Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Chauncy was a teacher?”

  “That’s right. A good one, too. He taught a number of poli. sci. courses there. The kids loved him. He was an eloquent speaker and quite deft at debating—a real champion of liberal causes.”

  “So what happened?”

  Hudson shakes his head. “I don’t really know. It had something to do with the death of his mother. He took care of her until the day she died, and when the will was read, Chauncy wound up with everything.”

  “Were there other relatives?”

  “A brother.”

  “And the brother didn’t get anything?”

  “Not one thin dime. Even Chauncy didn’t understand it. Apparently Mrs. LeBard was annoyed with the brother and didn’t care for his wife. Courtney seemed like a fine woman to everyone else, but from what I understand a saint wouldn’t have been good enough for the mother.”

  “How come?”

  “Who knows? I always figured she had trouble letting go.”

  We just sit for a minute, and finally I ask, “So where’s the brother now?”

  “Oh, he still lives in town—off Morrison somewhere. The man’s very stubborn. He somehow blames Chauncy for everything—the inheritance, even their mother’s death.”

  “How long ago did Chauncy’s mother die?”

  Hudson takes a deep breath. “Oh, it’s got to be ten years by now. After that, he quit coming over, and pretty soon he started letting the yard go. I used to go over there and offer to help out, but he didn’t want it, and after a while he wouldn’t even answer the door.” Then he says very quietly, “I didn’t know about the tracheotomy until tonight.”

  We both look at the stars for a bit. “Grams says he’s dangerous—or unstable, anyway.”

  Hudson throws his head back and laughs. “Rita told you that?” He takes a deep breath and smooths an eyebrow. “Chauncy is fragile. Brilliant, but fragile. He’s an honorable man—he’d go to his grave before he’d hurt another person.” He grins at me and says, “I’ll have to have a talk with your grandmother about her information sources.”

  Hudson goes back to staring off into space, and I’m about to ask him if I can please take a shower when he says real softly, “How’s he doing?”

  Well, somehow I don’t feel like telling him that this brilliant, honorable friend of his is living like a rat in Vampire Heaven, so I kind of stammer, “Um … ah …”

  Hudson shakes his head. “Rita said he’s got no power, no phone …? I can’t imagine it! That house used to shake with Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. You could smell the coffee brewing from the foyer! How does he make his coffee? Chauncy without coffee … can’t imagine it! And this time of year … he must be freezing.”

  By now I’m sitting there with my teeth chattering out of my mouth. Hudson turns to me and says, “You’re cold? Say, don’t you want to get out of that costume?”

  I chatter and laugh and nod all at the same time.

  After I take a shower, Hudson brings me some cocoa and shows me to the couch.

  When he leaves, I rearrange the cushions, turn off the light, and sit there, snuggled up in a blanket, sipping hot chocolate, and thinking about Chauncy.

  But as my eyes get used to the darkness, I start to feel very uncomfortable. See, Hudson’s den is really a library. And I’m not talking a set of encyclopedias and a dictionary or two. I’m talking a library. He has shelves that go from the floor clear to the ceiling, and whenever I come over with a question that he can’t answer, we come to the den and he finds a book that’ll tell us.

  And I’ve always liked coming to the den to watch him dig for answers, but sitting there in the dark with books all around me—all of a sudden I feel like I’m spending the night in Vampire Heaven.

  It takes me a while to shake off the creeps, and the last thing I remember thinking before falling asleep is, Why would anyone want to rob a man who seems to have nothing? Nothing but books.

  FIVE

  Hudson didn’t wake me up in the morning; his cooking did. I could smell bacon frying and hear eggs popping on the griddle, and let me tell you, that got me out of bed quicker than oatmeal ever has. And it wasn’t until I’d eaten three eggs, six pieces of bacon, and a couple slices of toast that I noticed the clock on the wall.

  I jumped up. “Holy smokes! I’m late.”

  Hudson looks over his shoulder at the clock and says, “You’ve still got twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes! It takes me almost twenty to get to school!” Now part of me’s thinking that it’s a done deed. I’ve got detention with Vice Principal Caan for being late, and that’s that. But I run into the den anyway, switch into my school clothes, and yank a brush through my hair, because I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe I can make it.

  And I’ve got the couch thrown back together and my junk just about stuffed into my backpack when Hudson walks into the room. “I’ve got your lunch made and Jester’s out front warming up. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I stop stuffing. “You’re giving me a ride?”

  Hudson grins. “You bet.”

  Jester seems like a brand-new car because it’s so shiny it sparkles, but one look at it and you know it’s ancient. It’s big with pointy taillights, whitewall tires, and a mammoth steering wheel. And it’s lavender. Hudson insists that it’s “sienna rose,” but believe me, it’s lavender.

  It was fun riding to school in Hudson’s car. Every time we came to a stoplight people would kind of look, or nudge the person they were with and point, and when we pulled into the school parking lot some kids came up to me and said, “Cool car!”

  So the day was off to a pretty good start, when who comes sneaking up behind me? Heather Acosta and a group of her friends. And what does Rude ‘n’ Red say? She says, “Who was that? Your dad?” Then she turns to her friends, and they all laugh like a pack of hyenas.

  I felt like telling her to go somewhere deep and toasty, but instead I turn and walk toward homeroom. Heather walks right behind me, though, mimicking the way I’m walking so her friends will keep on laughing.

  I try to ignore her, but I’m getting madder and madder and I really want to whip around and push her over. Then she comes up beside me and says, “Those shoes are just divine. Such a luscious green. Oh, do tell! Where did you get them?”

  I’m walking faster and faster, thinking I know my high-tops look stupid all sprayed green, but they’re my only shoes and I didn’t have time to wash them so what was I supposed to do? And I’m about to tell her to shut up when all of a sudden her eyes get really big and she starts to giggle. Then she backs off. Just like that.

  I look across the patio to see what Heather’s giggling about, and what I see is Amber Bellows coming at me like a line drive. And let me tell you, she is mad. I move aside because I don’t want to get in her way. I mean, I know Amber because she’s the head cheerleader and the eighth-grade president, but Amber doesn’t know me from the man in the moon, and I figured there was no way she could be mad at me.

  Boy, did I figure wrong. She comes right up to me with her nostrils flaring, whips that long brown hair out of her way, and says, “You stop bothering him, do you hear me? I’ve had enough of this! It’s not funny, and it’s not cute!”

  I point to myself and say, “Me? Stop bothering who?”

  She wobbles her head a little. “Yeah, right. Like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Her neck pushes out so she looks like a vulture. “Jared. Remember Jared? The love of your life? The guy you would die for? The one who makes your little heart flutter?”

  By now the whole school is watching, and I’m feeling really embarrassed. I mean, Jared Salcido is cute, but he’s like someone from another planet to me, and he’s sure not someone I’d ever thought about long enough to make my heart flutter. On top of that, I’ve always thought that Amber and Jared were the perfect little preppy couple, so her little tirade had me completely confused.

  Finally, I manage to say, “Amber, I think you’ve got the wron
g person.”

  She laughs and tosses her hair around some more. “You’re Sammy Keyes, aren’t you?”

  I nod real slow.

  “So stop calling him! You’re making a fool of yourself.” And she’s about to leave but she just can’t help herself: William Rose Junior High School’s Student of the Week for about six weeks in a row says, “Nice shoes,” then laughs and walks away.

  The whole time Amber was yelling at me, this big circle of people around us was quiet. Dead quiet. But the minute she leaves they all start talking and whispering and laughing. And I’m standing there feeling like I just fell off a merry-go-round, when Heather walks by with her friends chanting, “Sammy loves Jared, Sammy loves Jared.”

  I would’ve turned around and gone home right then if Marissa and Dot hadn’t run up asking, “What happened?”

  I say, “I don’t know,” then tell them everything that Amber had said.

  When I’m done, Marissa shakes her head and whispers, “That is so weird!”

  The bell rings and Dot says, “Don’t worry about it, Sammy—you’ll straighten things out!” She goes to her homeroom, and off we go to ours, and the whole time we’re hearing the announcements and getting our books ready for our classes, Heather’s passing notes and the other kids are whispering. Whispering and pointing.

  Marissa throws me a note that says WHY DIDN’T YOU WASH THEM?

  I want to tell her about Mrs. Graybill and about sleeping at Hudson’s and waking up late, but I can’t. All I can do is sit there in a room full of kids who think I have ugly feet and a crush on Jared Salcido while the rest of the school is busy spreading rumors about me. And what they’re saying is, “Sammy? You don’t know who Sammy is? No problem—she’s the one in the green shoes!”

  So I suffered through homeroom and then walked my little green feet over to English where Miss Pilson decided to spend the whole class period talking about this big assembly we’re supposed to have in the cafeteria next week. Normally Miss Pilson could give two hoots about assemblies. I’ve seen her sit in the back with the art teacher, Miss Kuzkowski, and talk through entire assemblies.

  But Miss Pilson’s interested in this assembly because it has to do with English. Some professor of hers from college wrote a book about a farmer in the Midwest, and she invited him to speak to the whole school about it. It’s been Professor Yates this and Professor Yates that for weeks, and, really, she acts like she’s crazy in love with a guy who made up a story about someone who plows fields.

  After English I went to math, and I started to write a note to Marissa because I couldn’t concentrate on what Mr. Tiller was doing anyway. Trouble is, Mr. Tiller noticed.

  Normally I can answer any question Mr. Tiller might decide to ask me, and normally Mr. Tiller doesn’t have to worry that I’m writing notes while he’s explaining something. So maybe that’s why he just stood there for a second watching me, kind of twitching his mustache back and forth while I gave him half a smile and looked guilty.

  Everyone likes Mr. Tiller. He’s young and funny and smart, and half the girls in school have a crush on him. The only thing not to like about him is that he posts notes. He tacks them up on the bulletin board for everyone to see, and leaves them there for days.

  Mr. Tiller didn’t post my note. He didn’t even take it away from me. He just said, “Sammy, give me the prime factors for three hundred fifty-seven,” and held out the chalk.

  I looked at him and said, “Can’t I do it at my desk?” because I didn’t want to stand in front of the class in my stupid green feet. He just held out the chalk and gave me that get-up-here-now look.

  So up I went, and sure enough the kids snickered. And I’m standing there trying to break down three fifty-seven and getting nowhere when Mr. Tiller says softly, “Is it divisible by two?”

  I shake my head.

  “Three? Do the digits add up to a multiple of three?”

  I nod, and that’s all I need. I break it down and write 3 × 7 × 17, then hightail it back to my seat.

  Bobby Krandall leans over and says, “Nice shoes.”

  I say, “Yeah. Matches the snot in your nose, Bob,” but really I feel like throwing up.

  I was hoping we’d have a few minutes at the end of class to talk so I could go sit with Marissa, but Mr. Tiller lectured clear to the bell, and when it rang he gave us our homework. Then he said, “Could I see you for a minute, Samantha?”

  So I stayed put while everyone else left. And while Mr. Tiller’s erasing the board he says, “I know it’s none of my business, Samantha, but I heard a rumor before class …”

  He turns around and looks at me and, really, I just wanted to put my head down and cry. He comes over and says, “Sammy, look. Maybe you should go talk to someone. One of the counselors? They might be able to help. I hate to see it affect your work.”

  I stand up and say, “But Mr. Tiller, it isn’t true. I’ve never spoken to Jared Salcido in my life. I don’t know why this is happening!”

  Mr. Tiller looks pretty surprised. “It’s not true?”

  Kids for the next class are starting to pile in, and I’m not going to stand there and try to convince him. I just say, “No, it’s not!” and leave.

  All through history I was dying to talk to Marissa, but since Mr. Holgartner moved me across the room from her because we always talk during films, I just sat there trying to figure the whole thing out. Someone was calling Jared and it sure wasn’t me.

  And the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to Heather. I mean, why did she go bug-eyed when she saw Amber Bellows coming at us? It’s like she knew. And the more I thought about that, the more convinced I was that Heather had been calling Jared and pretending to be me. And she was saying the stupidest, most embarrassing things she could think of.

  Once I figured it out, I didn’t feel bad anymore. I felt mad. Not a wild kind of mad—a quiet, warm kind of mad. And all of a sudden my shoes didn’t matter. So they were green. So what?

  I didn’t even hear the lunch bell ring. I sat right through it, trying to figure out how I was going to get back at Heather for making me the laughingstock of William Rose Junior High.

  Finally Marissa comes up and says, “Sammy, c’mon. Let’s go.”

  We head over to the lunch line, but I don’t feel like being a guppy in a bowl of barracudas, so I say, “I’ll meet you on the patio, okay?”

  Marissa says, “Sammy, come with me. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  I look at her and say, “What’s wrong?” and as I’m following her to the lunch line she whispers, “Mikey tattled.”

  If you knew Mikey, you’d know that this was not big news. Mikey’s the most annoying little brother a person could have, and tattling is what Mikey does best. So I snicker and say, “About what now?” but I’m thinking, I’ve got bigger stuff to worry about than this.

  She looks at me. “About the sweater.”

  “What sweater?”

  “The green sweater. You know … the Marsh Monster sweater.”

  I stare at her, thinking that the last time I saw it, it was lying in the middle of a pile of ashes looking pretty charred. “But you said she never wears it!”

  Marissa grabs a tray. “She doesn’t, but now she’s saying how much she loves it, and it turns out it’s a Louis d’Trent.”

  “A Louis d’What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is the stupid thing cost five hundred bucks.”

  I almost fell over. Really. I mean, here I’d been, cruising around town as the Marsh Monster in a Louis d’Foo-Foo sweater, liking it because it was so ugly, and the whole time I was burning up—what? A hundred dollars an hour?

  I grab her by the arm. “What did you tell her?”

  Marissa whispers, “I told her you still had it and you’d bring it back this weekend.”

  “You told her what? It’s ruined, Marissa! I put out a fire with it, remember?”

  She kind of nods, and as she’s paying for her lunch she says, �
��I was thinking maybe we could get it cleaned or something. I mean, how bad could it be? It wasn’t a very fire. Maybe it’s just dirty.”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “It doesn’t take a big fire to burn up a sweater! Besides, he’s probably already thrown it away!”

  Marissa says, “C’mon, Sammy. At least go back to the Bush House and try. It’s a five-hundred-dollar sweater! Where are we going to come up with five hundred dollars?”

  I thought about this and said, “Okay. I’ll go. Right after school,” and as we’re walking out to the patio I say to her, “You’re going to come with me, aren’t you?”

  Even when she’s walking, Marissa can kind of do the McKenze dance. And my asking about going to the Bush House was making her dance, all right. I look at her and say, “Forget it, Marissa. It’s all right. I’ll do it by myself.”

  She dances a little faster. “I’ll go. Really, I’ll go. It’s just that the place gives me the creeps.”

  I laugh and say, “After the day I’ve been having, the Bush House is going to seem friendly.”

  All of a sudden Marissa forgets about the sweater. “That’s right! What in the world is going on?” She looks at me like she’s afraid to tell me something. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

  I see Dot waving her root beer at us from the patio, so I kind of steer Marissa toward her, and as we’re sitting down I whisper, “I think I’ve got it figured out.”

  Dot grabs my arm. “About Amber and Jared?”

  “Yeah, about Amber and Jared.” I lean in. “Who do you know that hates me so much she would call Jared Salcido and pretend to be me? And who do you know that would give her right earlobe to break the two of them up so that maybe she could go out with him?”

  Marissa looks at Dot and then back at me. “Heather?”

  I smile. “Exactly!”

  We’re all quiet a minute then Dot says, “She wouldn’t …”

  I laugh. “Oh yes she would!”

  Marissa whispers, “What are you going to do?”

  I unwrap my sandwich and take a nice big bite. And while I’m chewing, I’m smiling. Dot and Marissa grab me and say, “What? What are you thinking?”