ALSO BY WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy
Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy
Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes
Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen
How I Survived Being a Girl
Flipped
Swear to Howdy
Shredderman: Secret Identity
Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger
Shredderman: Meet the Gecko
Shredderman: Enemy Spy
Published by Dell Yearling
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Text copyright © 1998 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
Interior illustrations copyright © 1998 by Dan Yaccarino
The jumping horse design is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 978-0-375-89045-1
v3.1
To Nancy Siscoe, a real treasure.
Special thanks to my husband, who continues to show good humor even when I’m acting spooky; to my family—both the in-laws and the outlaws—for cheering me on; and to Mary Lou Prohaska and Karen Macintosh, who know how to ring-and-run. Thanks, too, to Bruce Miller at Phoenix Books, who (not coincidentally) keeps his sleeves and hair quite tidy.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
I was just out trick-or-treating like the rest of the kids in town. But then I got the bright idea that we should go up to the Bush House. I mean, it was Halloween, and banging on the Bush House door is kind of a tradition in Santa Martina. At least it’s something everyone else always brags about doing, and I guess I thought it was time I tried it too.
We weren’t expecting candy. We weren’t even expecting anyone to answer the door. We were just expecting to scare ourselves half to death and then run away. Far away.
Trouble is, the door did open, and after what I saw inside, there was no way I could just turn around and run.
ONE
You may think I’m too old to go out trick-or-treating. Grams does. She thinks that after the fourth grade you’re too old. Period. And seeing how I’m in the seventh grade, well, according to Grams I’m way too old.
And usually I pay attention to what my grams says. Partly that’s because I have to since I’m staying with her while my mom’s run off to Hollywood to become a movie star, but mostly it’s because I’ve figured out the hard way that she’s usually right about things. What she’s definitely not right about though is the cutoff for trick-or-treating. I don’t know exactly when it is, but I do know it’s sometime after the seventh grade. Period.
Now Grams couldn’t exactly make me stay home and pass out candy. Kids aren’t even allowed in the Senior Highrise, so how can you pass out candy to them? She couldn’t let me transform into the Monster from the Marsh in her apartment, either—not with Mrs. Graybill waiting for me to slip up and give away the fact that I really do live with Grams. And since I didn’t want to haul a bunch of green hair and warts and stuff clear across town to Marissa’s, when Dot invited us to get ready over at her house, I jumped up and said, “Great!”
Dot’s new at school, and Marissa and I don’t know her all that well, but I already like her. She’s kind of quiet and blinks a lot, and always brings root beer in her lunch. Her name’s really Margaret—or Maggie—but everyone calls her Dot because she’s got a beauty mark right in the middle of her cheek. This is no mole. It’s not lumpy or bumpy or poking out hair. It’s just this round black circle on her face that looks like it’s been colored in with a fountain pen. A dot. And when you first meet Dot, you don’t really notice that she’s got big brown eyes and teeth that kind of crisscross in front—you just come away wondering if that’s a permanent dot on her face, or if she was leaning on the wrong end of a marking pen.
Anyhow, I was stuffing everything I needed to transform into the Monster from the Marsh into a sack when Grams says, “Are you planning to go over already?” like Halloween is something you don’t want to arrive too early for.
I just nod. “Could you check the hall for me?”
She rummages through my bag a little and says, “I want you to wear a jacket.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. “A jacket? But Grams … it’s Halloween!”
Her hands pop onto her hips. “Young lady, you’re taking a jacket. It may not be that cold now, but in another hour it will be.”
I roll my eyes and mumble, “Marsh Monsters don’t wear jackets,” but I go into her room and dig my jacket out of the bottom drawer of her dresser because I know—there’s no way she’s going to let me out the door without it.
She gives me a little smile and says, “You’ve got your flashlight?”
“Yes, Grams!”
“Well then, it looks like you’re set. Be home by nine, okay?”
I give her my best “pretty please?” look. “Nine-thirty?”
She sighs. “Not one minute after. It’s a school night, Samantha.”
I give her a kiss on the cheek and say, “I know, Grams, I know. Now could you check the hallway for me? Please?”
She opens the door a bit to see if Mrs. Graybill’s got her beak in the hallway waiting for me. She signals me that the coast is clear, so off I go with my sack of Marsh Monster paraphernalia, down the fire escape, out to Broadway, past the Santa Martina Town Center Mall, and over to Tyler Avenue.
Dot lives in a skinny two-story house on Tyler, right smack-dab in the middle of a bunch of other skinny two-story houses, only Dot’s house had about ten jack-o’-lanterns on the stoop.
Seeing all those jack-o’-lanterns got me pretty excited about turning into the Monster from the Marsh. Halloween’s the best. You don’t have to worry about not having enough money to buy presents or wonder if someone’s going to remember to get you something. You don’t have to worry about cooking or cleaning or going to church—you just get dressed up and go out with your friends and have fun.
I raced up the steps, rang the doorbell, and kind of bounced up and down in my high-tops, waiting for someone to invite me in. And when Dot’s dad answered the door, well, I didn’t
notice right away that he had big brown eyes and teeth that kind of crisscross in front. All I noticed was that right smack-dab in the middle of his cheek was a black spot, just like Dot’s.
I stood there like an idiot for a minute, staring at Dot’s dad’s dot, and finally I say, “Hi, Mr. DeVries? I’m Sammy … Dot’s friend? Is she home?”
He smiles real big, which kind of pushes his dot up toward his eye. “So nice to meet you, Sammy. Come right in.”
So in I go, into the Land of Blue. The carpet’s blue, from about three feet down the walls are blue, and above that there’s blue-and-white checkered wallpaper with ceramic plates mounted on it. Dozens of ceramic plates with blue windmills and cows and kids in wooden shoes.
Mr. DeVries bends out of the way as a little girl dressed up as Snow White goes charging behind him. She’s clicking a toy gun around in the air, shouting, “Pughh, pughh!” and a second later Mr. DeVries has to jump out of the way again as another little girl in a cowboy hat and boots goes chasing after Snow White, waving a magic wand in the air. She’s shouting, “Take this back! I want my gun! Give it back, or I’ll turn you into a newt!”
The first girl calls, “Snow White doesn’t carry a magic wand!” and a second later she comes whipping back around the corner, whispering, “What’s a newt, Daddy?”
“A salamander, honey. Now, don’t you think—”
Snow White dodges the Cowboy, crying, “Eee-haw!”
Mr. DeVries gives me a little shrug and then calls up the stairs, “Margaret! Margaret, you’ve got a visitor!”
Dot comes racing down these skinny little stairs with her face looking like it’s been half dunked in a bucket of yellow paint. She blinks a bunch, then says, “Hi, Sammy! Come on up!”
Dot’s got a big family. She has two older brothers and two younger sisters, and because they live in this skinny little house, all the girls sleep in one skinny little room and the boys sleep in another.
When you go into the girls’ room, you move from the Land of Blue to the Land of Yellow. There’s a yellow bedspread and a little yellow end table; one whole wall is painted yellow, and there’s even a yellow dresser. And standing there in the middle of all that yellow is Dot, painting herself to match the furniture.
I sit down on the edge of her bed and say, “So what are you going to be?”
She gives me a great big yellow smile. “A bee! Wait ’til you see my costume. It’s gonna be great!”
She goes back to smearing yellow paint on her face, and I’m thinking A bee? when she says, “How about you?”
I start digging though my bag and say, “The Monster from the Marsh.”
She looks at me in the mirror. “The Monster from the Marsh? What’s that?”
All of a sudden I feel pretty stupid. Here she is, taking a bath in yellow paint, trying real hard to look like a five-foot bee, and all I’m planning to do is rat my hair up, spray myself green, and call myself a Marsh Monster. Like there’s such a thing. I look at her in the mirror and kind of shrug. “It’s just something I made up. You’ll see.”
She turns to face me. “Is that what you’re going to be for Heather’s party tomorrow night?”
Now the last thing I want to do is spend my favorite night of the year talking about Heather Acosta and her stupid party. I think Heather’s throwing a party partly so she can do what she did last week: come up to me and say, “In case you hear about the party, it’s true; everyone’s invited—everyone but you.” Can you believe it? That’s exactly what she said. Then she wobbled her snobby red head, gave me her best nah-ne-nah look, and walked away. I tell you, having Heather Acosta in your life is like having a slice of onion on your peanut butter sandwich.
Anyhow, Dot’s looking at me, waiting for me to tell her what I’m going to be for Heather’s stupid party, so I kind of shrug and say, “Nah … I’m not going.”
Dot’s eyes pop wide open. “You’re not? Why not? Everybody’s going!”
Just then the doorbell rings. Then we hear, “Margaret! More company!”
Dot puts down her paint and jumps up. “That must be Marissa!” She races off saying, “This is so much fun!”
I was glad Marissa had shown up. We’ve been best friends since the third grade, and she doesn’t have to ask what I’m going to be for Halloween. She knows that I’m going to be the Marsh Monster. That or the Ice Monster, if I happen to get white paint instead of green.
Anyway, Marissa comes in and gives me a great big smile. She says, “Sammy!” and puts down these two big shopping bags. “Ready to get ready?”
I nod. “What’cha gonna be?”
She dumps out one of the bags. “A mummy!”
Dot and I look at the rolls of toilet paper tumbling out of the bag and start cracking up. Dot says, “A mummy?”
Marissa pulls a white leotard and tights out of the other bag. “Yeah! And you guys are going to have to help me get dressed. C’mon!”
Just then the door bangs open, and Snow White comes whipping into the room. She slides under one of the beds, then yanks her skirt into the shadows just as the Cowboy charges in. The Cowboy stands in the middle of the room holding the magic wand out like she’s warding off demons. “Where’s Beppie?”
Dot barely nods her head toward the bed, but that’s all the Cowboy needs. She calls “Eee-haw!” and pounces. And as they’re tearing each other up under the bed, I ask Dot, “Shouldn’t you do something about that?”
Dot shrugs. “They’ll work it out. They always do.”
After a few more squeaks and squawks and pughh, pughhs, the Cowboy emerges with a gun in her hand and a smile on her face. She looks at Dot and says, “There’s a newt under your bed,” then disappears.
Dot looks at me. “What’s a newt?”
Snow White comes out with a pout. “A salamander.” She throws the magic wand on the ground, says, “I hate being a newt,” and stomps out of the room.
Marissa and I shake our heads, then go back to getting ready. Marissa gets into her tights and leotard, and we wrap her up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, laughing and telling her what a great idea it is to be a mummy—if she trips and falls or bumps into something it won’t even hurt because, really, she’s got about half a foot of padding all the way around her.
When we’re all done, she walks over to Dot’s bed like the Abominable Snowman and stands there for a minute before she says, “I can’t sit down!”
Dot and I start laughing all over again, but there’s not much we can do about it. She has to just stand there while Dot and I hurry up and get ready.
So I’m hanging upside down, ratting and spraying my hair like crazy when Marissa says through the slit for her mouth, “Hey! I almost forgot! I brought you something.” She goes over to her bag and pulls out this huge olive green sweater that’s made out of long twisty strands that look like thick hair.
My eyes bug out. “Wow! Where did you get that?”
She smiles through all that toilet paper. “Yolanda’s closet, of course.”
“Your mother bought that?” I ask, thinking there’s no way Mrs. McKenze would be caught dead in a sweater that was obviously meant to be worn by a Marsh Monster.
Marissa says, “Yup, and I figure since I’ve never seen her wear it, she’s not going to miss it.” She hands it to me. “It’s kinda heavy.”
She wasn’t kidding about that. I pop it on over my turtleneck, and all of a sudden I feel like I’m at the dentist, wrapped up in a lead apron, waiting for x-rays.
I move around a bit, swaying from side to side, getting used to this hairy sweater brushing against my thighs. Then I let out a few Rrrrs and Arghs, and pretty soon I’m feeling like the Marsh Monster. I go back to putting on warts and spraying hair, and when I’m all done I spread out my arms and say, “Hey! What’cha think?”
Marissa says, “That’s great!” but Dot takes one look at me, pops on her antenna headband, and says, “Your shoes don’t go.”
I look down at my high-tops and then back at Do
t. “They don’t?”
She laughs. “They’re white!”
Well, they weren’t exactly white. They were too old to be white. But she was right. They sure weren’t green.
Marissa shrugs and says, “So spray ’em.”
I have to think about this a minute. Painting my hair and face and hands green, that’s one thing. But my high-tops? I pick up the paint and read the label. It says WASH OFF WITH WARM SUDSY WATER, so I figure okay, what the heck, I’ll spray my high-tops green.
Dot says, “I’m dying of thirst. Anyone else want a root beer?”
Marissa says she does, but I just shake my head and get to work painting my shoes. So Dot runs off, and a minute later she and Marissa are sipping root beers, watching me work. And when my shoes are finally all green and dry enough to wear, I lace them up and say, “Is that better?”
Dot says, “Much!” and Marissa nods. “That’s the best Marsh Monster ever.”
Dot gives herself one last look in the mirror, adjusting the wings that are strapped on like a backpack. “So where are we going to go?”
Marissa puts down her root beer. “Why don’t we start here and go out toward Broadway?”
Dot says, “I thought maybe we’d go the other way. You know, up the hill? They probably have great decorations and candy and stuff up there.”
Marissa and I laugh because we tried that once. We went all around Marissa’s neighborhood and came home with practically nothing. Big houses are rotten for trick-or-treating. You have to run like crazy to get from one house to the next, half the houses have their lights off, and if they do have their porch light on, half the time the people don’t even know it’s Halloween. They answer the door and just kind of stare at you, and you can see them thinking, Are these kids dressed up for a reason? Is it Halloween? No, it can’t be.… Then off they go to dig up some marshmallows or nuts that they’ve got buried in a cupboard somewhere, and the minute you turn around, click, they’ve doused the porch light.
Anyhow, we agreed that we’d start off in Dot’s neighborhood and work our way over toward the mall. And it might have been just a regular Halloween night for the Bee, the Mummy, and the Monster from the Marsh, if I hadn’t gotten the bright idea to take Dot somewhere she’d never been before. A place you wouldn’t dare go except on Halloween. A place even adults don’t like to talk about.