Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls by Wendelin Van Draanen

Author:Wendelin Van Draanen [Draanen, Wendelin Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-89735-1
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-10-11T04:00:00+00:00

I didn’t want to sit near any of the families visiting graves, so I wound up leading Casey across the new section and into the old where there didn’t seem to be any visitors.

“Where are we going?” he asks after I’ve zigzagged him through a bunch of graves.

“I don’t know—who looks like they could use some company?” I smile at him. “I brought a picnic lunch.”

His eyes get wide. “You did?”

“Yup.”

“And you want to … eat it here?”

“Yup.” I yank him along. “With someone who has no visitors.”

We walk up to a tall stone slab that has a real weathered look to it. Gray, with black streaks running from the letters. “ ‘Arthur R. Jamison,’ ” I read. “ ‘1881 to 1956, Graze the Lord’s Pastures.’ ”

“Graze the Lord’s Pastures,” Casey murmurs. “Can you say, mooooo?”

I laugh. “Let’s keep looking.”

We read a bunch more grave markers as we walk deeper into the old section, and most of them have pretty normal things chiseled into them. You know—Rest in Peace, Forever Loved—that sort of thing. But then we see a simple rectangular tombstone that’s sort of tilted to one side and has yellow moss growing on it.

“ ‘Marianne Holden,’ ” I read, “ ‘Silent at Last.’ ”

Casey looks at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I laugh. “ ‘Thank you, Lord, for shutting her up’?”

He shakes his head. “Wow.” Then he eyes me and says, “Can we not sit near Marianne Holden?”

I laugh again. “Sure.”

So we wind through some more graves until Casey stops at one with two names. It’s not a double-wide, either. It’s one grave with one headstone and two names.

“How’s that work?” I ask. “The year they died is different.”

“Bunk beds? Uh … coffins?” Casey says.

That kicks my claustrophobia into high gear. “Not here,” I tell him, and drag him along until I find a grave that has a big angel on it and a tombstone that reads, “Sophie ‘Sassypants’ Driscoll, 1920–1955, Brave and Sassy to the End.”

I look around. It’s a nice spot between two big walnut trees and has a good view down the slope. There’s a bird watching us from the branch of one of the trees and the grass around the graves is tall in spots. And green. “How about we keep Sassypants company?” I ask.

“You’re serious about this?”

I nod and unzip his backpack, then yank out the towel.

“Is this a tradition for your family or something?” he asks as I flap out the towel.

I swing off my backpack. “Nope. I’ve never done this before.” Then I add, “Besides, would I be setting up camp by Sassypants Driscoll if I had family here?” But before he can say anything I mutter, “Never mind. Maybe I would.”

“But … if you don’t have relatives here and it’s not a tradition or anything, why would you want to picnic in a graveyard?”

I shake my head a little, then shrug. “Maybe I’m trying to get uncreeped about death?”

“But at a graveyard?”

Inside I start to panic. Why am I surrounding

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