Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception by Wendelin Van Draanen
I give Marissa a dirty look. “And thanks to you, I now have to put up with that.”
Squeeeeeeak-smack!
Marissa cringes and whispers, “I'm sorry … !”
“Plus the embarrassment of hearing that he'd rather kiss a codfish.”
“What?”
“That's what she told me this morning.”
“Who? Heather?”
“Yes, Heather.”
“Well, she's lying.”
“How do you know?”
Marissa laughs, “She always lies!”
“So why's my skateboard here? I mean, according to you, this means he doesn't care anymore.
“Oh,” she says, and her face falls. “Oh, yeah.”
The tardy bell rings, so Marissa hurries to her seat. And even though I tried to act like everything was fine—even though most of me was ecstatic about having my skate-board back—the truth is, I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that Casey thought I'd made a big deal out of him kissing my stupid hand. Embarrassed that Heather was going around telling people I was in love with her brother—'cause knowing Heather, that's exactly how she was spinning this. And embarrassed that after all this time, Casey'd finally given my skateboard back without a word.
So for the rest of the day I did the only thing I could think to do about it—I hid. Not behind trash cans or in bushes or anything like that. More just in classrooms. And when I thought the coast was clear, I'd jet over to where I was supposed to be. Even at lunch. It was so windy that Holly, Marissa, and Dot all wanted to move from the patio tables to the cafeteria, but I wasn't about to go in there.
Heather and her friends eat there.
So does Casey.
So I dragged them into an open classroom, and that's where we ate lunch instead. And I did do a pretty good job of forgetting about Heather and Casey and that whole mess by catching Holly and Dot up on everything that had happened at the Vault and about getting to interview Diane. I didn't tell them too much about Grams and Hudson and the Harley, 'cause I didn't think Grams would appreciate it, but I did tell them about Grams being a snoop.
“Your grandmother?” Holly asks. “I can't quite picture that. She seems so, you know, normal.”
I just shook my head and said, “I know. It's bizarre. And Hudson's been acting weird, too.”
“How's that?” Dot asks.
“He's just been kind of out of it. Doesn't really tune in to what's going on.”
Dot shrugs. “Well, he is kind of old.”
“Hudson? No he's not.”
They all stop chewing and stare at me.
“Well, he never acts old. He's really, really sharp.”
“Yeah, that's true,” they all say, and start chewing again.
So I was back to thinking more about Hudson and Grams and what was going on at the Vault than I was about Casey. And since Mr. Pence actually posted Heather in the back corner for “disruptive behavior” when she tried her smoochy-coochie sounds in science, I had the luxury of not having to dodge rubber bands or flying tacks or cutting remarks. I could just listen.
So I was in a pretty good mood when I blew into art. And then Miss Kuzkowski greets me with a great big, “Sammy!” like I'm a long-lost friend.
“Uh, hi, Miss Kuzkowski.”
She comes right over to me, switching to a whisper. “Wow, did you ever put on a show Friday night! I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to say hello or congratulate you. The evening disintegrated awfully quickly, as you know.”
“You can say that again.”
She leans in even closer. “Was that the wildest reception you've ever been to, or what?”
Now until that moment, all the teachers I have ever had have been, well, teachers. Adults who tell you to be quiet; who give you homework and send you to the office. And not only have they always been adults, they've always been, you know, old. Maybe it's the way they act or the clothes they wear. Maybe it's the way they talk to you like you're a child—which makes them automatically old. Even the ones who try to talk like they're cool—you know, use all the slang that the kids use—well, they seem even geekier than the regular teachers. I mean, you do not want to hear your teacher say, “Sweet!” or, “Chill!” It's like seeing a guy with a big gut wearing a Speedo. You just want to look the other way.
But there was Miss Kuzkowski, perched on the stool next to me, and all of a sudden it hit me—she's kinda young. Maybe barely an adult. So instead of answering her question about the artist reception, I ask, “How … um … How many years have you been a teacher?”
She pulls herself up straighter. “Why do you ask?”
“I don't know. Just wondering.”
“Well,” she says, dropping her voice, “this happens to be my first year, but I had a full year of student teaching, so I'm definitely qualified.”
“I didn't mean that….”
“That's okay,” she says. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I was so proud of you on Friday! I bragged to everyone that you were my student.”
She was sort of gushing, and since other students were all around I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable. So I said, “I hope you didn't brag to that Tess Winters lady—she hates me.”
“Tess? Oh, she can be very temperamental, but don't take that personally. It's just part of her creative process.”
“You know her?”
“Absolutely! She was one of my college professors, and now I'm one of her Disciples.”
“Her … disciples?”
She laughs. “I'd forgotten how funny that sounds. What I'm saying is, I'm in her artists' group.”
“What's that?”
“Just a group selected by Tess to meet and discuss art. We critique each other's projects, discuss art, encourage one another…. It's sort of a cross between an artist workshop and philosophers' forum.” She stands up to let Emma sit down next to me. “Didn't you think her work was brilliant?”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely!”
I jumped off my stool and followed her back to her desk. “Miss Kuzkowski, I don't get her stuff at all. It looks like something a two-year-old could do!”
“Aaaah,” she says, looking at me with a sort of sappy sympathy. “You just don't see it. Believe me, Sammy. It's deep.”
“I tried to get her to explain it, but she wouldn't. She was really mean about it, too.”
Miss Kuzkowski shakes her head and says, “She can be that way. Thank heaven I didn't tell the whole class to show up like I was going to. She was not in the mood.”
“Well, maybe she wouldn't talk to me, but I did get an interview for your assignment. With Diane Reijden.”
“Oh … ?” she says, and both her eyebrows go up. “I'm sure Ms. Reijden didn't have much nice to say about Tess, am I right?”
“I didn't really ask her about Tess. But why do you say that?”
“Because a couple of years ago, Tess was the head of a committee that approved art for a big showing in Santa Luisa. Apparently Miss Reijden was one of the artists whose work was refused.”
“Refused? Like, rejected?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You're kidding.”
“Well, she wasn't the only one. There was a whole slew of artists who didn't make the cut—that's just how these things work.” She shrugs. “But this time, the refused artists made a big stink and had a show of their own. It was all over the papers.”
“I don't get it. How could they not have liked Diane's paintings? Don't you think they're amazing?”
“Truthfully?” She eyes me and settles onto her stool. “I find them to be rather clichéd.”
“Clichéd? I've never seen anything like them!”
She smiles at me. Like I'm a little bird, perched on her windowsill. “You've just started looking, Samantha.”
At this point my cute little feathers are plenty ruffled, let me tell you. So I blurt out, “Well, what's so great about Tess's paintings? Can you tell me that? And why does she get to be head o
“Oh, Sammy, Sammy,” she says with a sigh. “It's not something I can explain in two minutes.” The bell rings and she checks the door for tardies, then flips open her grade book to take roll. “You would learn so much if you could sit in on a Disciple meeting, but I'm afraid that's a no-no.” She scans the classroom, counting heads. “Hopefully I'll be able to enlighten you in class before the end of the term.”
I took my seat, and for the rest of school my thoughts were like a pinball pinging around all over the place. Art. Casey. Heather.
Art.
My skateboard. Tess. Diane.
Art.
Grams. Hudson. Grams.
Art.
And I don't really know why the art thing bothered me so much. Why should I care if Tess told Diane her paintings weren't good enough for some art show? Why should I care if people thought a giant orange splot was brilliant, when what I saw was a mess? Wasn't it like food? I mean, some people like Chinese, some people like Mexican.
Some people like salsa in their macaroni and cheese.
But still, it bugged me. I didn't like that I didn't get it. How could any committee have rejected a painting like Whispers?
So I told myself, okay. Maybe I'd just imagined it. Maybe Diane's paintings had just looked great in comparison to orange splots and wild-eyed Indians. Maybe I'd seen something that wasn't really there.
Maybe.
After school, I threw on my backpack, grabbed my board, broke a few no-skating-on-campus rules, and met up with Marissa, who was strapping the tote bags to her bike. “You are not going to be able to keep up with me,” I told her. “Man, I feel like I can fly.”
She laughed and chased after me. “Sammy, wait up!”
“Catch up!”
I hit the sidewalk running, then threw down my board and jumped on. My hair flew up behind me. The wind was everywhere, whooshing in my sweatshirt, pushing back my face. I pressed along, faster, faster, faster, ducking down driveways, zigzagging past kids walking, hopping curbs at intersections, doing ollies…. I felt like I haven't felt in ages. Charged. Electric. Like I could do anything. Be anything.
Marissa caught up on the street beside me and shouted, “Awesome!” and that's when it clicked that what I was feeling was something every kid in junior high wants to feel.
Free.
When we got to the intersection of Cook and Broadway, Marissa said, “Wow! I'd forgotten how good you were!” Then she checked her watch and said, “We've got tons of time before we're supposed to be home. Want to go to the arcade?”
“You know what? I don't. I want to go to the Vault, and I want you to come with me.”
“The Vault? Why?”
“Because there's something I want to see. And show you.”
She looked over at the mall and I could practically hear the arcade, calling her name. “I've got all this stuff on my bike, Sammy.”
“It's not that far … come on. I really want your opinion.”
“You just want to ride some more, huh?”
I pushed off. “That too!”
The wind was behind us now, gusting us along. Faster, faster, faster! I was a sidewalk serpent! A barrelin' boarder! Or, as one old guy walking a mangy terrier put it, a bleepin' “MANIAC.”
We got to the Vault in no time. And I was still all out of breath and buzzing at the knees as we headed for the Bean Goddess door, but as we start to cross a paved alleyway that runs between the Vault and the neighboring building, I pull back fast.
“What?” Marissa asks as I yank her down.
I put up a finger and whisper, “Hold on a minute,” then peek around the corner and down the alley.
It's Tess, all right.
Talking to someone in the alley.
Someone she sure doesn't want this “ragamuffin” girl to see.
TWELVE
“Sammy, what are you doing? What's going on?” Marissa peeks around the corner, too. “Who are they?”
“That's Tess Winters—”
“The Splotter?”
“Yeah. And she just gave that guy an envelope.”
“So?”
“So that's the same door the Squirt Gun Bandit used. And look at the way she's acting. Look at him.”
He was sort of greasy looking. About 5′10″. Kind of wiry, with a ball cap and tennis shoes. And the more I watched the intense way Tess was talking to him while she kept checking over her shoulder inside the Vault, the more sure I became that something shady was going down.
When the man started off down the alley, Tess stepped back inside, closing the door tight. “You thinking what I'm thinking?” I whispered to Marissa.
She frowned at me. “I am not following anybody.” She pointed to her bike. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't.”
It was true—with her bike saddled down the way it was, she'd be invisible as an elephant. So I parked my board and stripped off my backpack. “I'll be right back.”
“Sammy, don't abandon me!”
“I'll be right back. Promise.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she grumbled as she slid down the building to sit. “I've heard that one before.”
I sprinted down the alley, and when I got to a small parking area behind the Vault, I saw that there was another alley running behind all the buildings on the block. It was dirt and gravel and narrow, with a busted wooden fence running along the other side—the kind of alley I try to stay away from.
I spotted the guy unlocking a jacked-up purple Camaro. The car had gray Bondo patches on the door, but the chrome bumpers and mirrors were buffed to blinding. And when he fired that big boy up, it had a deep, ornery growl—like, Hey, you puny four-bangin' import, don't even think about messing with me.
I crouched low and zigzagged around cars until I was laying low behind the back fender of a silver Honda. And I would have had a great shot at the Camaro's license as it backed out, only there was no front plate. So I scrambled up to the intersection of the two alleys, but before I could make out the back license, he threw the car in first and tore out of there, kicking gravel and dust up behind him.
I raced back to Marissa, who did a double take when she saw me. Then she stood up, made a real exaggerated pinch on her arm, and said, “Wow. That was quick.”
“Told you.”
“So?”
I shrugged. “Drives a purple Camaro, couldn't get the plates.” I picked up my stuff and started over to the Bean Goddess entrance, but all of a sudden I had an idea.
Marissa looks at me, looking at her. “Oh, no. Now what?”
“Why don't you go in and eavesdrop on Tess? You know her, but she doesn't know you!”
“But … why?”
“Maybe you'll hear something. Or see something.”
“Sammy …”
I grab her bike and pull off her pack. “Just go snoop, would you? I'll be inside in a minute.”
She rolls her eyes and gives a little tsk, but before you know it, she's shuffling into the Bean Goddess.
Now at first I'm just sitting against the building, surrounded by things with wheels and bags of stuff, looking like a junior bum-in-training. But after a while that gets old, so I decide to peek in the front window to see what I can see.
There are quite a few people inside. Some in line at the counter, being waited on by a couple of faux-bohemians with gelled hair and silver jewelry. There's another fauxbo collecting cups and wiping down tables, and then about fifteen customers, sitting at tables, reading and eating, and basically just worshiping the bean goddess.
But near the Vault archway, I spot Tess, wearing all black, and Jojo, wearing bright yellow boots and orange leather pants. They're rearranging furniture, making one long table out of a group of smaller ones. And sitting nearby, looking very self-conscious as she sort of hunches behind a plant, is Marissa.
I've got a real urge to pass her a magazine or a newspaper or shades, but all I can do is stand there, peeking in.
&nb
The minute Tess disappears through the Vault's arch-way, I lock up Marissa's bike, grab the tote bags, the backpacks, and my board, and go inside. And after I park all our junk in a corner, I go up to Marissa and Jojo and say, “Hi.”
Jojo stands and gives me the brightest smile. “There you are, Sweet Pea. There you are.”
I say, “Sorry I'm late,” to Marissa, then ask Jojo, “How's it going?”
“Ducky! Everything is just ducky! I've got a security guard …,” he motions over to the rent-a-cop visible through the Vault doorway, “… and we've had lots of traffic.” He claps his hands together and asks, “Can I buy you lattes? Iced mochas? Java swirls?” but before I can answer, his eyes get all big and he says, “Just tell the gals … tell them to put it on my account, would you?” Then he scurries off under the arch, disappearing into the Vault.
“That was weird,” Marissa says, looking over for what had spooked him. And it was weird, because the only person coming into the Bean Goddess was a scraggly-haired woman with round wire glasses. And with her wrinkly corduroy pants, faded sweatshirt, and dirty Velcro-strap Nikes, she sure didn't seem like anyone to be afraid of— she just looked like a harmless bag lady coming in out of the wind for a cup of coffee.
So I shook my head and said, “I wonder what that was all about.”
Marissa shrugs. “Maybe he just had to get back to work.”
Tess had planted a RESERVED sign on her table and was now positioning a display easel at the far end of it. I asked Marissa, “Did you happen to overhear what that's about?”
“Some kind of religious meeting, maybe? She kept saying something about disciples.”
“Disciples? Really? Miss Kuzkowski told me she was part of Tess's artist group called the Disciples.”
Marissa's face crinkled. “That's kinda weird, don't you think? Sounds like a cult or something.”
“You're right,” I told her, and down my spine ran the tingle of a shiver. Not because a bunch of artsy-fartsy people were going to get together and talk about paintings. Big deal. No, my spine was tingling because my teacher—someone I'd known all year, saw almost every day, listened to, even liked—was one of Tess's “disciples.” It just seemed … creepy. Like Tess had cast some sort of spell on her—a spell that made her think a big orange splot was brilliant.