Free Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

grandmother and what they had been like at my age. What had junior high been like for them? When and where had they fallen in love? At school? At work?
    At a Renaissance Faire?
    And it's funny—I had always thought of them as being old. Or, at least,
adults.
But they'd been kids once, too. And I could tell from the hurt in Grams' eyes that she'd felt all this before.
    Maybe many times.
    And that seemed so strange.
    So … impossible.
    But as I drifted off to sleep, the one thought that kept cycling through my head wasn't actually about my grandparents or parents. It was about Hudson. And the more Ithought about it, the more I could just see him—his boots kicked up, the wind in his hair.
    Hudson Graham, right at home on a Harley.
    I had dreams about ants. Little red ones with yellow antennae, tiptoeing up my finger. Up my hand. Up my arm. Tickling, tickling, tickling. Then they'd rear back and duke it out with those wild antennae, jump off my arm, and start all over again.
    Up my finger.
    Up my hand.
    Up my arm.
    Tickle, tickle, tickle.
    “Who are you shouting at?” It was Grams, shaking me awake.
    “What? What?” I sat up and whipped around, looking for ants.
    Grams was holding her heart. “You scared the daylights out of me!”
    “I'm sorry,” I told her, still looking for ants.
    “It didn't even sound like you! You had an English accent!”
    “I
did
?”
    “Distinctly English.”
    “Well … what was I saying?”
    “Something like, Unhand me! and, Thou shalst pay!” She holds her temples with her hands and says, “And there was something about ‘Sir Hiss-a-lot'?”
    I rubbed my arm, hoping she wouldn't notice how red my cheeks must have been turning.
    “What were you dreaming about? Was it something about the Faire?”
    I shook my head, happy to be able to tell her the truth. “I was dreaming about ants.”
    “Ants?”
    “Angry little red ones with yellow antennae.”
    “Oh.” She studied me a minute. “Were they
talking
ants?”
    “I don't think so.”
    “Were they wearing British uniforms or something?”
    “Grams! They were just little red ants.”
    “But with yellow antennae.”
    “Yeah.”
    She sighed and said, “Well, I can make hide nor hair of that one.” She stroked my head. “Did you want to try to get some more sleep?”
    I looked at the clock. “It's eight already?”
    “But it's Sunday. I can read a little longer if you want to rest.”
    “Nah,” I said, swinging my legs off the couch. I eyed the flowers, then looked at her. “How are you, anyway?”
    “Fine,” she said real primly.
    “Well, I have some information that I didn't get the chance to tell you yesterday.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah. I ran into Jojo at the Faire yesterday.”
    “And … ?”
    “And I found out that Diane Reijden isn't going to have the police investigate who tried to steal her paintings.”
    All of a sudden Grams is sitting right beside me, grabbing my forearms. “She
said
that?”
    “Jojo said she wants to put it all behind her.”
    Grams let go and raised an eyebrow. “Is she an artist or a politician?”
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Just tell me this—why
wouldn't
she have them investigate?”
    “I know. It does seem kinda strange.”
    “So … ?” she says, turning to look at me.
    “So … what?” I ask, staring right back at her.
    Her face zooms closer. Her eyes burn brighter. And out of her mouth come words I never in a million years thought I'd hear.
    “I think you and I should prove it.”

EIGHT
    “
Prove
it? Grams, I've been trying to stay
out
of it! I thought you'd be all proud of me for that. And now you want to go and
prove
it?” I shake my head. “Besides, I don't even think it was her.”
    She just looks at me. Level stare. Pursed lips. Hands folded calmly in her lap. “Well, I do.”
    I take a deep breath and try again. “Look. Even if she did hire some guy to make it look like her art was worth stealing, so what? She's just