Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (2 page)

I was stunned. I mean, forty is plenty old, but not nearly as old as I'd
thought
she was. And she was probably also a lot
smarter
than I'd given her credit for. Plus, at that moment she wasn't just my boring, worn-out home-room teacher, she was a woman who was embarrassingly in love with her husband.

“I hope I find a man like him someday,” Heather was
saying. “Somebody that'll give me lovebirds after fifteen years of marriage!”

She was laying it on thick, but Mrs. Ambler was oblivious. “I hope you do, too, Heather.”

Heather nodded at the birds. “So what did you name them?”

“Tango and Hula.”

Tango and Hula? Boy, this was getting weirder by the minute! Did this mean she was into
dancing
? Did she and her husband tango around the house?

Did she have a funny grass skirt in her closet?

Whatever. For the rest of the week Mrs. Ambler brought the birds to school every day. She would park them on her desk, where they'd flutter around the cage during the day making chirping and chattering noises and little
kissing
sounds, then she'd take them home at night.

They were actually pretty entertaining. Especially Tango, who'd kind of spin around on the perch or just hang upside down and make kissing noises up at Hula.

Mrs. Ambler became entertaining, too. Once when I came into homeroom, I saw her nuzzling up to the wires of the cage, cooing, “Who's so cute? Who's so sweet? Who's got little angel feet?”

Angel feet?

She was also training them to perch on her shoulder, and you'd catch her cooing at them, saying stupid stuff like, “Hula-hoop, now don't you poop!” and “Does little Tango want some mango?” She told us she didn't believe in clipping a bird's wings, so sometimes they'd flap
around the room, but pretty much they stayed in their cage or on her shoulder.

Anyway, it was during lunch on our second Wednesday with birds that we found out that Heather's ridiculous Vote-for-Sweet-Little-Me campaign had worked.

I also discovered that I
did
care. I choked on my sandwich when they announced the seventh- and eighth-grade candidates in all Class Personality categories over the P.A.— Heather was on the seventh-grade ballot for Most Unique Style
and
Friendliest. I actually stood up and shouted, “You have got to be kidding!”

Holly and Dot pulled me back down and told me, “Just forget it. We know she's a phony, and so does everyone else.”

“If everyone else knows she's a phony, then why is she on the ballot?
Twice?
”

“Why do you think she's been kissing up to Mrs. Ambler?” Marissa grumbled.

“Wait—Mrs.
Ambler
came up with the nominees?”

“I'm sure the other teachers helped,” Marissa said, “but she
is
the one running the Class Personality elections.”

“But … what does
she
know about us? Why didn't the seventh graders get to nominate?”

Marissa nodded. “It is totally lame, huh? I wonder if we should talk to the administration about it.”

“Oh right.” I snorted. “Like they're going to listen to
us
?”

So yeah, the whole thing made me spitting mad, especially since Heather came strutting into science whispering, “Count 'em and weep, loser” as she passed by.
Couldn't the teachers see what Heather was doing? Did they sit around the faculty room going, That Heather Acosta has certainly turned over a new leaf. I am so impressed with the manner in which she's been conducting herself lately…?

Did they
all
have master's?

In gullibility?

I brooded about it for the rest of school, wondering if the seventh graders were going to be as blind as Mrs. Ambler when it came time to vote.

After school I went over to Mrs. Willawago's house to walk her dog. It's a new, temporary job that doesn't pay squat, but thanks to Grams I'm on the hook to do it until Mrs. Willawago's recovered enough from her foot surgery to do it herself. Grams says I'm securing my place in heaven and that this is the kind of thing you're supposed to do for recently widowed senior citizens who've had foot surgery and go to the same church as you.

I say it's one more reason to avoid church.

Anyway, Marissa went with me the first couple of times but didn't like the way Mrs. Willawago is so over the top about God and the Bible. “I can't believe she's Catholic, Sammy. She seems like a total thumper to me.”

Well she was right about that, but I sure wasn't going to risk asking about it. That'd be like walking straight into Sermon City. Besides, I don't really mind hearing “Praise the Lord” and “Amen” and all her other evangelistic expressions—I just kind of ignore them. You can get away with a lot of religious mumbo jumbo around me if you just don't preach.

And the truth is, going over to Mrs. Willawago's has kind of grown on me. For one thing, she's got the coolest house I've ever seen. I call it the Train House because even though it looks pretty normal from the street—well, except for the cowcatcher that ramps up to her porch— it's got an actual caboose attached to one side of the back of the house and an old parlor car attached to the other. The caboose she uses as a guest bedroom, and the parlor car is where she and her husband used to hold Bible meetings. It's the most luxurious room I've ever seen—rich wood panels, chandeliers, brass trim, green velvet seats…. It's hard to believe that it used to chug along a track, but Mrs. Willawago swears that it did.

And besides the total coolness of the train cars, the main part of the house is like a museum of railroad gadgets and furniture and signs and photographs and stuff. The more I go there, the more I learn about railroads and trains, and even though I didn't really care about any of that before, now I find it, you know,
interesting.

But the
main
reason I don't mind going over to Mrs. Willawago's came bounding across the house toward me as I stepped through the front door. “Captain Patch!” I cried as he yippy-yap-barked and dashed in a circle around me. “How are you, buddy?”

“Happy to see you, as usual,” Mrs. Willawago said as she handed over the leash. “As am I, of course.” Then she added, “Praise the Lord you're here. That dog needs a walk!”

Patch
is
kinda hyper and sniffs everything—not exactly the sort of dog you expect an old lady to have. He was a
gift from Mrs. Willawago's kids, who live in different parts of the country and thought a dog would be good companionship for their mom after Mr. Willawago “went to be with the Lord.” Supposedly he's a cross between an American foxhound and a golden retriever, but there's nothing furry or golden about him. He's got smooth brown fur and white paws and was named by one of the grandkids because of the big black patch of fur around his left eye.

Anyway, Patch always seems to get my mind off my problems at school and put me in a good mood, but not this time. This time when I walked him, I didn't forget about school, I obsessed about it. How could people have nominated Heather for Friendliest?

That's like nominating a vampire for Best Kisser!

Heather Acosta, Most Phony Seventh Grader—that was more like it! How come they didn't
see
that?

When I got back to the Train House, I guess Mrs. Willawago could tell I was upset, because after I let Patch go in the backyard, she said, “I thank the Lord every day for your help, Samantha, but if you've had enough …”

“Huh? Oh no. That's okay. I don't mind.”

Trouble is, it came out sounding really flat. Like I
did
mind. And the next thing I know, Mrs. Willawago's opening her purse, saying, “I told your grandmother that I was willing to pay you, but she insisted that I not.”

“Wait! No. It doesn't have anything to do with that. It's just … it's just this girl at school that's got me all, you know, tweaked.” And because I was embarrassed that she thought I was grumpy because she wasn't paying me, I
wound up blurting out a whole lot more than I normally would have.

When I finally shut up about Heather Acosta, Mrs. Willawago let out a little cackle and said, “Heather sounds a lot like Coralee Lyon.”

“Who?”

“Coralee Lyon. You don't read the paper?”

I scowled. “I live in this town—I sure don't want to read about it.”

She nodded, then said, “Well, Coralee Lyon —or Coralee Abbot, as she'll always be to me—now rules the roost of our city council, but back in junior high school she was not pleased with her place in the pecking order. She did all manner of sinful things to remedy that.” She gave me a knowing look. “Lucifer still dwells deep in Coralee's heart, but people don't see him because she's learned to disguise her tactics.”

“Oh great,” I grumbled. “So you're telling me Heather'll never change?”

She laughed. “Who but God can write history in advance? But until she walks through the door of repentance, it'd be easiest on you to simply avoid her. I haven't spoken to Coralee in years.” She looked toward the ceiling. “Thanks be to God.”

So you see how much help talking to Mrs. Willawago was. And talking to Grams wasn't much better. “Good heavens, Samantha,” she said. “If her end goal is to win some popularity contest, let her. Besides, the popular people in
my
junior high and high school all fizzled.”

“But what if she turns out like Coralee Lyon?”

“Who?”

“Some brat Mrs. Willawago went to school with who's now ruling the roost on the city council.” I hesitated. “What
is
the city council, anyway?”

Grams laughed. “A group of people who make decisions about Santa Martina's growth and development.” She eyed me. “In other words, she's not ruling much of a roost.”

Still. I didn't sleep very well that night thinking about how people like Heather and Coralee Lyon shouldn't be allowed to rule roosts of
any
kind, even flea-infested ones like Santa Martina or William Rose Junior High.

The next morning I woke up ridiculously early and started brooding about the Class Personality nominations some more. And since there was no way I was going to get back to sleep, I finally just got up, took a shower, ate breakfast, packed a lunch, and went to school. And instead of tearing onto campus at the last second like I usually do, I arrived a whole fifteen minutes early.

There were other kids around and everything, but I didn't see my friends, so I decided to go drop off my backpack and skateboard in homeroom. That's one nice thing about Mrs. Ambler — unlike a lot of the other teachers, she unlocks the classroom early so you
can
drop off your backpack or just meet up with your friends and get in out of the cold. Usually she's at her desk grading papers or reading a book, but lots of times she's going between the classroom and the office, taking care of teacher business.

Now, since I was so early, it crossed my mind that I might have the chance to ask Mrs. Ambler how Heather
got on the ballot. Or maybe I'd just ask her how kids on the ballot were nominated.

Of course on
second
thought, that might make it look like I was sore because
I
hadn't been nominated for anything, which I didn't care about, but I didn't want it to
seem
like I cared. I mean,
looking
like you care is way worse than actually caring.

It's truly… pathetic.

But thinking all that through turned out to be a big waste of mental energy, because when I arrived at the classroom, no one was there. Well, no
people
, anyway. The birds were there, but it wasn't until I was inside that I noticed that one of them was out of the cage. And flapping for the open door.

Fast.

The doors at my school are heavy-duty metal. Every one of them has a small wire-mesh window, a kick-down doorstop, and a hydraulic closer so that it automatically shuts. Most of the classrooms have a whole wall of windows right next to the door, so I don't know
why
they're such heavy-duty doors, but they are.

And in all my junior high experience I can honestly say that I'd never been in a hurry to
close
a classroom door before. Open and dash in, yes. Close? Never.

So when I whipped around and pushed on the door to make sure the bird didn't escape, I learned something new about hydraulic closers—they can't be rushed. I mean, there I am, pushing like crazy on that door, but the stupid thing's fighting back, taking its old sweet time, closing at its own sweet pace.

So I drop my skateboard, plant both hands on the door, and really
lean
into it. And all of a sudden
shh-whack
, the closer gives way and the door slams shut.

Phew
.

I look up for the flyaway bird but freeze with both hands still on the door. There, a foot above my head, is one beautiful, fluffy, blue-and-green bird butt sticking straight out of the doorjamb. And above it, pointing up to heaven, is one perfectly still, outstretched wing.

“Oh
no
,” I cry, whipping the door back open. But with a little
thwump
, the bird drops to the floor.

I pick him up and whimper, “Oh no! Oh no, no, no!” but it's plain to see—little Tango has danced his last dance. I hold him in the palm of my hand and stare. There isn't even any blood. He's just kind of…broken. And inside
I
feel broken, too. How can this be?

And as I'm standing there, holding this poor broken bird in my hand, I glance up, and through the door's window I see someone coming up the walkway toward the classroom.

My heart stops midbeat.

It's not Mrs. Ambler.

No, it's someone much,
much
worse.

There was only one thing I could think to do.

Hide!

I looked around frantically, then slid open Mrs. Ambler's closet and dove in, skateboard, backpack, dead bird and all. I found myself tramping lost sweatshirts, old backpacks, papers, and books. And it smelled like stinky feet, but I didn't care — I fit, and that's all that mattered. I slid the door almost all the way closed and held my breath.

Then there she was, pushing through the door— Heather Acosta.