Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (14 page)

But there was Miss Kuzkowski, perched on the stool next to me, and all of a sudden it hit me—she's kinda young. Maybe barely an adult. So instead of answering her question about the artist reception, I ask, “How … um … How many years have you been a teacher?”

She pulls herself up straighter. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. Just wondering.”

“Well,” she says, dropping her voice, “this happens to be my first year, but I had a full year of student teaching, so I'm definitely qualified.”

“I didn't mean
that
….”

“That's okay,” she says. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I was so proud of you on Friday! I bragged to everyone that you were my student.”

She was sort of gushing, and since other students were all around I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable. So I said, “I hope you didn't brag to that Tess Winters lady—she hates me.”

“Tess? Oh, she can be very temperamental, but don't take that personally. It's just part of her creative process.”

“You
know
her?”

“Absolutely! She was one of my college professors, and now I'm one of her Disciples.”

“Her … disciples?”

She laughs. “I'd forgotten how funny that sounds. What I'm saying is, I'm in her artists' group.”

“What's that?”

“Just a group selected by Tess to meet and discuss art. We critique each other's projects, discuss art, encourage one another…. It's sort of a cross between an artist workshop and philosophers' forum.” She stands up to let Emma sit down next to me. “Didn't you think her work was brilliant?”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely!”

I jumped off my stool and followed her back to her desk. “Miss Kuzkowski, I don't get her stuff at
all.
It looks like something a two-year-old could do!”

“Aaaah,” she says, looking at me with a sort of sappy sympathy. “You just don't see it. Believe me, Sammy. It's deep.”

“I tried to get her to explain it, but she wouldn't. She was really mean about it, too.”

Miss Kuzkowski shakes her head and says, “She can be that way. Thank heaven I didn't tell the whole class to show up like I was going to. She was
not
in the mood.”

“Well, maybe she wouldn't talk to me, but I did get an interview for your assignment. With Diane Reijden.”

“Oh … ?” she says, and both her eyebrows go up. “I'm sure Ms. Reijden didn't have much nice to say about Tess, am I right?”

“I didn't really ask her about Tess. But why do you say that?”

“Because a couple of years ago, Tess was the head of a committee that approved art for a big showing in Santa Luisa. Apparently Miss Reijden was one of the artists whose work was refused.”

“Refused? Like, rejected?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You're kidding.”

“Well, she wasn't the only one. There was a whole slew of artists who didn't make the cut—that's just how these things work.” She shrugs. “But this time, the refused artists made a big stink and had a show of their own. It was all over the papers.”

“I don't get it. How could they not have liked Diane's paintings? Don't you think they're amazing?”

“Truthfully?” She eyes me and settles onto her stool. “I find them to be rather clichéd.”

“Clichéd? I've never seen anything like them!”

She smiles at me. Like I'm a little bird, perched on her windowsill. “You've just started looking, Samantha.”

At this point my cute little feathers are plenty ruffled, let me tell you. So I blurt out, “Well, what's so great about
Tess's
paintings? Can you tell me that? And why does she get to be head of some committee that rejects other people's art?”

“Oh, Sammy, Sammy,” she says with a sigh. “It's not something I can explain in two minutes.” The bell rings and she checks the door for tardies, then flips open her grade book to take roll. “You would learn so much if you
could sit in on a Disciple meeting, but I'm afraid that's a no-no.” She scans the classroom, counting heads. “Hopefully I'll be able to enlighten you in class before the end of the term.”

I took my seat, and for the rest of school my thoughts were like a pinball pinging around all over the place. Art. Casey. Heather.

Art.

My skateboard. Tess. Diane.

Art.

Grams. Hudson. Grams.

Art.

And I don't really know why the art thing bothered me so much. Why should I care if Tess told Diane her paintings weren't good enough for some art show? Why should I care if people thought a giant orange splot was brilliant, when what I saw was a mess? Wasn't it like food? I mean, some people like Chinese, some people like Mexican.

Some people like salsa in their macaroni and cheese.

But still, it bugged me. I didn't like that I didn't
get
it. How could any committee have rejected a painting like
Whispers
?

So I told myself, okay. Maybe I'd just imagined it. Maybe Diane's paintings had just looked great in comparison to orange splots and wild-eyed Indians. Maybe I'd seen something that wasn't really there.

Maybe.

After school, I threw on my backpack, grabbed my board, broke a few no-skating-on-campus rules, and met up with Marissa, who was strapping the tote bags to her
bike. “You are not going to be able to keep up with me,” I told her. “Man, I feel like I can
fly.
”

She laughed and chased after me. “Sammy, wait up!”

“
Catch
up!”

I hit the sidewalk running, then threw down my board and jumped on. My hair flew up behind me. The wind was everywhere, whooshing in my sweatshirt, pushing back my face. I pressed along, faster, faster, faster, ducking down driveways, zigzagging past kids walking, hopping curbs at intersections, doing ollies…. I felt like I haven't felt in ages. Charged. Electric. Like I could do anything.
Be
anything.

Marissa caught up on the street beside me and shouted, “Awesome!” and that's when it clicked that what I was feeling was something every kid in junior high wants to feel.

Free.

When we got to the intersection of Cook and Broadway, Marissa said, “Wow! I'd forgotten how good you were!” Then she checked her watch and said, “We've got tons of time before we're supposed to be home. Want to go to the arcade?”

“You know what? I don't. I want to go to the Vault, and I want you to come with me.”

“The Vault? Why?”

“Because there's something I want to see. And show you.”

She looked over at the mall and I could practically hear the arcade, calling her name. “I've got all this stuff on my bike, Sammy.”

“It's not that far … come on. I really want your opinion.”

“You just want to ride some more, huh?”

I pushed off. “That too!”

The wind was behind us now, gusting us along. Faster, faster, faster! I was a sidewalk serpent! A barrelin' boarder! Or, as one old guy walking a mangy terrier put it, a bleepin' “MANIAC.”

We got to the Vault in no time. And I was still all out of breath and buzzing at the knees as we headed for the Bean Goddess door, but as we start to cross a paved alleyway that runs between the Vault and the neighboring building, I pull back fast.

“What?” Marissa asks as I yank her down.

I put up a finger and whisper, “Hold on a minute,” then peek around the corner and down the alley.

It's Tess, all right.

Talking to someone in the alley.

Someone she sure doesn't want this “ragamuffin” girl to see.

TWELVE   

“Sammy, what are you doing? What's going on?” Marissa peeks around the corner, too. “Who are they?”

“That's Tess Winters—”

“The Splotter?”

“Yeah. And she just gave that guy an envelope.”

“So?”

“So that's the same door the Squirt Gun Bandit used. And look at the way she's acting. Look at
him.
”

He was sort of greasy looking. About 5′10″. Kind of wiry, with a ball cap and tennis shoes. And the more I watched the intense way Tess was talking to him while she kept checking over her shoulder inside the Vault, the more sure I became that something shady was going down.

When the man started off down the alley, Tess stepped back inside, closing the door tight. “You thinking what I'm thinking?” I whispered to Marissa.

She frowned at me. “I am not following anybody.” She pointed to her bike. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't.”

It was true—with her bike saddled down the way it was, she'd be invisible as an elephant. So I parked my board and stripped off my backpack. “I'll be right back.”

“Sammy, don't abandon me!”

“I'll be
right
back. Promise.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she grumbled as she slid down the building to sit. “I've heard
that
one before.”

I sprinted down the alley, and when I got to a small parking area behind the Vault, I saw that there was
another
alley running behind all the buildings on the block. It was dirt and gravel and narrow, with a busted wooden fence running along the other side—the kind of alley I try to stay away from.

I spotted the guy unlocking a jacked-up purple Camaro. The car had gray Bondo patches on the door, but the chrome bumpers and mirrors were buffed to blinding. And when he fired that big boy up, it had a deep, ornery growl—like, Hey, you puny four-bangin' import, don't even
think
about messing with me.

I crouched low and zigzagged around cars until I was laying low behind the back fender of a silver Honda. And I would have had a great shot at the Camaro's license as it backed out, only there was no front plate. So I scrambled up to the intersection of the two alleys, but before I could make out the back license, he threw the car in first and tore out of there, kicking gravel and dust up behind him.

I raced back to Marissa, who did a double take when she saw me. Then she stood up, made a real exaggerated pinch on her arm, and said, “Wow. That
was
quick.”

“Told you.”

“So?”

I shrugged. “Drives a purple Camaro, couldn't get the plates.” I picked up my stuff and started over to the Bean Goddess entrance, but all of a sudden I had an idea.

Marissa looks at me, looking at her. “Oh, no.
Now
what?”

“Why don't
you
go in and eavesdrop on Tess? You know her, but she doesn't know you!”

“But … why?”

“Maybe you'll hear something. Or see something.”

“Sammy …”

I grab her bike and pull off her pack. “Just go snoop, would you? I'll be inside in a minute.”

She rolls her eyes and gives a little
tsk
, but before you know it, she's shuffling into the Bean Goddess.

Now at first I'm just sitting against the building, surrounded by things with wheels and bags of stuff, looking like a junior bum-in-training. But after a while that gets old, so I decide to peek in the front window to see what I can see.

There are quite a few people inside. Some in line at the counter, being waited on by a couple of faux-bohemians with gelled hair and silver jewelry. There's another fauxbo collecting cups and wiping down tables, and then about fifteen customers, sitting at tables, reading and eating, and basically just worshiping the bean goddess.

But near the Vault archway, I spot Tess, wearing all black, and Jojo, wearing bright yellow boots and orange leather pants. They're rearranging furniture, making one long table out of a group of smaller ones. And sitting nearby, looking very self-conscious as she sort of hunches behind a plant, is Marissa.

I've got a real urge to pass her a magazine or a newspaper or shades, but all I can do is stand there, peeking in.

Then Jojo notices her. And even though he'd only ever seen her in that Renaissance dress, he recognizes her. He smiles real big, then goes over and sits with her, while Tess finishes arranging chairs around the long table she's made.

The minute Tess disappears through the Vault's arch-way, I lock up Marissa's bike, grab the tote bags, the backpacks, and my board, and go inside. And after I park all our junk in a corner, I go up to Marissa and Jojo and say, “Hi.”

Jojo stands and gives me the brightest smile. “There you are, Sweet Pea. There you
are.
”

I say, “Sorry I'm late,” to Marissa, then ask Jojo, “How's it going?”

“Ducky! Everything is just ducky! I've got a security guard …,” he motions over to the rent-a-cop visible through the Vault doorway, “… and we've had lots of traffic.” He claps his hands together and asks, “Can I buy you lattes? Iced mochas? Java swirls?” but before I can answer, his eyes get all big and he says, “Just tell the gals … tell them to put it on my account, would you?” Then he scurries off under the arch, disappearing into the Vault.

“That was weird,” Marissa says, looking over for what had spooked him. And it
was
weird, because the only person coming into the Bean Goddess was a scraggly-haired woman with round wire glasses. And with her wrinkly corduroy pants, faded sweatshirt, and dirty Velcro-strap Nikes, she sure didn't
seem
like anyone to be afraid of— she just looked like a harmless bag lady coming in out of the wind for a cup of coffee.

So I shook my head and said, “I wonder what that was all about.”