Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  She mutters to herself a minute, then waves a hand. “Go.”

  And I was already out the door and halfway down the hall when I realized there was something kind of strange about Mrs. Graybill’s door. I mean, it was closed all the way, which was strange enough, but sticking out from under her door was the corner of a yellow envelope.

  I probably should’ve just kept on walking, but I didn’t. I went clear back to Mrs. Graybill’s door, and before you know it I’m sneaking that envelope out from underneath it. It looked like some kind of greeting card, and written across the envelope in handwriting like a ghost’s was Miss Daisy.

  I hadn’t looked at the envelope for more than two seconds when Miss Daisy opens her door. She stands there with her hands on her hips, looking like the Mrs. Graybill I’m used to; she’s all bundled up in her dirty pink bathrobe with her hair sticking straight up in back, looking very cranky.

  Well, I blushed. Completely. I mean, the reason I think Mrs. Graybill is such a pain in the neck is because she’s always sticking her nose into my business, and here I am, fishing mail out from under her door. And all of a sudden I can see myself in fifty years, looking out my window with binoculars, or peeking out my front door at people going by.

  And that’s when I get this awful revelation: Daisy Graybill hasn’t always been a crabby old lady in a dirty pink bathrobe with hair sticking up in back. When she was young she might have been a lot like me.

  A thought like that can send shivers shooting all through you. And a thought like that can leave you with not much to say. I just stood there with my cheeks on fire and held the envelope out to her. “Here. I’m sorry.”

  I was expecting her to fly into a rampage about how I have no business being in the apartment building and how she’s going to have the manager arrest me, but she just snatched the card and slammed the door.

  I stared at her apartment number trying to shake off the picture of me in Mrs. Graybill’s house slippers, but after a minute I turned around and headed for Bargain Books.

  When I walked in, the first thing I heard was Mr. Bell cussing. He sees me and says, “Oh, Sammy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  He pushes up a sleeve that falls right back down. “Oh, it’s nothing.” Then he looks at me with a sigh and says, “It’s just this bank statement. I’m trying to get my finances in order so I can sell this place but—” He slaps around on his desk some. “I can’t even find a pen!”

  I stand there a minute wondering if he’s serious or not. I mean, Mr. Bell is one of those people that’s always been around, so you expect him to keep right on being around. It’d be like Father Mayhew saying he was quitting the Church after thirty years at St. Mary’s.

  “Sell the place? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am.” He lets out a sigh and says, “How am I supposed to compete with the mall stores? The majority of people that come in here are ne’er-do-wells and bums. Respectable folks wind up going to the mall. I’ve put my whole life into this place, and what have I got? Negatives in my account.” He puts both hands on his desk and leans forward a bit. “I want to sell it, all right. The only trouble is finding a buyer.” He lets out a laugh that doesn’t sound at all funny. “You know anybody who might be interested in investing in a very used bookstore?”

  I study him, wondering if he’s serious or just having a very bad day. Then I say, “If you really want to sell it, Hudson Graham might be interested. He loves books. Him or Chauncy LeBard.”

  All of a sudden Mr. Bell gets real quiet. He squints at me. “So you know Hudson Graham.”

  “Sure. He’s got more books than anyone I know—except Chauncy, that is. Do you know Chauncy LeBard?”

  Mr. Bell shakes his head. “Don’t let that Hudson fool you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He frowns. “Just watch your back.”

  Before I can ask him what he means, he opens the door and rushes me out. “I’m going to call it a day,” he says, and then bolts the door from the inside, leaving me to watch his CLOSED sign swing back and forth.

  I stand there feeling pretty strange, and all I can think about is Hudson and what in the world he did to make Mr. Bell think he was a backstabber. And since it was obvious Mr. Bell didn’t want to talk about it, I figured I’d go ask the only other person who would know.

  THIRTEEN

  Hudson thought it was funny. “He’s still sore about that?” He kicked his feet up on the porch railing. “I guess Tommy’s never going to forgive me for that one.”

  It seemed kind of strange, hearing Mr. Bell called Tommy. I’d never thought of him having a first name other than Mister. “Forgive you for what?”

  Hudson smiles and looks way out over the rooftops across the street. “Do you know what a first edition is?”

  “A first-edition what?”

  “Well, in this case, book. It’s the first run a publisher makes on a book. Sometimes it’s a real small run; the publisher decides to print up only a small number of books and see how it does. If the run sells out, they print up more. Sometimes a book that the publisher doesn’t expect to do very well becomes popular, and in those cases the first-edition copies can become pretty valuable—and the more rare they are, the more valuable they become.” He looks over at me. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  He goes back to looking over rooftops. “If you happen to find a valuable first-edition book that’s also been autographed by the author, well, that makes it worth more. In some cases, a lot more.

  “Now it just so happens that I was at Tommy’s store once when this fellow came in with a couple of boxes of books. That kind of thing happens all the time at Tommy’s. Someone’11 clean out his attic and haul all his old books over there, and Tommy’ll go through them and say yea or nay to buying them. Sometimes he’ll just buy the whole lot for twenty bucks or something.

  “Anyhow, I used to stop in quite a lot—have coffee and English muffins and just shoot the breeze—and one day this fellow comes in with a box of books. You could tell from looking at it that it was just filled with trashy old paperbacks. And since Tommy was in kind of a foul mood anyway, he just snorts, ‘No thanks,’ and goes back to rearranging shelves. So the guy turns to me and says, ‘I hauled these things all the way down here—I sure don’t want to haul them back. Do you want them? You can just have them.’ So I say, ‘Sure,’ thinking that I’ll do the guy a favor and dump them in the trash out back.

  “He leaves, and I start going through the books, and what do I find? A first-edition Heinlein, and it’s autographed. Now when Tommy discovers what I’ve got, he insists that the book is his and—well, to make a long story short, he threw me out of his store and I’ve been banned from coming back ever since.”

  “How much is the book worth?”

  “Oh, to the right buyer a few hundred bucks, but in a few years it may be worth several thousand—who knows? I’ve got a number of first editions, but that one’s my favorite.” He shoos a fly off his boot. “So how’d the investigation go last night?” He grins at me and says, “Oh, I’m sorry—research.”

  I scowl and say, “Crummy. I sat out in the freezing cold all night for nothing.”

  His eyebrows pop up a little. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

  I sit up in my chair. “No way!” Then I say, “As a matter of fact, can I use your phone?” and before you know it I’ve talked to Marissa and Dot and they’ve both promised to come freeze in Heather’s bushes with me that night.

  When I get off the phone, Hudson comes into the room and says, “Do you think your grandmother would like to go to see a movie tonight?”

  I say, “I think you might be able to talk her into that,” which is true—Grams never gets to go to the movies. And I’m hoping that he can, because if he takes Grams to the movies, it will be that much easier for me to snoop at Heather’s. I’ve got plenty to worry about without having to worry about Grams worrying abo
ut me.

  So he calls her up and twists her arm, and I race home to get ready for another big night in Heather’s bushes.

  * * *

  That night I wore a sweatshirt and a jacket, and I only had to wait about ten minutes before Marissa and Dot showed up. We went crashing through oleander until we were real close to Heather’s bedroom window, and then we tried to get comfortable.

  Now, Marissa’s not big on bugs. And since bushes and bugs usually go together, I was kind of surprised when she said she’d go. And she did squirm around a bit, but after a while she calmed down, and the three of us just sat there, whispering and waiting.

  And waiting and waiting some more. Finally Dot says, “Maybe we should ring the doorbell or something. You know—stir things up?”

  Marissa says, “Yeah. What if she’s not even home?”

  That got me thinking. I mean, I was pretty sure she was home, but I didn’t want to wait all night for her to quit watching TV or reading Earring Magazine or whatever Heather Acosta does when she’s sitting around at home. Then I got an idea. I groped around in my pockets for some change and said, “Stay right here. I’ll be back in about five minutes. If you hear anything happen, start the recorder!”

  I ran down the street and locked myself in the pay phone booth. Then I pawed though the A’s in the phone book, and when I got to Acosta, well, big surprise—Heather’s got her own private listing.

  I pop the coins into the phone and when Heather picks up and says, “Hello?” my heart’s hopping around in places it does not belong.

  “Hi, Egg Breath, this is Sammy.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, it’s Sammy. I found out you were dogging me pretty good at your little Halloween party the other night, but I’ve got news for you. People are sick to death of you, your rusty hair, and your rotten-egg breath. I wish you could take a whiff of it yourself’cause you’d probably keel over and die. So do the world a favor and keep your polluted mouth shut. You hear me, Egg Breath?”

  Before she has a chance to hang up on me, I slam down the phone. Then I race back to the oleander bushes and, sure enough, the red light’s on and the tape is rolling.

  Marissa whispers in my ear, “She’s in there ranting and raving about rotten eggs!”

  Just then I hear Heather’s voice come over the monitor. “Who does that stupid Sammy Keyes think she is? Telling me I’ve got egg breath … She thinks she’s got news for me, ha! I’ve got news for her. Nobody calls Heather Acosta names and gets away with it—nobody.” For a second all you can hear is a bunch of drawers slamming and her muttering, and she says, “I guess I’ll just have to give Amber a little reason to beat her up for me.”

  I look at Dot and Marissa and pump my fist. “Yes!”

  We’re all so excited that it’s really hard not to make any noise, but when we hear her say, “Jared?” we get quiet all right. We don’t even breathe.

  And I can just see her, sitting on the edge of her cow bed, pinching her nose, pretending to be me, not sounding a thing like me. And thinking that Jared Salcido could fall for Heather’s stupid trick—well, let’s just say that a donkey’s got parts that are smarter than him.

  “Hi, Jared,” she says. “This is Sammy. Don’t tell Amber I called, okay? I just had to. I love you so much. Will you please just give me a chance? Amber doesn’t appreciate you like I would …”

  Jared must’ve said something really stupid, because Heather laughs real loud and says, “What is she, your mother?” Then after a second she says, “Well, okay. I have to go anyway. I gotta go paint my shoes. Bye!” and hangs up. Then she lets out a real ugly laugh and says, “Sammy Keyes, that’ll teach you to call me Egg Breath!”

  Now we couldn’t just pack up and leave. We had to play back the recording a couple of times and then make plans for exposing Heather at school the next day.

  When we had it all ironed out, we sneaked back out to the sidewalk and slapped hands one last time. And as I’m heading home, a giant giggle comes out of me because for once, I can’t wait for school.

  * * *

  Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t get there early. I slid into homeroom right when the bell rang, and the whole time we were listening to the announcements and saluting the flag and getting our books ready for our morning classes I tried my best not to look at Heather. But after Mrs. Ambler finishes talking to us and taking roll, Heather leans over and hisses, “You got a lot of nerve calling my house and insulting me. I know you’re just sore because you missed the party of the century.”

  I couldn’t help it—I cracked up. I tried to stop, but I just couldn’t.

  She says, “What are you laughing at?”

  I giggled and said, “I heard your mom was the entertainment. She was hitting on eighth graders or something?”

  “What? Who told you that?” She puffs up like she’s going to punch my lights out, but the truth is, she doesn’t know how. Heather’s the sneak-up-from-behind-and-stick-you-in-the-butt-with-a-pin kind of fighter, if you know what I mean. So all Heather can think to do is pull my hair. And it hurts, all right, but I still can’t stop laughing.

  So she’s yanking me out of my desk by my hair and I’m cracking up, and the rest of homeroom’s staring at us wondering what in the world is going on. Mrs. Ambler hollers, “Ladies, ladies! What are you doing?”

  I wipe away a tear and try to straighten out. “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “Nothing?”

  “All I did was ask her what she had for breakfast.”

  The minute I say that, there’s a big snicker from across the room, and I know it’s Marissa. But I don’t look over there like Mrs. Ambler does. I just keep right on looking straight at her with a nice little smile on my face.

  “And why did you want to know what she had for breakfast?”

  I shrug. “Her breath smells like eggs, that’s all.”

  Heather cries, “What?”

  I look at her and say, “Well it does, Heather.”

  Mrs. Ambler says, “Samantha!” but just then the bell rings so she shakes her head and lets us all stampede out the door.

  I might as well not even have been in school for all the attention I paid in my classes. I did listen for a minute in English when Miss Pilson gave us instructions about going to the assembly for her college professor during the last hour of the day, but I have no idea what else she said. All I could think about was Hudson’s tape recorder in my pocket, and what was on the tape inside it.

  In math, though, I forced myself to pay attention. Mr. Tiller was mad at me because I told him I couldn’t find my homework, and the whole time he called out the answers he kept one eye on me. And after every problem he’d work out on the board he’d ask, “Questions?” and look straight at me.

  And you better believe I paid attention because he’d say, “Jesse, what should I do next?” or “Frances, what’s the product of these numbers?” And every time he asked someone to help him work out a problem, he’d start off by looking at me. So on the last problem, when he finally does ask me a question, I tell him how to do the whole thing. He finishes writing on the board and says, “See what you can do when you put your mind to it?”

  I thought I was off the hook, but when the bell rings and everyone else charges out of class, Mr. Tiller calls out, “Samantha! Up here a moment, please.”

  So up I go.

  He takes a deep breath, and when he gets done blowing it out he says, “You didn’t even do your homework, did you?”

  I just shake my head. “No, sir.”

  He inhales again and then sits down on the edge of his desk with a sigh. “Sammy, I see your grade slipping. I don’t like it. You have serious potential, and I want to see you live up to it.” He scratches the side of his head and says, “I think maybe it’s time I called a parent conference.”

  “No! Mr. Tiller—really. I’m sorry I didn’t do my homework. I promise you it won’t happen again. It’s just that … well, there’s been a lot going on.” I look u
p at him and say, “After today everything’s going to start being normal again. Really.”

  He eyes me. “What’s so special about today?”

  There goes my stupid mouth again, smiling away. I kind of back away from him. “I can’t tell you right now, but you’ll see.” Then I run out the door and call over my shoulder, “I’ll have my homework in tomorrow—promise!”

  As I’m turning the corner I can see him kind of shaking his head, and you can tell he’s thinking, Teenagers.

  But what I’m thinking is that if Marissa, Dot, and I can pull off what we have planned for the assembly, Mr. Tiller might still have a few questions he wants to ask me—but he’ll have a whole lot more for Heather Acosta.

  FOURTEEN

  Mr. Tiller was at the assembly, and so were the rest of the teachers—guarding the doors, making sure all us kids sat where we were supposed to sit and didn’t pop our gum or talk too loud.

  Miss Pilson was up front by the podium, fluttering around, gushing over Professor Yates, and when she turned the microphone on and said, “Everyone find a seat now and settle down. Come on, now, settle down!” well, we all kept right on talking about how Professor Yates looked more like a professional yodeler than a writer. He was wearing a vest and a sweater, and hiking boots with red laces. On top of that, he was carrying this thing that looked like a walking stick. He belonged in the Alps somewhere, not in a junior high cafeteria.

  So we’re all busy giggling, calling him Yates the Yodeler, when Miss Pilson taps the microphone and says, “That’s quite enough. We need to begin, so, please, can we have it quiet?”

  A lot of us did shut up, but it was still pretty noisy until Professor Yates flipped his walking stick upside down in front of the microphone.

  All of a sudden the cafeteria’s full of the sound of rain. Really. Rain. And pretty soon no one’s saying a word. And when the rain stops, Professor Yates says into the microphone, “Good afternoon, boys and girls. My name’s Dr. Martin Yates, and this is a rain stick. It’s made from a cactus plant.” He holds it up. “A simple cactus plant. The needles have been taken out and reversed so that they are pointing inside the plant instead of at you and me. After that, pebbles are added, and when the cactus dries the result is truly musical.”