve heard of All Saints’ Day. I don’t really know anything about it except that it’s the day after Halloween.”

  “Yeah, well, All Souls’ Day is the day after the day after Halloween.” I give him a bit of an evil grin. “It’s also called Day of the Dead.”

  He grins back at me. “Is this payback for me dragging you into that corpse cooler?”

  I shiver. “Don’t remind me.”

  I lead him to an area in the new section where there are groups of people with colorful blankets and portable lawn chairs. And as we get closer, Casey says, “What is this? It looks like there’s a party going on.”

  Now, even though Hudson had told me about it, it seems strange to me, too.

  Very un-graveyard-like.

  As we get closer we see that families are playing cards and dice games and listening to music and eating food. And every grave marker where a family is gathered has flowers and pictures around it, and a plate of food right in front of it. No one’s touching the food. It’s just there.

  On a plate.

  At the grave marker.

  Waiting.

  A kid runs by us with an old-fashioned pinwheel twirling and Casey whispers, “This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Weirder than someone pumping a corpse full of chemicals?”

  He eyes me. “Good point.”

  “And this is good weird, don’t you think?” Because I’m really liking the way all the colors and people and music make the graveyard feel. “It’s so different than Halloween.”

  “Except for maybe the skulls,” Casey says, looking at a blanket with food on it.

  “What skulls?” But then I see the white, golf-ball-sized skulls on a plate on the blanket.

  I guess I was staring because one of the women in the group waves hello to me. And before I even know what I’m doing, I’m moving closer to her, asking, “What are those?”

  “Sugar skulls,” she says with a smile. “You want one?”

  I just blink at her. I mean, I’m a fan of sugar, but in the shape of a skull?

  At a graveyard?

  “You never had one?” she asks as she hands one over.

  I shake my head and take it.

  “Here,” she says, holding one out for Casey.

  So there we are, holding these candy skulls, and I’m sorry, sugar or not, there’s something a little creepy about eating a head in a cemetery. But the whole family’s watching, waiting for us to try them, so finally Casey and I look at each other, give a little shrug, and take a bite.

  “Mmm,” I say with a closed smile. “Thank you.” And when my mouth is cleared a bit, I ask, “So who are you, um … celebrating today?”

  “Guadalupe,” everyone says, and then one at a time they add something. “She was my sister.” “My aunt.” “My cousin.” “My mother.” “My friend.”

  Then the lady who’d given us the skulls says, “She loved sunflowers and Ricky Martin and pineapple tamales.” And the others chime in with, “Don’t forget chocolate!” “And mangoes!” “And pecan pie!” “And Kahlúa!”

  And that’s when I notice what’s on the plate and around the grave marker:

  Tamales and pie and chocolate.

  And next to the plate is a vase of sunflowers.

  And a bottle of Kahlúa.

  I don’t know why, but it kind of chokes me up. I mean, how nice is that to bring the things she liked to her gravesite? It’s not like Guadalupe can have them or anything, but for all these people to get together and remember her like this?

  I give them all a little smile and back away, and the only thing I can seem to get out is, “Sunflowers are the best.”

  I didn’t want to sit near any of the families visiting graves, so I wound up leading Casey across the new section and into the old where there didn’t seem to be any visitors.

  “Where are we going?” he asks after I’ve zigzagged him through a bunch of graves.

  “I don’t know—who looks like they could use some company?” I smile at him. “I brought a picnic lunch.”

  His eyes get wide. “You did?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you want to … eat it here?”

  “Yup.” I yank him along. “With someone who has no visitors.”

  We walk up to a tall stone slab that has a real weathered look to it. Gray, with black streaks running from the letters. “ ‘Arthur R. Jamison,’ ” I read. “ ‘1881 to 1956, Graze the Lord’s Pastures.’ ”

  “Graze the Lord’s Pastures,” Casey murmurs. “Can you say, mooooo?”

  I laugh. “Let’s keep looking.”

  We read a bunch more grave markers as we walk deeper into the old section, and most of them have pretty normal things chiseled into them. You know—Rest in Peace, Forever Loved—that sort of thing. But then we see a simple rectangular tombstone that’s sort of tilted to one side and has yellow moss growing on it.

  “ ‘Marianne Holden,’ ” I read, “ ‘Silent at Last.’ ”

  Casey looks at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I laugh. “ ‘Thank you, Lord, for shutting her up’?”

  He shakes his head. “Wow.” Then he eyes me and says, “Can we not sit near Marianne Holden?”

  I laugh again. “Sure.”

  So we wind through some more graves until Casey stops at one with two names. It’s not a double-wide, either. It’s one grave with one headstone and two names.

  “How’s that work?” I ask. “The year they died is different.”

  “Bunk beds? Uh … coffins?” Casey says.

  That kicks my claustrophobia into high gear. “Not here,” I tell him, and drag him along until I find a grave that has a big angel on it and a tombstone that reads, “Sophie ‘Sassypants’ Driscoll, 1920–1955, Brave and Sassy to the End.”

  I look around. It’s a nice spot between two big walnut trees and has a good view down the slope. There’s a bird watching us from the branch of one of the trees and the grass around the graves is tall in spots. And green. “How about we keep Sassypants company?” I ask.

  “You’re serious about this?”

  I nod and unzip his backpack, then yank out the towel.

  “Is this a tradition for your family or something?” he asks as I flap out the towel.

  I swing off my backpack. “Nope. I’ve never done this before.” Then I add, “Besides, would I be setting up camp by Sassypants Driscoll if I had family here?” But before he can say anything I mutter, “Never mind. Maybe I would.”

  “But … if you don’t have relatives here and it’s not a tradition or anything, why would you want to picnic in a graveyard?”

  I shake my head a little, then shrug. “Maybe I’m trying to get uncreeped about death?”

  “But at a graveyard?”

  Inside I start to panic. Why am I surrounding myself with plots of dead people? Is it because I know that telling Casey about Danny is like digging my own grave?

  Why didn’t I just bring a shovel?

  And before I even know what I’m saying my face crinkles up and I blurt out, “I don’t want to be all gray on a t
able or all stiff in a refrigerator or all rotting in a box, okay? I don’t want to even think about it! It’s scary and gives me night sweats and this weird feeling that I’m falling, falling, falling and that I’ll never be back. Ever! It’s all over and I’m gone and the world goes on and—”

  “Hey, hey, hey …,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else?”

  “But I liked the sunflowers! And the tamales! And that people were happy remembering!”

  And then I start crying. I don’t know why. It’s like I’m a pinched-off hose that’s starting to sputter at the nozzle, and Casey putting his arms around me completely un-kinks me.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke out after I pull it together a little. “I don’t know why I’m getting all hysterical.”

  “Because of yesterday?” He hugs me tighter. “I’m really sorry about dragging you into that refrigerator. I had no idea what it was.”

  I take a deep, choppy breath and sit down on the towel. And after looking out at all the tombstones surrounding us, I finally look up at Casey.

  Look him in the eye.

  “Could you sit here with me?” I ask him. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  It comes out all hoarse and airy, and suddenly my heart’s hammering in my chest, and my mouth is all sawdusty.

  Still. I know I have to do it.

  It’s time to tell him the truth.

  Casey sits on the beach towel, looks at me, and just waits.

  I take another deep breath, hold it forever, and finally ask, “What would you do if you knew your sister killed someone?”

  “Wait, what? Heather killed someone?”

  “No! Sorry. This isn’t coming out right.”

  All of a sudden his “Waiting for Rain to Fall” ringtone starts wah-wahing, but he mutes it quick without even looking at his phone. “Try again,” he tells me.

  So I take another deep breath and say, “Let’s say you had a brother and he killed someone. What would you do? Would you turn him in?”

  He doesn’t answer. He just gives me a very strange look. So I blurt out, “Okay, what would you do if some random stranger killed someone—would you turn them in?”

  “Uh … sure?” But now he’s looking totally confused.

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry—nobody’s killed anybody.”

  “So why are we talking about this?” He looks around. “And why here?”

  “Because …” And then it hits me that I can’t tell him I called the police on Danny. I just can’t. So I look down and say, “Never mind.” And even though I have totally lost my appetite, I start unpacking the sandwiches and brownies and plates and stuff.

  “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  He turns my face so I’m looking at him. “Sammy, tell me.”

  I stare at his beautiful, chocolatey eyes. His face is so open. So receptive. So … concerned. And I don’t know—I just cave.

  “I’m the one who told Officer Borsch about Danny.”

  Slowly, his hand lets go.

  Slowly, his face falls.

  And I can feel him pulling back.

  Shutting down.

  So I go into motor-mouth mode and tell him what happened. His phone goes off again in the middle of it, but he just mutes it, and when I’m all done, he sits there for the longest time staring out across the graveyard.

  Finally he says, “He cracked his ribs?”

  I nod.

  “Maaaaaaan,” he says, shaking his head. And after what seems like a hundred years of silence, he turns to me and says, “I don’t even know this Danny. Who would do that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish he was still Dippin’ Dots Danny, but he’s not. And I wish someone else had turned him in because I don’t want you thinking I’m a narc, but the truth is I’m the one who did it.”

  “I don’t think you’re a narc, okay?” He puts an arm around me and gives me a little smile. “I think you’re just braver than I am. I don’t know if I could have turned him in.”

  I shake my head and look down. “He was never Dippin’ Dots Danny to me.”

  He thinks about this a minute, then says, “Is that why you did that whole brother-versus-random-stranger thing?”

  I nod. “Yeah, even though that didn’t come out right.”

  “But I get what you’re saying. I mean, where do you draw the line? If he was just some random dude I’d turn him in, no problem. But my brother? I’d probably try to talk to him.” He eyes me. “Protect him from the consequences.” We’re both quiet for a long time, and finally he shakes his head and says, “And if the guy with the broken ribs was my dad instead of some obnoxious preacher dude, I’d want to kill the guy who beat him up.”

  Him saying that makes me realize that I’ve been halfway holding my breath for an hour, because now all of a sudden I can breathe.

  He’s not mad.

  He gets why I did what I did.

  And I’m so relieved that I almost start crying again. “I was just trying to do the right thing.”

  He gives me a hug. “I know. It’s okay. Really.” I hug him back, but then he lets go and asks, “Who else knows?”

  I hesitate. “That I told the police?”

  He nods.

  “Holly. That’s it.”

  “Not Marissa?”

  I shake my head.

  He eyes me. “Can we keep it that way?”

  I blink at him and my moment of relief is suddenly swallowed up by the feeling that I’m trading one secret for another.

  One trust for another.

  One betrayal for another.

  I mean, Marissa and I have been best friends since way before I met Casey, and we don’t have secrets. Oh, sometimes I keep things from her for a little while, but it always comes out.

  She always makes it come out.

  And to know that I had to keep a secret from her? That not telling her what I knew about Danny wasn’t something, you know, accidental?

  I didn’t know if I could do that.

  Casey sees I’m having trouble with this. “Holly seems pretty zip-lipped to me. But Marissa? It’ll slip out in no time.”

  “It’s not like I want Marissa to know. I’ve actually been worried that she’ll be furious with me.” I eye him. “She’s not exactly rational when it comes to Danny.”

  He laughs. “You think?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  He shrugs. “Come on. Sure.” Then he adds, “And he knows it, so yeah, he uses that to his advantage.”

  We’re both quiet a minute, and when his ringtone starts up again, he finally takes it out of his pocket, checks the number, and mutes it. “You want to call back?” I ask as he clicks through the call history, because obviously someone’s trying hard to get ahold of him.

  Instead he powers his phone down and puts it away. I can tell he’s kind of upset, though, and I can’t help trying to figure out who’s been calling. It can’t be his mom because he would have answered, and if it was his sister, he would have said, “Nah, it’s just Heather.” So who would be trying so hard to get ahold of him that he didn’t want to tell me about?

  And then it hits me.

  “That was Danny?”

  He hesitates, then nods. “Look, do whatever you want about Marissa. It’d be easier if people didn’t find out, but whatever.” He looks me in the eye. “It’s not going to change anything between us, okay?” He gives me a little grin. “So … ? Are we ever gonna eat?”

  I blink at him a minute, then give him a bear hug. He’d deal with Danny his own way, and I’d figure out what to do about Marissa … later.

  For now, it was okay.

  We were okay.

  Somehow telling the truth, trusting him, had worked.

  As hard as it was to believe, it had worked.

  Casey loved the food—especially the grapes in the sandwich. And I don’t know, maybe it was because I’d gotten al
l that stuff about Danny off my chest, but picnicking in the graveyard was actually fun. We talked to Sassypants and asked her questions, which of course she didn’t answer, but we laid a couple of brownies by the tombstone, because, come on—who doesn’t like brownies?

  And then we talked about what we’d want people to bring to our graves when we were dead and gone. I told Casey about Grams’ amazing oatmeal, and how I love little champagne grapes, chocolate chip cookies packed with walnuts, and, of course, mac ’n’ cheese and salsa.

  He gave me a kiss and told me that all he needed was “fruity chicken salad sammiches!” which made me laugh because it was just so … cute.

  So we’re having an almost carefree time picnicking in the graveyard until I think I see something move. It’s not anything obvious … it’s more like a flicker in the corner of my eye. And when I turn to look, there’s nothing there.

  “What are you looking at?” Casey asks because my eyes are glued to the big walnut tree that’s off to our left.

  “I saw something,” I whisper.

  “A ghost?” he teases.

  I stand up and head for the tree.

  “Okay … maybe a squirrel?” he says, following me. “A bird?”

  But when I get around the walnut tree, what I find isn’t a squirrel or a bird or a ghost.

  It’s a man.

  A small, dusty-looking man with dark eyes, oily hair, and a hoe.

  I blink at him and say, “Dusty … I mean, Mike?” even though there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s the groundskeeper.

  At first he doesn’t seem to remember me. But then a spark of recognition comes into his eyes and he says, “You’re Lyssie’s friend.”

  I nod, because that’s what he calls Elyssa—the little girl who’d kept disappearing. I put out my hand. “It’s Sammy, remember? And this is Casey.”

  “Sammy. That’s right,” he says, then he smiles at me. His teeth are crooked and dull, but his eyes sparkle a little. Like inside him something’s been dusted off. “You helped Lyssie a lot.”

  I shrug that off and tell him, “She’s got a big sheepdog now.”

  He nods. “Winnie. She’ll bring her sometimes when she visits her dad.” He gives me a curious look, then nods at the grave where we’d been picnicking. “You related to Sophie?”