Read Online Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man by Wendelin Van Draanen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
Ads: Link
to
do?
”
“I guess we’ll have to tell her what happened.
I’ll
tell her, if you want.”
“She is going to
kill
me!”
We spent the next few minutes trying to figure out some way to save Marissa’s life, but finally we decided that there wasn’t much we could do about it right then, so we got busy changing for Heather’s party.
Dot transformed into the Bee, and Marissa decided that she’d rather wear a gypsy costume of Dot’s than wrap up in another mountain of toilet paper, and by the time they were dressed we were already an hour late. And since Dot kept insisting that
she
was the one who should put makeup on my face, I just sat there waiting, trying to decide the best way to sneak the monitor into Heather’s party.
When the Bee and the Gypsy were done getting ready, they slapped me in a chair by the mirror and got to work. Now it’s not that I think girls who wear makeup are wacko or anything, although girls who wear red or blue eye shadow have a few marbles on the loose. It’s just that I don’t
like
it. Mascara makes me feel like I’ve got bird wings up there flapping around, and lipstick makes me feel like I kissed raspberry syrup. And foundation? You can
have
foundation. It’s like smearing peanut butter on your face, and if you think I’m walking around with peanut butter on my face, you can think again. Green paint, yeah. Peanut butter? Forget it.
Anyhow, after about fifteen minutes I’ve got birds flapping on my eyes and syrup on my lips, my hair’s knotted up in some kind of genie-do, and they’ve snapped a pointy little hat with wispy scarves onto my head. And when they slapped that mask on my face, even
I
didn’t recognize me.
Dot wrestles me into ten layers of skirts and then says, “Put these on” as she hands me a pair of ballet slippers.
I can tell by looking at them that they’re not going to fit, but wearing my high-tops would be like carrying a banner saying HERE’S SAMMY! S O I push and yank and pull a bunch of faces, and then there they are: cute little pink feet at the bottom of my legs.
I take the small part of the monitor and snap it inside my tights, then I let down about half of the skirts and say to Marissa, “Hold this up, would you?” I take the big part of the monitor and press it against my side with the antenna facing down and say to Dot, “Can you wrap the cord around my waist?”
When Dot’s all done wrapping, I tie the cord off and straighten out the skirts and we all smile at each other, because, really, you can’t even tell it’s there.
I turn around a couple of times and try on a new voice—a kind of high, cutesy one. “What do you think my name should be? Tiffany? Wendy? Nikki?”
Both of them shout, “Nikki!”
Then Dot says, “Oh! Oh! You’re supposed to be my cousin, right?” and before I can answer, she sits me back down in the chair and pulls out her black eyeliner. And very carefully on the bottom of my cheek she paints a dot. Not too big, not too small—just enough so no one will question that Princess Nikki is Dot’s relative.
We all look in the mirror and laugh, and I say, “C’mon! We’ve got a party to crash!”
EIGHT
Heather was dressed up as a bimbo rock star. That crazy red hair of hers was ratted up on top, and she had on enough leather to cover a couch, including a pair of black boots that went up to her knees. And wrapped around all that leather were so many chains and studs and belts, that she looked like a Doberman pinscher that got tangled up chasing a cat around a tree.
We weren’t stupid enough to all go up to her door at once. Marissa waited down the block a few minutes while Dot and I rang the bell. And when Heather answers the door, Dot says, cool as can be, “Hi, Heather. Great outfit!” Then she nods toward me and says, “This is my cousin, Nikki. I hope you don’t mind that I brought her …?”
Heather looks me up and down. “No, that’s great. Come on in.” Then she notices my dot and says
do?
”
“I guess we’ll have to tell her what happened.
I’ll
tell her, if you want.”
“She is going to
kill
me!”
We spent the next few minutes trying to figure out some way to save Marissa’s life, but finally we decided that there wasn’t much we could do about it right then, so we got busy changing for Heather’s party.
Dot transformed into the Bee, and Marissa decided that she’d rather wear a gypsy costume of Dot’s than wrap up in another mountain of toilet paper, and by the time they were dressed we were already an hour late. And since Dot kept insisting that
she
was the one who should put makeup on my face, I just sat there waiting, trying to decide the best way to sneak the monitor into Heather’s party.
When the Bee and the Gypsy were done getting ready, they slapped me in a chair by the mirror and got to work. Now it’s not that I think girls who wear makeup are wacko or anything, although girls who wear red or blue eye shadow have a few marbles on the loose. It’s just that I don’t
like
it. Mascara makes me feel like I’ve got bird wings up there flapping around, and lipstick makes me feel like I kissed raspberry syrup. And foundation? You can
have
foundation. It’s like smearing peanut butter on your face, and if you think I’m walking around with peanut butter on my face, you can think again. Green paint, yeah. Peanut butter? Forget it.
Anyhow, after about fifteen minutes I’ve got birds flapping on my eyes and syrup on my lips, my hair’s knotted up in some kind of genie-do, and they’ve snapped a pointy little hat with wispy scarves onto my head. And when they slapped that mask on my face, even
I
didn’t recognize me.
Dot wrestles me into ten layers of skirts and then says, “Put these on” as she hands me a pair of ballet slippers.
I can tell by looking at them that they’re not going to fit, but wearing my high-tops would be like carrying a banner saying HERE’S SAMMY! S O I push and yank and pull a bunch of faces, and then there they are: cute little pink feet at the bottom of my legs.
I take the small part of the monitor and snap it inside my tights, then I let down about half of the skirts and say to Marissa, “Hold this up, would you?” I take the big part of the monitor and press it against my side with the antenna facing down and say to Dot, “Can you wrap the cord around my waist?”
When Dot’s all done wrapping, I tie the cord off and straighten out the skirts and we all smile at each other, because, really, you can’t even tell it’s there.
I turn around a couple of times and try on a new voice—a kind of high, cutesy one. “What do you think my name should be? Tiffany? Wendy? Nikki?”
Both of them shout, “Nikki!”
Then Dot says, “Oh! Oh! You’re supposed to be my cousin, right?” and before I can answer, she sits me back down in the chair and pulls out her black eyeliner. And very carefully on the bottom of my cheek she paints a dot. Not too big, not too small—just enough so no one will question that Princess Nikki is Dot’s relative.
We all look in the mirror and laugh, and I say, “C’mon! We’ve got a party to crash!”
EIGHT
Heather was dressed up as a bimbo rock star. That crazy red hair of hers was ratted up on top, and she had on enough leather to cover a couch, including a pair of black boots that went up to her knees. And wrapped around all that leather were so many chains and studs and belts, that she looked like a Doberman pinscher that got tangled up chasing a cat around a tree.
We weren’t stupid enough to all go up to her door at once. Marissa waited down the block a few minutes while Dot and I rang the bell. And when Heather answers the door, Dot says, cool as can be, “Hi, Heather. Great outfit!” Then she nods toward me and says, “This is my cousin, Nikki. I hope you don’t mind that I brought her …?”
Heather looks me up and down. “No, that’s great. Come on in.” Then she notices my dot and says
Similar Books
