Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man (10 page)

Monet giggles. “Amber is
mad
.”

“At Sammy?”

“A little at Sammy, but more at Jared.”

“Why? He can’t help it that that loser Sammy’s all gooey over him.”

Monet squeaks, “ ’Cause he’s eating it up! I heard Amber tell Jill that all he does is talk about his ‘animal magnetism’ and how he’s powerless to stop her. She told Jill that it’s turning him into an egomaniac. Can you believe it? Like his ego could’ve gotten any bigger.”

Heather doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she asks, “You think she’s going to break up with him?”

“Oh, who knows? You saw her out there in your living room—she’s like glued to him. Gag me.” Then she laughs. “Maybe if
Sammy
was here …”

Heather snickers and says, “So tell me about Sammy.”

There goes my heart again,
ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom
. Monet says, “She’s
real
upset about everyone teasing her about Jared. What an idiot! Did she think it wouldn’t get around?” She coughs a couple of times and says, “She’s gotta be kinda weird. I mean, who would paint their shoes
green?
”

Heather snickers some more. Now normally I’d want to pop out from under the bed and tell Monet to spray Off up her nose, but for some reason it’s easy just to lie there with a box spring in my face, listening. And the more I listen, the more I understand that breaking up Amber and Jared and framing
me
for it is so important to Heather that she hasn’t told anyone about it. No one knows what Heather’s up to.

No one but me.

And no one is going to be able to get me out of the mess I’m in.

No one but me.

I was so relieved that Monet hadn’t overheard anything about my plan to crash the party, that when Heather stuffed the cigarette pack back under her bed it didn’t even faze me. And after they got done hosing the room down with air freshener and marched out the door, there I was, under Heather Acosta’s bed, all alone.

I didn’t waste any time. I popped the monitor’s plug into the outlet and clicked on the switch. Then I pulled myself out from under that polyester cow, straightened out my costume, turned the key of Heather’s music box a few times, and snuck back to the bathroom.

Once I’d locked myself in the bathroom, I took out the other half of the monitor and turned it on. And when I heard music coming through that pink and white receiver, I did a little princess victory dance.

When the music started slowing down, I turned the monitor off, stuffed it into my tights, straightened myself out, and headed back to the party.

I hadn’t been in the living room more than thirty seconds when Dot comes buzzing over and whispers, “Where have you
been?
”

Marissa comes up behind me. “Did you do it?”

I smile and nod. “It’s a done deed.”

Anyone looking at us would’ve known we were up to something because Marissa’s and Dot’s eyes are bugged way out, and we’re huddled up like football players. So I take a step back and try to act like I’m talking about homework. “You know Monet Jarlsberg? Guess who’s been
paying
her to spy on people?”

They look at each other and then back at me. “Heather?”

I nod, and Dot says, “She’s been
paying
her?”

“That’s right, and guess who she was spying on today at lunch?”

Dot fades into an albino bee. “Does she
know?
”

“No, but I’m ready to get out of here. How about you?”

So we’re about to head for the door when Marissa whispers, “Your dot’s running.”

It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. I blot my cheek with the back of my hand and, sure enough, there’s eyeliner smeared on it. I say, “Is that better?”

“No, it’s worse!”

Dot’s busy trying to fix it when all of a sudden Marissa takes off. And as I’m wondering where she’s going, my ears hear something that my brain’s not quite receiving. It’s kind of like when Grams is waking me up to go to school: “Samantha … Samantha … say, Samantha, it’s time to get up.…” But it’s not Grams’ voice I’m hearing, and it’s not “Samantha” that’s drifting into my brain. It’s “Nikki … Nikki … hey, Nikki! What’s going on?”

When I finally figure out that it’s Heather talking to
me
, I slap a hand over my cheek like I’m busy thinking and squeak, “Um … well, actually, we’ve got to get going. But it sure was a great party!”

“Already?”

“Yeah, sorry. I had the best time, though.” I giggle and tilt my head and let the scarf on my pointy hat drape in front of my face a bit. Then, because it seems like she’s going to ask me something else, I say, “And those are still the coolest earrings I’ve ever seen. Where’d you get ’em?”

Heather prances around in her leather and chains. “At the mall.” Then she whispers, “They were only two bucks.”

“No way!”

And you’re not going to believe this, but she pulls them off her earlobes,
snap, snap
, and hands them to me.

I keep my cheek covered up while I say, “No, really, I can’t.” But before you know it I’m standing there holding the ugliest earrings on earth, saying, “Heather, you’re something else.”

My feet had absolutely no problem finding their way to the door or down the street. And by the time Dot and I got to the end of the block I was so relieved to be
out
of there that I just stood on the curb for a minute, looking at the moon, wondering how long it would take for Heather to figure out who Princess Nikki really was.

*  *  *

By the time we had all met back at Dot’s and gotten out of our costumes, it was pretty late. And when Dot’s dad found out that Marissa and I were planning to walk home, he insisted on driving us instead. I had him drop me off at a house two blocks from the Senior Highrise, and then ran the rest of the way home.

When I walked through the door Grams was half-asleep on the couch, but she didn’t stay that way for long. She made me tell her all about the party, and even though she kept one hand in front of her mouth, underneath it I could see a smile. And when I was all done, she couldn’t help it anymore. She busted up.

When she’s all done laughing, she puts her arm around me and says very seriously, “Samantha, I know that growing up isn’t easy. Even for kids like Heather, who make it
look
easy—it’s just not. And it’s too bad that people like Heather have to make it rough on people like you, but I want you to know I’m proud of you for not taking her shenanigans lying down.” She looks at my feet and says, “I’ve also been thinking that there are a few things I could do to make life a little easier on you. I think it’s high time we went out for a decent pair of shoes.”

I nod and say, “I do want another pair of shoes, Grams, but if I get another pair now, Heather’s going to know that she got to me. I don’t
want
green shoes, but if I get another pair now, she’ll think
she’s
the reason.”

Grams frowns. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I must have been really tired because I don’t really remember getting ready for bed. I do sort of remember Grams easing off my shoes and tucking me in, but the next thing I know I’m waking up to sunshine and the jingling of keys.

I look up, and there’s Grams, coming through the door with a basket full of folded laundry, and perched on top of it are my green shoes. “Sorry for waking you, dear.”

“Where are you going with those?”

“Where I’ve
been
is to the basement. And I’ve spent the last hour and a half in the laundry room trying to get these things to come clean. I prewashed them—I bleached them. It’s hopeless, Samantha. I know you’re attached to them, but look here—they’re practically worn through on the bottom.” She puts down the laundry basket with a thud. “Heather or no Heather, it’s time I took you to the mall for a pair of real shoes.”

“Grams, no! Not the mall!”

“Why not the mall? They have perfectly good shoes at the mall.”

Grams may act like she accepts my high-tops, but not-so-deep-down inside she hates them. Green or not. If she had her way, my poor little toes would be covered in buckles and bows. And buckles and bows or not, I
hate
new shoes. They pinch your toes and bite your heels and rub you raw until they’re finally broken in, and then they’re not
new
anymore. Why pay all this money for new shoes and have your feet feel like they’ve been gnawed on by a grizzly bear, when there are shoes out there that have already gnawed up somebody
else’s
feet and are ready to start being nice?

So I jump up and say, “But they’re expensive! Why don’t I just take the SMAT bus over to the Thrift Store and look for a pair there.”

“Another pair of … 
those?
”

“Grams, high-tops are the best. They’re comfortable, they last a long time, and they’re only a few bucks over at the Thrift Store.”

She sighs. “Well, they’re practical, I suppose. They’re just not very ladylike.”

So we sit down to a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and grapefruit, and after we’ve cleaned up, Grams digs through her purse and hands me a ten, a five, and five ones. “Is this going to be enough for bus fare and shoes?”

“It’s plenty, Grams. Thanks.” So off I go, over to the mall to catch the SMAT bus.

Santa Martina doesn’t have big city buses. We’ve got little ones, like shuttle buses. They look like dog carriers for people, if you ask me, but they’re actually pretty nice inside. Sometimes there’s a bum or two kind of passed out in the back, but usually I sit up close to the driver.

I was the only one waiting at the bus stop when it showed up, and since there were only a couple of other people on board, I got to sit right behind the driver.

So, we’re roaring around town, having a good time stopping at bus stops and pumping diesel exhaust into the air, when I see a sign for Morrison Street. And we’re about two blocks past Morrison when I remember that Hudson had said Chauncy’s brother lived somewhere near Morrison Street. So I’m turning around, trying to see something that’s already long gone, when the bus driver comes squeaking up to a red light and says in the mirror, “Something wrong?”

I know it’s not a bus stop, but the bus
is
stopped, so I jump up and say, “I’ve got to get off here.”

He pushes his hat back and scratches what’s left of his hair. “I can’t do that.”

“But I … I … I’m …” I open my eyes wide and hold my stomach. “I’m gonna barf!”

He slams that door open, and I’m off faster than a bull at
a rodeo. After he zooms away, I cross over to a gas station and dig through the phone book at the pay phone. There was only one LeBard listed, so I figured that
LEBARD, D.W.
, 123
ELM CT
. must be Chauncy’s brother.

I didn’t know where Elm Court was so I went up and asked the gas station attendant. He points back down Broadway with his squeegee and says, “Take a right on Morrison. You’ll run right into it.”

So off I go down Broadway, and when I hit Morrison I take a right and, sure enough, there’s Elm Court.

Elm goes way around in a circle. It’s like the world’s biggest cul-de-sac with an island of houses in the middle. Some of the houses have peaky-pointy roofs and look like little dollhouses from Denmark, and some of the houses have flat roofs and look like little adobe forts, but all of them are really tidy and have perfect little yards.

Number 123 was one of the dollhouses. And it was different from the other dollhouses not because of the yard—it was perfect just like the rest of them—but because the yard had grass and nothing else. No trees, no flowers, no vines. No bushes.

I didn’t really know what I was doing there. Part of me wanted to go up and ask Chauncy’s brother a bunch of questions, and part of me thought it was the stupidest idea I’d had in a
long
time and just wanted to head out to the Thrift Store. Before you know it, though, I’m on the porch, pushing the doorbell.

Nobody answers. And I’m turning around to leave when a man and a woman decked out in white cotton and carrying tennis rackets come walking toward the house.

They stare at me and I stare at them, and the man says, “May I help you?”

There’s no doubt about it—this is Chauncy’s brother. He’s a bit taller and healthier-looking than Chauncy, but his
eyes
are what give it away. They’re a clear brown, like toffee-colored marbles. And sharp, like he knows what you’re thinking before you’ve even had a chance to finish thinking it.

“Mr. LeBard?”

He looks straight at me. “Yes, and you are …?”

I stick out my hand. “Samantha Keyes.”

While he’s shaking my hand, he never takes his eyes off me. I try to keep looking straight at him, too, but it’s hard—like looking at the sun.

“Chauncy was robbed the other night. I thought you might want to know.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He leans his head forward a little, then squints and says, “He sent you here, didn’t he? Well, you just tell him I’m not interested in this ploy of his. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times—I’m through with him. I want nothing to do with him!”

I squint right back at him. “He did
not
send me. I just thought you might want to know.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Wait a minute, would you? Hudson says you guys used to be really close and—”

“I do
not
want to hear any more of this. You tell that busybody Hudson Graham to mind his own business!”

Up until now Mrs. LeBard has just been standing there,
watching and listening, but when her husband starts getting all worked up she holds him by the arm and says softly, “Douglas, give the girl a chance to talk. It’s been almost ten years. Life doesn’t go on forever, you know.”

While he’s busy thinking about telling her to stay out of it, I say, “He didn’t want the inheritance, you know. He said that your mother did him no favors.”

Ol’ Douglas turns on me. “I’m sure charming Chauncy has told you a lot of things. He may think he can talk his way out of any situation, but this is one time his vocabulary isn’t going to do him any good. I’m not listening!”