Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Can you go to your computer?”

  “Sure. What’s this about, Sammy?”

  “I need to straighten out my grades.”

  “Your grades?” He hesitates. “Did you and your grandmother have a heart-to-heart?”

  “Nope. And she can’t see what you’re about to see. You said you’d keep it confidential.”

  “Is there a problem with your grades?”

  “I get by just fine.”

  “So … why the sudden motivation?”

  I take a deep breath. “I want to go to college.”

  “College? You’re only in eighth grade!”

  “Yeah, but they base what you take in high school on how you did in junior high, and they’re probably not going to put me on the college track with the way things are right now. But I’m going to change that. I’ve got to figure out what I’m missing and how to raise my grades.”

  “Okay, then!” A short minute later he says, “I’m logged on. Where do you want me to go?”

  So I kind of stab around in the dark, giving him information and directions until we have an account and a password. And once we’re at the grade book, I stab around some more until he’s found and printed the pages I need.

  “I’m guessing you’d like these tonight?” he asks when we’re done. “What do you say I bring over some Chinese takeout for dinner and do an old-fashioned clandestine handoff?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Unless you think Rita would have objections to my appearing out of the fog?”

  I laugh at the picture in my mind of him wearing a spy coat with a flipped-up collar, holding a big manila envelope. “Oh, I’m sure she’d love that. Too bad you gave away your awesome coat.”

  “It looks like young Billy is putting it to better use.”

  My brain whirs around. “How do you know about that?”

  He chuckles. “I’ve seen enough of your energetic friend to recognize him, even in costume.”

  “But … where did you see him?”

  “In the paper. Front page. Nice article about him and Justice Jack patrolling the mall. I’ll bring it when I come over.”

  “Hurry, would you?”

  I was suddenly starving. And Billy on the front page of the paper?

  This I had to see.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Right after I got off the phone with Hudson, I had the bright idea to have Holly hand off my homework to him. So I called her and asked her to set that up, and since she had worksheets for me from language and history, I was glad I did.

  I also asked her to get a message to Casey through Billy, which I knew she would.

  It’s nice having a friend I can count on.

  Anyway, when Grams came back from the meeting in the rec room, I sprang it on her that Hudson was coming over, and it sent her into a dusting frenzy. “A little notice would have been nice!” she gasped.

  “Someone bringing over dinner is nice,” I told her. “So, what was the meeting about?”

  “Well!” she huffs. “Vince Garnucci sure gave them a scolding!”

  “And?”

  “And I think he got through to them. He told them that he had a master key to all the apartments for emergencies and that he has never, ever abused the responsibility—”

  “Wait—he could come in here anytime?” It made sense, but I’d never actually thought about it before. And thinking about it now was pretty … scary.

  She flings my sweatshirt at me. “Which is why you shouldn’t leave your things lying around. Ever.”

  “Okay, okay!”

  “He also informed those vultures that he always has a licensed, bonded cleaning crew put the personal effects of a resident in storage for the heirs, and that he doesn’t touch it. And he told them they had no right or claim to Rose’s personal property, and that if they continued with their savage ways—”

  “Is that what he said? Savage ways?”

  She laughs. “Yes!”

  “Go, Mr. G!”

  She wipes the TV screen with the duster. “He said he would call the police and tell them exactly what was going on—that they were all beneficiaries of what was almost certainly illegal gambling—and that once the police were involved, all bets were off. He warned them that they might have to return their winnings and that the IRS would come after them and that the Housing Bureau would investigate and review their eligibility for residence at the Highrise. He said that he was a witness to all of it, and that after the miserable way they had treated him, he would have no problem testifying against them.”

  “Wow!”

  “They scurried off to their rooms like roaches from the light.”

  “So do you think I’ll be able to go to school tomorrow?”

  She hesitates, then moves toward the front door with a finger to her lips. “I guess Fran got the message,” she says after she’s checked outside. “She was here when I returned from the meeting, but she’s gone now.”

  I eye her. “You think Mr. Garnucci will sneak inside tonight?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. But what this has done is make me realize that I should not leave this apartment unattended until the contents of that candy box are in the bank.” She eyes me back. “And also that the two of us need to start being a lot more careful.”

  Dinner was delicious, but I was way more interested in checking out the big envelope Hudson had slipped me than in hearing a recap of the hijinks in the Highrise or watching Grams blush like a teenager every time Hudson paid her a compliment. So as soon as I’d finished eating, I excused myself and holed up in Grams’ bedroom.

  The first thing I pulled out of Hudson’s envelope was the newspaper, and there it was, a huge, full-color picture of Billy dressed as the Deuce, grinning at me from the front page.

  Justice Jack was standing a little in front of him in full hero gear with his gold-gloved fists punched onto his waist. And even though Billy was in his mask and bomber helmet and coat and stuff, anyone who knew him would recognize his goofy grin right away.

  The headline shouted VILLAINS BEWARE! and the subtitle was CITIZENS SHOW VIGILANCE, VALOR.

  It was mostly a puff piece about “a dynamic duo of colorful crime-watch characters” spiced up with Justice Jack–isms, such as “Evil is the rust of humanity—it never sleeps!” and “We tag ’em, the police bag ’em!” and “All aboard the Justice Express!” There were no quotes from Billy. Just that he had “heartthrob looks and a personality to match.”

  I had to laugh at that. Billy was cute, sure, but a heartthrob?

  Come on.

  Then I looked again.

  And I don’t know—maybe it was the mask, or just the way he was standing with his chest sort of puffed out, but he did seem older.

  And … handsome.

  And kind of … heroic.

  In a slightly goofy Billy Pratt way, but still.

  I was really tempted to call Marissa and ask if she’d seen the paper, but as the night ticked away, I got more and more ticked off by the fact that she hadn’t called me. I mean, she didn’t know why I’d missed school. For all she knew, I had the flu. Or a broken arm. Or maybe I’d been hit by a car!

  So I didn’t call her. Instead, I made myself focus on the grade-book records Hudson had brought over. But every time I noticed the clock, it hit me that she still hadn’t called, and it made me mad all over again.

  Finally at nine o’clock I was able to block her from my mind, since that’s our cutoff time for calling each other. And when Hudson left at nine-thirty, I moved my stuff out of Grams’ room and let her go to bed while I kept working at the kitchen table.

  It took me a while, but what I figured out with my calculator is that the difference between a C and a B can be one lousy five-point assignment.

  It can also be the difference between a B and an A.

  And I was missing a lot of lousy five-point assignments.

  And some ten- and
fifteen-pointers, too.

  I had A’s in PE and drama, so I didn’t have to worry about those, and even though I didn’t know if some of my teachers would take late work, I started with science and either found, finished, or did whatever assignments were missing.

  It was eleven o’clock when I was finally done with science, and I wanted to call it a night, but I still had history, language, and math to do. Plus the worksheets that Holly had picked up for me. So instead of quitting, I got a big glass of milk and some shortbread cookies and made myself keep working until midnight.

  And even though I had more to do, when I finally crashed on the couch, I felt happy.

  Like I’d just discovered that the boat I’d been drifting around in had a steering wheel.

  And I was free to use it.

  When Grams checked the hallway the next morning and gave me the all clear, I was ecstatic to get out of the Highrise. I swear, riding my skateboard never felt so good. And even though I’d only missed a day of school, it seemed like I’d been gone a week.

  The weird thing about school is that you’re supposed to be going there for an education, but so much other stuff happens when you’re there that it’s easy to, you know, misplace that reason. Especially when you walk into class and overhear someone like Heather in the middle of gossiping about a certain classmate who ran off with his homeschooled girlfriend.

  How can you not be distracted?

  “They got caught in Santa Luisa!” Heather was saying.

  “Santa Luisa?” Angie Johnson gasps. “How’d they get clear up there?”

  “Well, they had bikes,” Heather says like a snotty know-it-all.

  “That’s still a long way.”

  “Spokes powered by looooove,” Tracy Arnold says.

  Heather swings off her backpack. “Yeah, well, I heard Sasha’s parents are going to press kidnapping charges!”

  “Kidnapping?” Angie says. “What, they think Sasha didn’t pedal her own bike?”

  All of them laugh, and then Heather shrugs and says, “Kidnapping, abduction, whatever.”

  Billy walks into class right then, and just like that, Angie and Tracy abandon the conversation and swoop over to him. “Was that you in the paper?” Angie whispers.

  “Moi?” Billy asks, pointing to himself, and then flashes that unmistakable Billy Pratt grin.

  I give him a no-no-no! sign, but Heather descends on me and says, “By the way, I just sent something to my friend to share with your friend. Want to see?” and shoves her phone in my face. She turns it sideways, too, so I can get the full picture. “It’d be more fun if you losers had your own phones, but whatever.”

  Now, I try to keep a poker face, but I can feel myself turn red around the edges. Partly because I’m embarrassed by what I’m seeing, but also because I’m mad.

  Not that the picture has anything to do with me. On the screen, Heather’s arm is stretched way up to take the picture, but she’s lying back, giving the camera a totally smug grin while Danny’s face is buried in her neck.

  And let’s just say that they’re not exactly dressed for winter.

  It’s not easy to pull off, but I give her a confused look and say, “I thought Lars was with Sasha. What’s he doing latched onto your neck?”

  Her wrist snaps around and she looks at the picture. “That’s not Lars!”

  I grab her hand and turn it back. “Sure it is!” The final bell rings, so I let go and say, “Get your bicycle ready!” and take my seat.

  What I can never quite believe about Heather is how bad-girl and tough she acts, but how the most ridiculous little curve can totally undo her. I mean, there’s no way the guy in the picture is Lars Teppler. Even with his face not showing, it’s obviously Danny. Besides stuff like hair, Danny’s worn the same ring on the index finger of his left hand for as long as I’ve known him.

  And his hand was definitely in the picture.

  But still, as ridiculous as what I’d said was, it totally back-combed her. She kept looking at me during class, trying to get my attention so she could flash the IT’S DANNY, YOU IDIOT sign that she’d made.

  I already knew what the sign said because I’d sort of stretched up and seen it as she was making it. So when she was actually ready to show it to me, it was easy to ignore all her little coughs and dropped pencils and pssssts.

  I mean, I was supposed to be concentrating on the lesson, right?

  But see? That’s the trouble with school. It’s easy to lose track of why you’re there. Risqué pictures of your archenemy, boys running off with girls on bicycles, your good friend turning into the Deuce, hate signs being flashed during class … How can factoring equations, or events that happened a hundred years ago, or the details of photosynthesis compete?

  They can’t.

  So it’s a good thing nobody tries to teach anything at lunchtime, because nothing could have competed with what happened then.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It took me half of lunch, but I finally found Marissa behind the drama building, bawling her eyes out.

  None of her new, happy friends were with her, either.

  She looked up when I sat down beside her, then threw her arms around me and buried her head in my shoulder. “I am such an idiot!” she wailed.

  I heaved a sigh. “Yeah, you are.”

  She pulled back. “You’ve seen the picture?”

  “Heather shoved it in my face during history.”

  “Last night he promised me—promised me—that they were just friends. ‘Barely friends’ is what he said!”

  “So maybe she Photoshopped the picture?”

  Her eyes get all big. “You think?”

  I blink at her. “No! I’m just saying you always look for ways to let him off the hook.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you just did it again!”

  “But … you know how vicious Heather can be!”

  “Vicious, yeah, but not that clever. Or competent. There’s no way she Photoshopped that picture.”

  She sighs, “You’re right,” then collapses into a blubbering pool of heartache on my shoulder. “I am such an idiot!” And after she’s bawled some more, she pulls back and says, “Go ahead. Say it.”

  The funny thing is that last night when I was mad at her, I would have been happy to snap, I told you so! But now …? I just shake my head and say, “Nah.”

  Her face crinkles up. “Why didn’t I listen to you? And I was mean to you!”

  “Yeah, you kinda were.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

  “I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t exactly nice about it.” I heave a big sigh. “Just tell me you’re done with Danny.”

  She nods. “Promise.”

  So we sit around a little more talking about Danny and how Heather should be the one who’s embarrassed, and finally I stand up and say, “Come on. You need to get some cold water on your eyes before class. They are puffy!”

  So I drag her out from behind the drama building, but before we can get to the bathroom, she stops short and says, “What in the world …?”

  It’s Billy, with eight or nine girls following him, hanging on his every word.

  He looks happy, too.

  Really happy.

  I laugh. “He’s got heartthrob looks and a personality to match.”

  Marissa’s face pinches up. “What?”

  “You didn’t see the paper?”

  “What paper?”

  “The Santa Martina Times. He was on yesterday’s front page.” Then real quick I add, “Well, ‘the Deuce’ was.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  It hits me that I have the newspaper with me in Hudson’s clandestine envelope. So I swing off my backpack and dig it out. “Here,” I say, handing it over.

  At first she just stares.

  Then her jaw drops and she turns to me and gasps, “You’re serious?”

  “Yup.”

  She goes back to staring at the paper, and finally I nod an
d say, “My guess is we’re not the only ones who recognize him.” Then I add, “And I’m sure he’s telling his new fans that he’s going to be starring in a reality show, too.”

  Marissa’s face practically flies apart. “A reality show!”

  “Yeah, he shouldn’t be talking about it, but knowing Billy, he can’t help it.”

  “Sammy! What reality show?”

  The warning bell rings, so I snatch the paper back and stuff everything away. “Wow. You missed out on a lot with your little trip to Dannyville.”

  “Sammy! Don’t torture me—tell me!”

  I study her a minute. “This whole thing with Billy being the Deuce started off as a way for him to get over you. He was really, really hurt by what you did.”

  “I know,” she whimpers. She gives a pitiful look to where Billy is enjoying his harem and pouts. “Looks like he’s over me now.”

  “That’s a good thing, though, right?”

  She says, “Right,” but it’s easy to see that she’s kicking herself big-time.

  I give her half a hug and say, “I can’t be late to Rothhammer’s—I’ll catch you up in drama.” I start toward the science classroom. “There is so much to tell you!”

  “Can’t wait!” she calls back.

  Now, Ms. Rothhammer may be strict and serious, but she’s a really great person, and she’s probably my favorite teacher. So I felt a weird combination of nervousness and pride as I hurried to deliver my stack of makeup work to her before the tardy bell rang.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “Missing work.” I look her in the eye. “I’m sorry I’ve been slacking. I want to raise my grade. I want to get on the college track. Any amount of credit you decide to give me is fine.” Then I kinda laugh and say, “I hope it’s worth something, ’cause it was a lot of work!”

  The tardy bell rings, which in Ms. Rothhammer’s class means seated and silent, but before I scurry to my desk, she whispers, “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.”

  So I felt really good about that. And even though both Heather and Billy are in that class and there were plenty of reasons to get distracted, I made myself concentrate on the overheads and the lesson.