Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (24 page)

Everyone starts clapping and whistling and yipping while Ms. Pilson says, “Ladies and gentlemen,
Laddies Gone Amok
!”

It's like she let loose a family of mice. Heads start popping out of Weary Warrior windows, and kids scurry on-stage from the wings.

The two heads sticking out of the Weary Warrior windows have on big wigs and plumed hats, and around their necks are dangling rows and rows of beads. One of the wigs is blond, the other black, and I don't recognize the faces. I also don't recognize the group of boys near the rubber-chicken contraption. But it's definitely Casey standing on the fourth rung of the ladder. And of course I recognize Billy Pratt, in a barmaid's apron and skirts, stuffed to a triple-D, in front of Bedlam's Tavern.

All the players are wearing blousy shirts and dresses— like they've just come in from the Renaissance Faire. And they're busy milling around, making like they're carrying on conversations with their neighbor, when all of a sudden a guy in big black
waders
bursts onto the stage, shouting, “O fate, O cursed fate! I shall find thee soon! And then thy fate shall be that of a fox before the hound!” He looks around madly, then says to Casey, “Have you seen him, m'lord? Have you? The scourge, the miscreant! The bane of my soul!”

“ 'Tis Sir Calwell you seek again, m'lord?”

“Aye!”

“He's not been about today.”

“Nor yesterday! Or so you say!” The guy in waders moves toward the ladder with his nose twitching in the air. “But there's an odor most foul, and
you
, sir,” he says, producing a sword from inside his coat, “might well be on task to conceal it!”

“Not I, sir,” Casey says, but he cuts a look at the blond hanging out of the Weary Warrior window and gives her a nod.

The guy with the sword and the waders looks up to the windows, too, but Casey isn't giving away anyone's hiding place. He's asking for a sword. The blond tosses him one while the black-haired girl in the lower window shouts, “Lords, lords! Let him rot and perish, but be calm to-night!” But then the blond calls, “Nay! The justice of a duel pleases! A duel, a duel!”

Now, Marissa, Holly, Dot, and I all look at each other and start whispering because we can tell from their voices—the girls in the windows aren't girls at all— they're boys. And then Holly says, “And look! Those boys back there by the chickens? Isn't that Sandra Wayze and Lisa … what's her name? Lisa …”

“Ronaldi! You're right,” Marissa says. “That's Lisa Ronaldi!”

So while we're figuring out that all the girls are boys and the boys are girls—well, except for Waders and Casey anyway—Blondie is hanging out of the window waving her—well,
his
—arms at the audience, trying to get us to join in with his chanting, “A duel! A duel!”

So we do. And pretty soon the cafeteria's shaking from the whole school shouting, “A duel! A duel!”

So Casey and Waders give each other a little bow, then hold their swords up, tip to tip. Then Blondie makes a grand throat-cutting motion out at the audience, and all at once, we all hush up.

What Mr. Caan would give for the powers of a cross-dressing blond.

Anyway, Waders and Casey broaden their stances, raise their left arms for balance, and the duel begins.

Only,
thwap, flap
, these are not metal swords. They're
rubber
swords. Really soft rubber swords. They bend and U-turn and make for really ridiculous dueling, and pretty soon the whole audience is laughing its collective head off.

Now the rest of the cast gets in on the action, too, taking turns shouting or wailing or both. And everyone's busy, moving around. The two in the Inn are popping back and forth between windows, putting up little masquerade masks as they go from one window to the other, pretending to be more than one person, squealing stupid girlie stuff like, “Oh, m'
lord,
” and, “Such a dastardly duel!” and, “M'lord, be careful!” while the guys, well,
girls
from the back part of the stage move forward carrying rubber chickens. And after another exchange of words between Casey and Waders, Sandra and Lisa and the other “boys” start swinging their chickens. And then someone backstage lets a bag of feathers go, and pretty soon there are little downy feathers floating around everywhere.

Now, the amazing thing is, this is not a brawl. It's more like a dance. I mean, in a brawl it's just chaos and noise. But here, the players are ducking under and hopping over flying rubber chickens, steering clear of rubber swords, saying their lines one right after the other instead of all in one big roar. It's loud, and there's a lot of action, but it's not a free-for-all—it's
tight.

And things seem to be building louder and louder, getting more and more intense—like a crescendo in a
symphony or something. But then Casey presses Waders back, back, back with his sword until he backs right into Billy Pratt.

Suddenly the whole stage freezes. Even the little feathers seem to hold still in midair.

Now all this time, Billy Triple-D Pratt has had his back to the action, making like he can't hear or see the ruckus all around him, whistling and wiping down a little round table at Bedlam's Tavern.

But when Waders backs into him, Billy turns to face him, then sort of hides behind his cleaning cloth. “Why, good evenin', m'lord,” he says in the stupidest girlie voice I've ever heard. “Hast thou come to Bedlam's for a spot o' tea?”

Waders seems to forget all about the duel. He lowers his sword and says, “A spot o' tea? What sort of rubbish is this? Tea, indeed!”

“A beer then, perhaps? Brewed straight from the root!”

“A root beer you say?”

“Aye, 'tis most delicious,
teee-heee-heee.
”

“My, you're a saucy one, wot? All right then, a beer it 'tis.” Then he looks to the audience—first at Mr. Caan, then at the rest of us—and calls, “Wot kind of beer?” and as he cups his ear, all of William Rose shouts, “Root beer!”

Well, except for a couple of idiots in the back who shout, “Coors!” and, “Bud!”

“Aye, that's it, then.”

So while Billy pretends to pull him a root beer, Waders checks him over, saying, “Don't suppose you've seen a certain Lord Calwell about, eh?”

Billy's eyes get all big in the direction of the audience, then he hides his face a little and giggles, saying, “Nay, sir. I heard rumor he'd left for London.”

“Have you now,” Waders says, taking the mug from Billy.

Then Casey comes over and says to Billy, “I've worked up a wicked thirst, too, m'lady.” He claps a hand on Waders' shoulder as he sits down next to him. “So let's toast! And then perhaps we'll duel to the death?”

“Nay,” says Waders. “Your sword is fierce and your tongue sharp. Let's leave it be.” Then he draws his sword again and stands up, moving in on Billy. “But
you
, m'lady …” He lifts Billy's chin with the tip of the sword, then suddenly snags his wig off and cries, “Or should I say, Lord Calwell!”

Billy squeals. Then after spinning in a circle, he jumps offstage and gets chased by Waders down one aisle, around the back of the audience, and up the other aisle. Then he jumps back onstage and hides behind Casey, shaking in his D cups.

“Hold!” cries Casey with his sword out to Waders. “Methinks I have a solution!”

The three of them huddle in the middle of the stage while all the other players cup their ears and lean toward them. And after a few seconds, Billy steps to the edge of the stage, puts one finger up, and says in a big boomy voice, “My penance, fair folk? I must kiss a codfish!”

“What?” Marissa and I gasp at each other. Then Ms. Pilson moves forward from her spot at the side of the stage, looking from her script to Billy and back to her script. And she's frantically mouthing something at Billy,
but Billy's already on his way off the stage, charging down the first aisle.

Now, to tell you the truth, I was scared to death that he was coming right for me. But he just winks at me as he goes by and heads straight back.

Straight for Heather.

Heather screeches when she realizes what's happening, then makes everything even worse by trying to run away from him. She tears down the aisle, around back, and up the other aisle, crying, “Stop him! Somebody stop him!” But Billy's just hamming it up, reaching down his blouse while he's chasing after her, flinging Kleenex into the audience left and right, crying, “My codfish! My slippery, onion-eyed codfish! Don't let her get away!”

Everyone thinks this is all part of the play, so nobody's stepping in to stop Billy. And then Marissa starts chanting, “Catch the cod, catch the cod, catch the cod,” and pretty soon the whole room is shouting, “Catch the cod! Catch the cod! Catch the cod!”

But when they make it around to the front, Ms. Pilson comes to Heather's rescue, putting her arms out to block the aisle.

That doesn't stop Billy, though. He grabs Heather's face and lays a big, loud smooch right on her cheek.

Heather screams,
“Aaarrrhhh!”
then charges for the side door, wiping off her face, screeching, “I am not a codfish!”

Billy just smiles and hops back onstage. Then he throws his arms in the air and shouts, “
This
laddie's gone amok!”

Everyone in the audience whistles and claps and yips, because even with Ms. Pilson blocking the path, it did seem like it was all just part of this crazy play.

I don't know what was
supposed
to have happened in the play, but I guess they decided that this was a good way to end, because after a few seconds the whole cast steps forward, links arms, and shouts, “The more we practice, the better we fake it!” then takes a grand bow.

What I do know is, nobody clapped harder than me.

They cleared us out of the cafeteria so they could pull the tables out and set up for lunch. And normally Dot, Holly, and I would have just parked at our patio table with our sack lunches while Marissa went back to the hot-lunch line, but we couldn't stop talking about the play, so we all waited in line with Marissa.

And we were just laughing away, when all of a sudden Marissa's eyes get all big and she gasps, “Ohmygod!”

“What?” I ask her, thinking something's wrong.

“They're serving …”

The rest of us look and cry, “Fish sticks!” then totally bust up.

“So that's where Heather ran off to,” Holly says. “Around back to get caught …”

“Cut …”

“And fried!”

Marissa shakes her head, still laughing. “I think this is what Ms. Pilson calls ‘poetic justice.' ”

But then Dot reels us all in by whispering, “Nuh-uh. It's called wishful thinking … there she is, right there.”

We watch as Heather walks up and takes cuts from Tenille and Monet and then just stands there, glowering at us from twenty feet back.

So. Heather wasn't fried filet after all. She was just hate bait, as usual.

It had been a fun fantasy while it lasted.

And even though I could tell she thought I'd masterminded what had happened to her—even though it was very tempting to start up a chorus of “Codfish! Codfish! Codfish!”—I just turned my back on her.

She'd started it, Billy'd finished it.

I was going to stay
out
of it.

So I'm just standing in line with my friends, feeling kind of proud of myself for swimming away from temptation, when all at once Holly's face pulls back, Marissa's eyes bug out, and Dot takes a nervous step backward. And from the looks on their faces, I can tell who's coming up behind me.

Heather.

So I whip around, ready to put up a karate block or something, only it's
not
Heather.

It's her brother.

He's not wearing his hat, and he doesn't have his sword, but he is still mostly in costume. He grins at me, saying, “Hey, take it easy! I was just hoping you'd let me have cuts.”

I was so embarrassed! Then, like a moron, I popped off with, “You gotta ask nice,” and before I know it, he's on one knee, grabbing my hand with both of his, saying in a loud, stage voice, “I beg thee, fair Samantha! This weary
traveler's had but a morsel all day. 'Tis a small thing I ask—”

“Okay, okay!” I tell him, trying to pull free.

He doesn't let go, though. He just holds on and grins. And then, very slowly, he brings my hand closer, closer, closer.

Right up to his lips.

Then he jumps up and gets into line, saying, “So, what's for lunch?”

Now, personally, I can find no vocabulary. It's like my hard disk has been demagnetized by my hand.

But Marissa, Holly, and Dot are completely connected. “Fish sticks!” they say together.

“Fish sticks,” he says with a grin and a glance back in line at Heather. “Perfect.”

We wound up eating lunch in the cafeteria with Casey and a bunch of his eighth-grade actor friends. And the strange thing is, they were all really nice. They were goofy, but not too goofy. Friendly, but not too friendly. And just nice.

And when Casey made me put some Triscuits and peaches on my peanut butter sandwich—which, by the way, is really good—I told him how Grams agreed that mac 'n' salsa was god-like.

“Your
grand
mother tried it? Mine won't try anything. She thinks I'm nuts.”