Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (21 page)

“Danny's?”

“No, Casey's!”

“Marissa … !”

“You'd better not be mad at me. I went through a lot of trouble and embarrassment to get it.”

“Embarrassment? What do you mean?”

“Well, he's not in the phone book, but he
is
in that Drama Club play on Thursday.”

“So?”

“So I found out they were having a rehearsal and—”

“Good grief! Why'd you do all this?”

“Because I'm your friend, that's why.”

“But—”

“Anyway, I had to, you know, interrupt the rehearsal, so I couldn't exactly explain things to him. Besides,” she adds really fast, “I figured it would make you mad at me if I did.”

“Got that right,” I grumbled.

“So I made it quick, but Ms. Pilson was still plenty annoyed.” I could practically see Marissa rolling her eyes. “You know how she gets.”

It was true. Ms. Pilson's nose seemed to get really sharp and pointy when you interrupted her. Warts popped up everywhere. But all that was beside the point. I didn't
want
Casey's number. I didn't know what I
did
want, but having his number was certainly not it. That would just make me nervous. Like if I had it, I
could
call when I didn't really think I
should
call. Or
should
call when I didn't really
want
to call.

It made everything way too complicated.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I ask her.

“Aren't you going to at least say thank you?”

“Marissa I … I …”

“I cannot believe what an absolute coward you're being about this. Why are you so fearless about everything but Casey?”

I just stood there, gripping the phone.

“Huh? Why?” she asked.

“I'm … I'm not
afraid
of him, I just—”

“You just what? Don't want to get involved? Well, I've got news for you, Sammy, you already are. And if you don't straighten this mess out, Heather wins.”

“She can't win if I don't play.”

“Fine. So I'll play for you. I'll call him and tell him what happened.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because it's … it's
my
mess.”

She was quiet for a minute, then grumbled, “You are so stubborn….” Then all of a sudden she switches gears. “Oh! Billy Pratt is in Drama Club, too! And you're never going to believe this—he was dressed up as a girl.”

“No way.”

“Seriously! He plays a barmaid.”

“A
barmaid
? At William Rose Junior High?”

“Yup. At least he was wearing a wig and a barmaid costume. They even had him stuffed.”

“No way.”

“Yeah! And while Ms. Pilson was going over lines, he was pulling out Kleenexes and blowing his nose. 'Course when Ms. Pilson saw what everyone was laughing about, she had a meltdown.

“I'll bet.”

“Anyway, look. I told Casey you would call tonight, so you'd better.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“Okay, then you can go ahead and call him. And you can tell him that I can't call tonight. Tell him I'll call him … later.”

She was quiet for a minute. So quiet, I wasn't even sure she was still there. “Marissa?”

“Nine-two-two three-three-four-four. I'm not talking to you until you talk to him.”

Click.

She'd said it before I could plug my ears. Before
I
could hang up in the middle of it. It was such an easy number, too. One I wouldn't be able to block out of my mind.

No matter how hard I tried.

I chickened out. I even went down to a phone booth to call, just in case Casey had caller ID or something. And I did dial, but after one ring I hung up. And then after standing around the phone booth fighting with myself for twenty minutes, I went home.

The next day in homeroom, Marissa asked, “Well?”

I cringed. “I started to, but …”

She scowled at me, then made like she was buttoning her lips and sat down.

“I
will,
” I told her. “I just have to figure out how.”

She just looked down her nose at me, then turned away.

And that's how she acted the whole day. After school I waited forever for her in the stupid wind, but when she finally showed up, she just slipped me a note that said, “I hate not talking to you. Call him!” and took off without me.

So I felt really lonesome, okay? I know it's pathetic and all my own fault, but that's how I felt. And since Dot takes the bus or gets picked up by her dad and I hardly ever see Holly after school anymore because she volunteers at the Humane Society, I headed home on my own. I didn't even ride my board at first, that's how bad I felt. I just tucked it under my arm and shuffled through the
wind, thinking. Thinking about how everything was all mixed up and turned around. Hudson and Grams were acting like a couple of moody teenagers, my best friend wasn't talking to me, and who knows what Casey Acosta really wanted from me. Maybe he did like me, maybe he didn't. And who knows how I felt about him. He
was
cute. He
was
funny. And nice, and smart, and even, you know,
courageous.
But I was scared to find out more. Scared that he might be just another version of Billy Pratt, taking a dare at my expense.

So I was all caught up in thinking dark, stormy thoughts, when suddenly I realized I was riding my board. And I wasn't exactly rolling toward home—I was headed for the Vault.

The minute I was in the gallery, standing in front of Diane's paintings, I started feeling better.

Like I had company.

I looked at
Whispers
first, but then I found myself in front of
Resurrection
—Hudson's favorite. And the more I looked at it, the more I liked it, too. That one leaf with its tips dipped in gold, swirling,
dancing
above the others. It felt happy. Light. Free.

Just like I wanted to feel inside.

Then I moved over to
Awakening
—the one with a young tree arching over a small meadow. The grass was a soft green, spotted with wildflowers. And all the flowers were still folded closed, except in one strip where the sun shone. There they were turning up, opening. Like they were sunning their faces, breathing in the joy of a brand-new day.

I hadn't even noticed the flowers the first time I'd looked
at the painting. I'd noticed the tree and the ray of sunshine and the tidy olive green fence in the background, but I'd missed the flowers. They were a subtle yellow. Quiet. But the more I looked at the painting, the more I understood that they were the focus. They were the picture.

I just stood there, wishing I could sit in that meadow and soak in the comfort of starting fresh. And I wondered where you could go to feel that way. Where
she
had gone to see this.

And then very slowly this odd sensation crept over me. Like I
had
been there before. Only … only not.

I stared at the painting for the longest time, trying to remember something. A dream, maybe.

But what dream?

I went over to
Whispers
and stared at it, too. Then back to
Awakening.
And my heart was starting to do really funny things. Really
weird
things. Like beating too fast, then not beating at all.

It was coming to me.

Yes, it was.

But … was I just imagining it?

I mean, it didn't really make sense.

I took one last look at
Awakening
, then decided—I had to go see for myself. See if it was real or just my runaway imagination again.

So I'm backing away from Diane's installation with a lot on my mind when I sort of stumble, right into someone. And when I whip around to say I'm sorry, who's standing there smiling at me?

One millionaire bag lady.

“Well, hello again!” she says.

“Hi, Mrs. Weiss,” I tell her, but really, I don't want to stand around and chat with any millionaire bag ladies.

But she holds on to my arm and whispers, “Have you seen him around, dear?”

I knew she meant Jojo, so I shook my head.

“How about the Splotter?” she asks with a grin.

Now, okay. I couldn't be rude and just bail on her, so I stopped pulling away and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Weiss. I don't think anyone's been here—just the security guard.”

She tisks and says, “Well, I can see that this business is going nowhere. And I think I've been patient long enough.”

The way she said it sounded so … final. And all of a sudden I felt really bad for Jojo. I mean, obviously he was
trying
to make his art gallery successful—maybe he just needed a little more time. “Mrs. Weiss, I think Jojo's a really nice guy. I'm sure he'll come through with the rent….”

She shook her head. “The man is trying to sell watercress sandwiches at a rodeo. He's made a gallant effort, but it's a hard sale to make, and it's time to face facts.”

“But—”

“There, there. He's resourceful and charismatic. He'll be just fine.” Then she turned around and hurried away.

I wanted to find Jojo and warn him. But I really didn't know where to find him, and besides, there was someplace else I needed to go.

So the minute I was outside, I tossed down my board and rode. But the closer I got, the more uneasy I felt, and by the time I'd reached the mailboxes, I'd decided that I
really didn't want anyone to see me. So I stripped off my backpack and stashed it with my board behind a bush, then started tiptoeing up the driveway. Trouble is, no matter how you walk on it, gravel crunches.

It seemed to take me forever to get to the Reijden property, especially since I was on the lookout for Flannel Man and his tattletale squirrels. So by the time I reached the picket fence, I felt like a real sneak thief, which was stupid—I wasn't there to steal anything!

Still, my heart was bumping around like crazy, so I crouched low for a minute behind the fence. Then, when I'd calmed down a little, I moved to where I could see beyond the pine trees and vines, into the center of Diane's yard.

The grass was knee-high—much too tall for dainty yellow wildflowers. And there was no graceful little tree, just the big walnut tree, with rough, chunky bark.

But off in the distance, between bushes and weeds and vines, I could see sections of the white pickets that marked off the Reijden property. The same fence that wound its way around to where I was standing.

I crouched behind the fence again and just stayed there for a minute, thinking. Finally I picked up a rock and started scraping paint off the fence.

It wasn't hard to do. It was flaky and weathered. And underneath the white paint was … yellow.

Yellow?

I started scraping again. Harder. Faster. And when I'd dug through the yellow paint, there it was—olive green.

Just like the fence in the painting.

I looked out across the yard again, hearing Diane's words
in my head:
… I like art to represent life as it should be or could be … an ideal to which you should strive.

So what about those hideous statues she had made?

I sure wasn't striving for
that
ideal, let me tell you.

“Hallo, missy. What'cha doing there?”

I fell over, right on my rear end. And when I turned around to face him, Flannel Man laughed and said, “Bit of a guilty heart?”

“No!”

“Then … ?”

I stayed sitting, hugging my knees as I faced him. “I was thinking, is all.”

He nodded slowly with his lips puckered out. Like he was doing some thinking of his own. Finally he says, “About … ?”

“Art.”

“Art, is it?”

“Yes! I just don't get it.”

He laughs. “And you're going to discover its truths by hiding behind a fence, are you?”

“I'm not hiding. I'm … I'm thinking.”

“Ah,” he says, like, Uh-huh.

“Well, I am. I mean, for instance—have you ever seen Diane, uh,
Lizzy's
statues?”

His eyebrows pop up and his eyes drift around, and I can tell he doesn't know how to say what he's thinking.

“They're ugly—just say it, that's what they are.”

“My mum always told me it was all in the eye of the beholder.”

“Well, behold this—they're ugly. But her paintings! Have you seen those?”

He shakes his head.

“They're displayed at the Vault right now. You should go look. They are amazing.”

“The Vault?”

“The art gallery. Next to the Bean Goddess?”

He shakes his head some more. “I don't fancy going out.”

“Well, ask her to show them to you when she brings them home. Or ask her if you can see the one she's working on. Then you'll see why I'm all confused. It's like she went from being Elizabeth Reijden, Sculptress of Grotesque Bodies, to Diane Reijden, Awesome Painter. And her paintings have so much, you know,
feeling
in them. There's this one with these leaves just dancing in the air. And another of a little girl whispering something. It's just so … magical. You feel like you're there. Like any second you're going to get to know the secret. And there's one of a tree and a little meadow and a fence—it's this fence, I swear it is, 'cause in the painting it's olive green, just like this one used to be. Only it's
not
this fence. It's all tidy and … I just don't get what's going on in her head. Is she remembering her childhood? Is she—”