Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

her jaw drops. Finally, she cries, “This is wonderful!”
    “It's a theory at this point,” Mrs. Willawago hurries to say, “but the good Lord willing, we'll have proof before the council meeting on Monday.”
    “But if it
is
true … why, that's crooked as all get-out,isn't it? That's called a …” She snaps her fingers a bunch of times, and Hudson comes to her rescue, saying, “A conflict of interest?”
    “Yeah!” she says, doing a combination snap-point at Hudson. “That's exactly what it is! And when word gets out about that, there's no way they're plowing my house down!”
    “But, Teri,” Mrs. Willawago says, “we have to keep this under our hats until we have proof.” Then she adds, “No sense charging Hell with only a bucket of water.”
    “Got it!” Mrs. Stone says, putting a finger to her mouth. “Got it, got it!” But all of a sudden her face clouds over. “
Now
what?” she grumbles, looking toward Mrs. Willawago's back fence.
    Hudson, Mrs. Willawago, and I look, too, but we don't see a doggone thing.
    But Mrs. Stone is already hurrying around her compost heap, shouting, “Hey! Put your hands up!”
    Put your hands up? Like she's got what for a weapon?
    Empty cement bags?
    But, very slowly, hands come up over the back fence.
    Then arms.
    Then a face.
    And when I see who it is, well, my jaw drops, my eyes pop, and I hate to admit it, but I about choke on a gasp of surprise.

TEN
    “See if she has any rocks!” Mrs. Stone shouts across to us.
    That snaps me out of it. “She's not the one who threw rocks!” I run over to the back fence. “Marissa, what are you doing here?”
    Marissa crosses her arms and gives me a really hard look. “Trying to figure out what was sooo important that would make you hang up on me.”
    “Marissa, I'm sorry, I—”
    “So I track you down and find out that what's sooo important is some little hole and a bunch of old people.”
    “But I—”
    “No,” she says, putting a hand up. “You know what? I don't care. I thought you were freaking out about the dance or… or something else, I don't know. You've been acting so spacey that I thought it was something real. I was even worried that you were mad at me! But no. You'd just rather play hotshot cement mixer than spend two minutes talking to me.”
    “Hotshot cement mixer? Wait a minute!”
    “Forget it!” she says, then spins around and storms away.
    I call over my shoulder to Hudson and the others,“Sorry, I've got to go!” Then I climb the back fence and tear through the trees and down the embankment toward the ball fields, calling, “Wait up!”
    She just keeps running toward the backstop, where she's locked up her bike.
    “Marissa!” I call after her, and finally catch up in the middle of left field. And I start to pant out, “Look, I'm sorry…,” but when I see her face, the words catch in my throat.
    She's not just mad at me—she's
crying
.
    “Why don't you just tell me you're sick of hanging out with me?” she says, flinging tears off her cheeks. “Why do you have to go make up excuses and act like you've got tons to do?”
    “What are you
talking
about?” I ask, but I know darn well what she's talking about.
    She spins on me. “I'm talking about the way you've been acting and the excuses you've been making!”
    “Excuses? What excuses?”
    She hmphs and rolls her eyes and snaps, “Homework! Let's start with homework—who gave you homework last night?”
    I look away.
    “Exactly.” She puts her fists on her hips. “You think I'm stupid? You think I can't tell you're avoiding me? We've known each other since the third grade. You're like my
sister.
And now all of a sudden you treat me like you can't stand me!”
    “I do not!”
    “You do so!”
    I look away again, and finally I choke out, “It's just … I've been …” But I can't finish. What am I going to tell her? More lies?
    The truth?
    No, not the truth.
    It's too awful.
    Too embarrassing.
    Too… cowardly.
    And all of