Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (15 page)

“Heard what?” I asked back.

He broke into a wicked grin. “The limo has morphed into a stretch Humvee.”

“A what?” Marissa asked.

But I said, “One of those jeep-meets-tank jobbies?”

“Exactly!” Casey said.

“You can rent those around here?”

He grinned. “There's exactly one in the whole Tri-Counties, and Danny got his mom to snag it. You should
see the picture! It's all stretched like a limo, sleek black with chrome detail… it's smokin'!” He turned to Marissa. “Danny hasn't shown you the brochure?”

Marissa shook her head, and I could tell—she was gagging on her tongue.

“So he also didn't ask you about ice-blocking?”

“Ice-blocking?” Marissa choked out.

“It's Billy's idea.”

“What's ice-blocking?” I asked.

“You've never been?” He looked from me to Marissa and back again.

We both shrugged and shook our heads.

He grinned. “Basically, you get a big block of ice, sit on it, and slide down a hill.”

Marissa winced. “And that's supposed to be fun?”

He laughed. “Actually, it can be. Depending on the hill.” He grinned at me. “And who you're sliding with.”

“But …,” Marissa said, still cringing, “doesn't your… don't you get all wet?”

“You put a towel or a jacket or something on the ice.” He scratched the side of his neck, saying, “Billy wants to do it in the cemetery—”

“The cemetery?” Marissa gasped.

Casey nodded. “You know, those hills at the back side of it? But I think the golf course would be way better.”

“Danny and Nick want to do this, too?” Marissa asked, still pulling a face.

“They're up for it, yeah.” Then he added, “Assuming you guys are …”

“What about the girls Billy and Nick are taking?”
Marissa asked, trying to buy herself an out. “Who are they, anyway?”

“Nick's taking Olivia Andrews. You know her, right?”

We both nodded—she was an eighth grader. Quiet, but nice.

“He says she's up for it.” He laughed. “And Billy says he's taking his harem, but what I think that means is he hasn't asked anyone yet.”

I scowled. “As long as his harem doesn't turn out to be your sister.”

“He knows better than that. Besides, Heather'd never go for ice-blocking.” He shrugged. “And she told me Hummers are ‘revolting.’” Then he added real fast, “But if you guys don't want to go ice-blocking, I can totally understand—we could just go out and get dessert afterward or something.”

His gaze landed on Marissa, who stammered, “Well, I…I… Whatever everybody else wants is fine.”

So now they both looked at
me
. And yeah, maybe I should have bailed Marissa out and said, Uhhh… that's not exactly the picture we had in mind … do you really expect us to go ice-blocking in updos, dresses, and
heels
? But the truth is, it sounded like a blast to me. So I grinned and said, “Count me in!”

“Cool!” he said, and since the whole lunch area was vacant and the tardy bell was about to ring, we all said, “Later!” and raced off to class.

I was late to science, but it didn't matter 'cause Mr. Pence was busy picking up his prized model skeleton that Mason Oakley had knocked on the floor. Mason was going, “Dude, I'm so sorry! Dude!”

“Just sit down, Mr. Oakley! Just …sit… down!”

“Dude, if you say so. But here—I know where his arm goes. It's the femur and the ulvana, right?”

“The radius and the
ulna
,” Mr. Pence snapped. “Now SIT DOWN!”

“Sure, dude, sure. Whatever you say.”

So Mason was heading back to his seat, hamming it up for everyone but Mr. Pence to see, when only two steps past my bench he turns and says, “Hey, I heard you're going to the dance in a Humvee!”

I put my finger to my mouth, telling him to hush, but Roman Rivera on the bench behind me says, “In a Hummer, really? Who has one of those?”

“It's a
stretch
Hummer, dude,” Mason says.

“You jivin' me?” Roman asks. “Around
here
?”

“Yeah! I saw the brochure. It's got surround sound, mirrored ceilings, three flat-screen TVs …”

Well, that was it. Within ten seconds the whole class was hummin' about the Hummer. Everyone, that is, except Heather. It was like someone had put her kettle on high and left her alone to boil dry. And, of course, she was glaring at me like it was all
my
fault. Like going to a dance in a vehicle she thought was revolting was somehow going to ruin
her
evening.

But whatever. That's just Heather.

Anyway, by the time school was over, Marissa was whistling a different tune about the Hummer, too. “Everybody's talking about it!” she whispered. “Even Tenille and Monet came up and asked me about it.”

“Running reconnaissance?” I asked, 'cause Tenille and
Monet are Heather's little lackeys, although I don't know why they put up with her. Heather uses them like toilet paper.

“No,” Marissa said, unlocking her bike. “I think they were just dying to know.”

“So? Did you tell them anything?”

She shook her head, and as we headed off campus, her face fluttered a bit before finally breaking into a smile. “You were right, all right? I was being stupid. The Hummer'll be fun, and I'll just wear, you know, casual clothes.”

“Hooray!”

But she was still all fluttery. All trying to contain something that she just wanted to blurt out but was sort of afraid to. So finally, I said, “What?”

“Well …” She fluttered some more.

“What?”

“I don't know… all the questions I got about the Hummer…all the people who came up and talked to me…I actually felt” — she cringed as she looked at me—“popular.”

I eyed her.

“I knew you'd look at me like that! I knew it!”

“Like what?”

“Like
that
!”

“Well, come on, Marissa.”

“I know, I know,” she grumbled.

“You didn't even want to go in the Hummer.”

“I know, I know!”

“And now you think it's cool?”

“I'm being totally shallow, huh?”

Her eyes were begging me to say no, so I said, “Nah.” And I also refrained from saying anything about how Heather had been acting in science. Instead, I said, “Just remember—popularity around here lasts about as long as a Hummer rental, so don't start thinking it's
yours.
” Then I frowned and kinda mumbled, “Who'd really want a Hummer anyway? Expensive, rotten gas mileage, lots to maintain… too much trouble if you ask me.”

She grinned at me. “Only you would make some connection between being popular and owning a Hummer.” She dug up a sorry-looking package of cheese crackers and said, “But I think popularity makes you hungry!” She wolfed some down, then held the package out to me.

I shook them off. “No thanks.”

She ate some more, then tucked the rest away. “Well, how about I help you walk Captain Patch?”

“Oh!” I said. “I forgot!”

She swung onto her bike. “Come on! We'll walk the dog and talk some more about the dance, okay?”

“Thanks!” I said, tossing down my skateboard, because the truth is, I didn't really care
what
we talked about. I was just glad to have my best friend back.

Glad to feel like me again.

Glad to be believing that the mess I'd gotten into was finally over.

The whole way over to Mrs. Willawago's, Marissa rattled on about her vision of the Plan: After school we'd go over to her house 'cause obviously the Hummer couldn't show up at the Senior Highrise. We'd get ready there, and when the doorbell rang, we'd both answer the door so as not to get embarrassed by her parents—if they were actually home—or her annoying little brother, Mikey. She went on and on with details, and I just sort of agreed to everything because basically, I didn't care. I was just happy to be able to go to the dance as me, not some foofoo version of me.

When we reached Hopper Street, Marissa got off her bike and I picked up my board. She was now on the subject of how generous Danny's mom was to spring for the rental and how it wasn't just that we were going to the dance in a Hummer, it was that we were
seventh
graders going with
eighth
graders to the dance in a Hummer.

“Hold on, hold on!” I said. “And what do you call Billy Pratt?” Because not only is Billy a seventh grader, he's probably the most immature seventh grader at William Rose Junior High.

“I call him crazy!” She laughed. “But he would have been an eighth grader if he hadn't been held back.”

“Who told you that?”

“Danny did. They went to the same preschool.”

“Danny and Billy did?”

“Uh-huh. You've got to ask them about the Nap Nazi sometime.”

“The Nap Nazi?”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “It's a crack-up.”

Now, part of me was feeling really left out. I mean, when had she had these humorous encounters with Danny and Billy? Where was I when they were discussing Nap Nazis? But we were almost at Mrs. Willawago's, and the mailman was coming toward us, whistling away.

“Good afternoon!” he sings out as we converge in front of the Train House. He hands me Mrs. Willawago's mail and says, “Have a good one!” and continues on his way.

“Gee, Sammy,” Marissa says, “if the mailman knows you, you're here way too much.”

“I know,” I said. “It's been almost a month of this, and I don't really see an end in sight.”

“So? Are you just going to keep doing it forever?”

“I don't know. It's not like I
mind
…”

She whispered, “All that God-talk would drive me crazy.”

“Aw, you learn to ignore it.”

But then I noticed a strange letter in Mrs. Willawago's mail. The printing was in pencil and in all caps, which at first made me think it was from a grandkid or something. But then I started wondering because (a) it was addressed
to Annie, not Grandma or even Mrs., (b) there was no return address, and (c) Willawago was spelled “Williwago.”

And
then
I noticed something else, which made my heart start beating faster. “Mrs. Willawago!” I shouted, running up the cowcatcher. I opened the door. “Mrs. Willawago?”

“Merciful heavens, what is it?” she said, hobbling toward me.

“Look at this letter!”

She smiled at Marissa and said, “Hello, there. Nice to see you again,” then took the letter from me. “What's this?”

“Look at the
L
s in Willawago!” I said, pointing.

“What about them?”

“See how they shoot up like that?”

“So…?”

“That's what the
L
s in SELL
OR
SUFFER looked like!”

“I don't remember that …”

“Do you still have that rock?”

She blinked at me. “Why, no. The police have it.”

“You've got to show this letter to them!”

“Samantha, honestly. I haven't even opened it yet.” She frowned and grumbled, “And I don't know why you think you can tell so much from so little.”

“So open it,” I said with a shrug.

She did and pulled an odd-sized piece of paper from the envelope. It wasn't as big as binder paper or as small as a notepad. It was somewhere in between. It looked like old paper, too. A little discolored around the edges, and the lines on it were a real faint green.

The message, though, was loud and clear:

YOUR
DAYS
ARE
NUMBERED
.

Mrs. Willawago gasped when she read it. “Heavenly Father! It's another threat!”

I tried to wipe the I-told-you-so look off my face, but let me tell you, it wasn't easy.

“What's this about?” Marissa whispered. “Why is she being threatened? What rock?”

“I'll explain everything in a minute,” I said, then I eased the paper out of Mrs. Willawago's hand and started inspecting it. Front side, back side, up to the light, sideways.

I didn't see a doggone thing.

“What are you looking for?” Mrs. Willawago asked, her voice kind of croaky.

I shook my head. “I have no idea.” Then I checked out the envelope and said, “This is postmarked Saturday. That's the day after the rock was delivered.”

Mrs. Willawago nodded, but she was staring at the paper. “This is a very ominous threat. It can mean two different things.”

Then I saw the
Santa Martina Times
lying on the coffee table behind her. The headline read LOCAL
MONUMENTS
UNDER
SIEGE
,
LONGTIME
CITIZENS
RAILROADED
FROM
HOMES
.

There was a picture of Mrs. Willawago in the parlor car and another one of the front of her house. “Hey! You made the front page,” I said, picking it up.

Her face lit up. “And it's a fantastic article.” She pointed to a section of it. “Read this right here.”

So Marissa looked over my shoulder as I read the part she'd pointed out.

“He really paints the picture, doesn't he?” she asked, beaming away. “And I love that last line right there.”

“Lots of people in Santa Martina are into trains,”
Marissa said. “My dad has a friend who collects—he would love to own this stuff.”

“You see?” Mrs. Willawago said. “There's a real value to these things. And I think it's important that kids today understand the historical significance of the railroad. Why, it's—”