Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man (6 page)

I point to myself and say, “Me? Stop bothering
who?
”

She wobbles her head a little. “Yeah, right. Like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Her neck pushes out so she looks like a vulture. “Jared. Remember Jared? The love of your life? The guy you would
die
for? The one who makes your little heart flutter?”

By now the whole school is watching, and I’m feeling really embarrassed. I mean, Jared Salcido is cute, but he’s like someone from another planet to me, and he’s sure not someone I’d ever thought about long enough to make my heart flutter. On top of that, I’ve always thought that Amber and Jared were the perfect little preppy couple, so her little tirade had me completely confused.

Finally, I manage to say, “Amber, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

She laughs and tosses her hair around some more. “You’re Sammy Keyes, aren’t you?”

I nod real slow.

“So stop calling him! You’re making a
fool
of yourself.” And she’s about to leave but she just can’t help herself:
William Rose Junior High School’s Student of the Week for about six weeks in a row says, “Nice shoes,” then laughs and walks away.

The whole time Amber was yelling at me, this big circle of people around us was quiet. Dead quiet. But the minute she leaves they all start talking and whispering and laughing. And I’m standing there feeling like I just fell off a merry-go-round, when Heather walks by with her friends chanting, “Sammy loves Jared, Sammy loves Jared.”

I would’ve turned around and gone home right then if Marissa and Dot hadn’t run up asking, “What
happened?
”

I say, “I don’t
know
,” then tell them everything that Amber had said.

When I’m done, Marissa shakes her head and whispers, “That is so weird!”

The bell rings and Dot says, “Don’t worry about it, Sammy—you’ll straighten things out!” She goes to her homeroom, and off we go to ours, and the whole time we’re hearing the announcements and getting our books ready for our classes, Heather’s passing notes and the other kids are whispering. Whispering and pointing.

Marissa throws me a note that says
WHY DIDN’T YOU WASH THEM
?

I want to tell her about Mrs. Graybill and about sleeping at Hudson’s and waking up late, but I can’t. All I can do is sit there in a room full of kids who think I have ugly feet and a crush on Jared Salcido while the rest of the school is busy spreading rumors about me. And what they’re saying is, “Sammy? You don’t know who
Sammy
is? No problem—she’s the one in the green shoes!”

So I suffered through homeroom and then walked my little green feet over to English where Miss Pilson decided to spend the whole class period talking about this big assembly we’re supposed to have in the cafeteria next week. Normally Miss Pilson could give two hoots about assemblies. I’ve seen her sit in the back with the art teacher, Miss Kuzkowski, and talk through entire assemblies.

But Miss Pilson’s interested in
this
assembly because it has to do with English. Some professor of hers from college wrote a book about a farmer in the Midwest, and she invited him to speak to the whole school about it. It’s been Professor Yates
this
and Professor Yates
that
for weeks, and, really, she acts like she’s crazy in love with a guy who made up a story about someone who plows fields.

After English I went to math, and I started to write a note to Marissa because I couldn’t concentrate on what Mr. Tiller was doing anyway. Trouble is, Mr. Tiller noticed.

Normally I can answer any question Mr. Tiller might decide to ask me, and normally Mr. Tiller doesn’t have to worry that I’m writing notes while he’s explaining something. So maybe that’s why he just stood there for a second watching me, kind of twitching his mustache back and forth while I gave him half a smile and looked guilty.

Everyone likes Mr. Tiller. He’s young and funny and smart, and half the girls in school have a crush on him. The only thing
not
to like about him is that he posts notes. He tacks them up on the bulletin board for everyone to see, and leaves them there for
days
.

Mr. Tiller didn’t post my note. He didn’t even take it away from me. He just said, “Sammy, give me the prime
factors for three hundred fifty-seven,” and held out the chalk.

I looked at him and said, “Can’t I do it at my desk?” because I didn’t want to stand in front of the class in my stupid green feet. He just held out the chalk and gave me that get-up-here-
now
look.

So up I went, and sure enough the kids snickered. And I’m standing there trying to break down three fifty-seven and getting nowhere when Mr. Tiller says softly, “Is it divisible by two?”

I shake my head.

“Three? Do the digits add up to a multiple of three?”

I nod, and that’s all I need. I break it down and write 3 × 7 × 17, then hightail it back to my seat.

Bobby Krandall leans over and says, “Nice shoes.”

I say, “Yeah. Matches the snot in your nose, Bob,” but really I feel like throwing up.

I was hoping we’d have a few minutes at the end of class to talk so I could go sit with Marissa, but Mr. Tiller lectured clear to the bell, and when it rang he gave us our homework. Then he said, “Could I see you for a minute, Samantha?”

So I stayed put while everyone else left. And while Mr. Tiller’s erasing the board he says, “I know it’s none of my business, Samantha, but I heard a rumor before class …”

He turns around and looks at me and, really, I just wanted to put my head down and cry. He comes over and says, “Sammy, look. Maybe you should go talk to someone. One of the counselors? They might be able to help. I hate to see it affect your work.”

I stand up and say, “But Mr. Tiller, it isn’t
true
. I’ve never spoken to Jared Salcido in my
life
. I don’t know why this is happening!”

Mr. Tiller looks pretty surprised. “It’s not true?”

Kids for the next class are starting to pile in, and I’m not going to stand there and try to convince him. I just say, “No, it’s not!” and leave.

All through history I was dying to talk to Marissa, but since Mr. Holgartner moved me across the room from her because we always talk during films, I just sat there trying to figure the whole thing out.
Someone
was calling Jared and it sure wasn’t me.

And the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to Heather. I mean, why did she go bug-eyed when she saw Amber Bellows coming at us? It’s like she
knew
. And the more I thought about that, the more convinced I was that
Heather
had been calling Jared and pretending to be me. And she was saying the stupidest, most embarrassing things she could think of.

Once I figured it out, I didn’t feel bad anymore. I felt mad. Not a wild kind of mad—a quiet, warm kind of mad. And all of a sudden my shoes didn’t matter. So they were green. So what?

I didn’t even hear the lunch bell ring. I sat right through it, trying to figure out how I was going to get back at Heather for making me the laughingstock of William Rose Junior High.

Finally Marissa comes up and says, “Sammy, c’mon. Let’s go.”

We head over to the lunch line, but I don’t feel like
being a guppy in a bowl of barracudas, so I say, “I’ll meet you on the patio, okay?”

Marissa says, “Sammy, come with me. I’ve got to
talk
to you.”

I look at her and say, “What’s wrong?” and as I’m following her to the lunch line she whispers, “Mikey tattled.”

If you knew Mikey, you’d know that this was not big news. Mikey’s the most annoying little brother a person could have, and tattling is what Mikey does best. So I snicker and say, “About what
now?
” but I’m thinking, I’ve got bigger stuff to worry about than this.

She looks at me. “About the sweater.”

“What sweater?”

“The green sweater. You know … the Marsh Monster sweater.”

I stare at her, thinking that the last time I saw it, it was lying in the middle of a pile of ashes looking pretty charred. “But you said she never wears it!”

Marissa grabs a tray. “She
doesn’t
, but now she’s saying how much she loves it, and it turns out it’s a Louis d’Trent.”

“A Louis d’
What?
”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is the stupid thing cost five hundred bucks.”

I almost fell over. Really. I mean, here I’d been, cruising around town as the Marsh Monster in a Louis d’Foo-Foo sweater, liking it because it was so
ugly
, and the whole time I was burning up—what? A hundred dollars an hour?

I grab her by the arm. “What did you tell her?”

Marissa whispers, “I told her you still had it and you’d bring it back this weekend.”

“You told her
what?
It’s ruined, Marissa! I put out a
fire
with it, remember?”

She kind of nods, and as she’s paying for her lunch she says, “I was thinking maybe we could get it cleaned or something. I mean, how bad could it be? It wasn’t a very fire. Maybe it’s just dirty.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “It doesn’t take a big fire to burn up a sweater! Besides, he’s probably already thrown it away!”

Marissa says, “C’mon, Sammy. At least go back to the Bush House and
try
. It’s a five-hundred-dollar sweater! Where are we going to come up with five hundred dollars?”

I thought about this and said, “Okay. I’ll go. Right after school,” and as we’re walking out to the patio I say to her, “You’re going to come with me, aren’t you?”

Even when she’s walking, Marissa can kind of do the McKenze dance. And my asking about going to the Bush House was making her dance, all right. I look at her and say, “Forget it, Marissa. It’s all right. I’ll do it by myself.”

She dances a little faster. “I’ll go. Really, I’ll go. It’s just that the place gives me the
creeps
.”

I laugh and say, “After the day I’ve been having, the Bush House is going to seem friendly.”

All of a sudden Marissa forgets about the sweater. “That’s right! What in the world is going
on?
” She looks at me like she’s afraid to tell me something. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

I see Dot waving her root beer at us from the patio, so I kind of steer Marissa toward her, and as we’re sitting down I whisper, “I think I’ve got it figured out.”

Dot grabs my arm. “About Amber and Jared?”

“Yeah, about Amber and Jared.” I lean in. “Who do you know that hates me so much she would call Jared Salcido and
pretend
to be me? And who do you know that would give her right earlobe to break the two of them up so that maybe
she
could go out with him?”

Marissa looks at Dot and then back at me. “Heather?”

I smile. “Exactly!”

We’re all quiet a minute then Dot says, “She wouldn’t …”

I laugh. “Oh yes she would!”

Marissa whispers, “What are you going to do?”

I unwrap my sandwich and take a nice big bite. And while I’m chewing, I’m smiling. Dot and Marissa grab me and say, “What? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that a good place to start would be to crash Heather’s little Halloween party tonight.”

SIX            

Marissa practically chokes on her hamburger. She looks back and forth over her shoulders. “Crash her party! Are you
crazy?
She’ll throw you out the door in a hot second and spend the rest of the night laughing about you! That’s
all
you need.”

I let her think I’ve lost my marbles for a second, then I lean forward and whisper, “I’m not planning to go as
me
. I could dress up as something I’d never be—like a ballerina or a bunny or something—and then go as, say, Dot’s cousin from out of town.”

Of course, I don’t have a clue what kind of costume I should wear, or even how to get one—there are no tutus hanging in Grams’ closet, if you know what I mean. All I know is that it’s a great idea if I can only pull it off. So I’m sitting there, looking back and forth from Marissa to Dot, wracking my brains about what I can be, when all of a sudden Dot jumps off the bench and says, “I know! I know!”

Marissa and I say, “What? What?” and pretty soon our noses are all about three inches apart and Dot’s whispering, “Last year for Halloween I went as a princess! My mom made me this terrific costume with layers and layers of skirts, and a lavender mask with sequins and stars and
stuff all over it. You could put on some lipstick and earrings and curl your hair.… Heather would never recognize you!”

Marissa and I look at each other and say, “Perfect!”

The rest of the afternoon I didn’t listen much to my teachers or even care that people were still whispering about me. I just sat in class, looking forward, thinking about Heather’s party and what I should do once I got in the door.

When school was finally over, Marissa and I headed home together—me walking and Marissa riding her bike as slow as she can. And to tell you the truth, I think Marissa forgot all about going over to the Bush House because when we get to the mall she says, “You want to go to the arcade?”