Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye (13 page)

The man tried to conceal his impatience as he indicated the equipment obstructed by Lana. “I’m just here to prep the machinery, ma’am. Now, if you don’t mind …?”

Not wanting to contribute to the delay or obstruction of any tests that might get to the bottom of Sammy’s condition, Darren and Marko were already moving toward the door.

But Lana (who didn’t take kindly to being ma’am-ed instead of miss-ed,
especially
by someone clearly older than she was) revived her inner diva. “What machinery?” Then she eyed his worn shoes, white socks, and high-water scrubs. “Are
you
the technician?”

“No, ma’am. I’m the prep guy. Now, if you’ll—”

“The prep guy,” she said with a disapproving frown. “What’s a prep guy?”

“Look, I’ll come back,” he said, and beat a swift exit from the room.

“Lana …” Darren sighed. “He was just trying to do his job.” Then he started after the man, who was already out the door.

“What kind of hospital lets their personnel dress that way?” Lana called over her shoulder. “His greens even
clash!” she cried, referring to the mismatched hues of his scrubs.

Once outside Room 411, Darren looked left, then right, for the mismatched prep guy. And since to the right was basically a dead end, he went left, toward the nurses’ station.

Midway down the hall he came upon Nurse Faith (the one with the guitar smock), who had been hoping to catch another glimpse of the rock star. And to her heart-strumming delight, she got more than just a glimpse. Darren Cole looked directly at her and spoke. “Did the prep guy come this way?”

“The
prep
guy?” she asked, as if trying to adapt to some new, cool rocker slang.

“He was just in my daughter’s room. To set up for some tests?”

“Tests?” she asked. And it appeared that the poor woman was starstruck beyond competence, only then she said, “I don’t believe any tests have been ordered.”

Darren’s head quivered impatiently. “He said he was there to prep the machinery.”

“Prep the machinery?”

“Yes. For tests.”

“Well, come with me,” she said, and led him to the nurses’ station, where she checked charts and records (both physical and electronic), then asked the other personnel inside the station if they had any knowledge of tests having been ordered, or to whom this (clearly stressed) father might be referring as “the prep guy.”

“Sorry,” Nurse Faith said when she’d collected enough
head shakes and shrugs. “There’s been no order for additional tests.”

“Are you
sure
?”

The nurse nodded.

“So who was that man in the room?” the rocker asked.

“Well … what did he look like?”

“Brown hair. Glasses. About forty?” Then with a little frown he conceded, “I’m not the best with ages.”

“Maybe Vick?” one of the nurses behind the counter volunteered.

“Or Steve?” another suggested.

“Could have been Ian? I think it’s his shift.”

Darren hesitated. Obviously, a better description was needed. He didn’t want to insult the staff, but something about the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing
was
bothering him. So he finally just came out with it. “He wasn’t put together very well.”

“Put together?” Nurse Faith asked, clearly envisioning robotics or a Frankenstein monster.

“His scrubs didn’t match. And they were high-waters. And his shoes were dingy.”

A woman inside the nurses’ station laughed. “Could be Vick, Steve,
or
Ian!”

It appeared to Darren that he’d reached a dead end, which both irritated and confused him. How could they not know who’d been sent to the room? And more importantly, how could they not know
why
he’d been sent?

“Dr. Jha will be here soon,” Nurse Six-strings offered. “I’m sure he’ll be able to clear this up.”

Just then Marko came up and said, “Lana says she’s not
leaving Sammy’s side. That they’ll just have to do the tests with her there.” Then he picked up on the tension and asked, “What’s going on?”

So Darren took him aside and was in the middle of letting off some controlled steam about what was
not
going on when Zelda Quinn approached.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Darren turned, and even though the woman had no telltale paraphernalia (like, say, a microphone or a logoed ball cap or a station polo shirt), in the blink of an eye he recognized her for what she was.

A reporter.

The last thing Darren wanted to deal with at the moment was a reporter. But then Marko said, “I like the do” (in reference to Zelda’s unique hairstyle), and suddenly a man in beige walking shorts was upon them, extending his hand toward Marko, saying, “Sorry about the circumstances, but I’ve just got to tell you—I’m such a fan!”

“Alton!” Zelda snapped, but Marko took it in stride. “You play?” he asked as he clasped the man’s hand and noted his well-defined calf muscles.

“My whole life,” the cameraman said in a gust of awe.

Zelda gave Alton a dark look, then turned to Darren and said, “Please excuse my overzealous cameraman. We don’t mean to intrude on your privacy; we’re just hoping to help. Your daughter is obviously a very special person, and after talking to her friends here, I understand that she’s also a hometown hero. I don’t want to exploit her, or you, or the situation for that matter, but if there was ever a time when your celebrity could be put to good use, it’s now.”

Darren studied her a moment, wondering if this was just a clever butter-up. Was her calling an exploit an exploit merely a tricky way of getting him to agree to be exploited?

He had his suspicions, but still, there’s nothing like a person complimenting your child to predispose you to liking them.

And the cameraman being a fan of Marko’s didn’t hurt, either.

Actually, it kind of helped. At least it wasn’t a typical rush-and-gush where the feasting was on him while his bandmate was tossed a few scraps, at best.

So at last he said, “Go on.”

Zelda took an urgent step forward. “I can’t help with the medical side of things, but I
can
get the community behind tracking down who did this.” She locked eyes with him. “I had planned to make the plea myself, but people would sit up and listen—actually rewind in their minds and
think
—if the plea came from you.”

Darren studied her a moment, then glanced over at Marko, who gave him a rapid head shake.

Zelda (who caught the shake-shake) lowered her voice and said, “The more time that passes, the less chance we’ll have of catching the guy. If we’re going to get this out on the five and the six, I’ve got to get moving.” She watched the gears turn in Darren’s mind for a moment, then tried to close the deal. “I know how to put together a sensitive story. I really just want to help.”

Again Darren glanced at Marko, who responded with a huddle-up-bro head jerk.

“Excuse me for a minute,” Darren told the reporter, then gave the drummer a little sideways head jerk of his own, signaling him to confer with him in an empty corner.

“Dude, she’s working you,” Marko whispered when their heads were together. “Do what she wants and this place will be full of people angling for a piece of you.”

“I think it might help to find the guy,” Darren whispered. “Somebody’s got to know something.”

“Look. Find out what the cops have first.”

“We would have heard if they had anything. And she’s under deadline.”

“Of course she is,” Marko growled. Then he added, “And how’s Lana gonna like it, huh? When the place is crawlin’ with chicks?”

“It’s not going to be crawling with chicks.”

“Well, dames, then. Dames for sure.”

Darren frowned at his friend’s attempt at humor. “Knock it off, Marko.”

“Fine. Sorry. But look. They’re not allowed to ID a minor without a parent’s consent. You do this and everything becomes fair game.”

“But I think it might help,” Darren said again, picking anxiously at the callus on the tip of his ring finger. “And the hospital won’t let things get out of control.”

“Things are already out of control!”

“It’ll be fine.”

Marko frowned, then eyed the reporter over Darren’s shoulder. “Here she comes, dude. And I take it back about the hair. I think I smell a polecat.”

“I’m sorry,” Zelda said, giving Darren a concerned look, “but we are running out of time.”

Darren nodded, bit his lip, nodded again, and then (since nothing felt worse than idle helplessness) he nodded for real. “Let’s do it.”

While Darren was off in one corner of the waiting room, huddled with Marko, deciding not to confer with the cops before making a public plea, Casey was in another corner, on the phone, trying to reach Sergeant Borsch.

“Well?” Marissa asked after he’d clicked off.

“They told me he’s unavailable because he’s processing an arrest.”

“An arrest?” Marissa gasped. “Was it the guy?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“But … it could be?” Marissa asked.

“It could be anybody,” Heather grumbled.

“Including the guy who did this to Sammy!” Marissa snarled.

Heather shook her head. “We should still make the list.”

“But if the guy’s been arrested—”

“We don’t
know
that,” Heather snapped. “And what are the chances? This is Santa Martina, remember? Not Disneyland. Besides, it’d be nothing to write down the things you were just talking about.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Dot
sighed and said, “Isn’t anyone else starving? It’s almost three o’clock and I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.”

If there’s one thing that can make a group of teenagers agree on a course of action, it’s hunger. Just like that, all six teens decided that the food court in the mall would be a much better place to make their list of revenge-minded criminals than the waiting room of the ICU.

Especially since the ICU staff was now telling them to pick up all their “craft stuff.”

And that bears couldn’t occupy waiting-room chairs.

The place was starting to feel a little too much like school (especially since Ms. Rothhammer had just been joined by Mr. Tiller and Mrs. Ambler and their vice principal from last year, Mr. Caan). And since the mall wasn’t far to walk
and
happened to be very near the police station (with food-court offerings much more to their taste than those of the hospital’s cafeteria), they picked up their stuff, slung on their backpacks, returned their ribbon-wrapped bears to Marko, and went to the mall.

And while food-court fare was being consumed and drinks were being refilled and other people from school (including Cricket) were joining the group and exchanging what they knew about “the Sammy situation,” Heather kept quiet, looking across the table at Marissa from time to time, only to get visually slapped by Marissa’s fierce glares.

Heather considered that this flare-up of anger might have something to do with her fling with Danny Urbanski, since they were near the location of a showdown that had involved him. But Marissa seemed to be done with him—and so, for that matter, was she—so that wasn’t it.

And it could have been all the stuff she’d pulled on Marissa and Sammy in the past, but she’d apologized to both of them and had really been trying to make amends. And although she knew she’d never live down all the things she’d done, she’d been diligently following her counselor’s advice to proceed slowly and avoid backslides.

Which wasn’t easy.

Especially when people treated her like a pariah.

So Marissa’s glares
could
have been for any number of things, but the increased hostility was showing up now. At the food court. Very near where she’d called Marissa’s pudgy little brother Blubber Boy for the whole after-school crowd to hear. It had been a quick, off-the-cuff jab, and when Sammy had challenged her, pointing out that the kid had feelings, she’d made some remark about not being able to see his feelings, buried under all his fat.

And as Heather sat there, ignored (except for the occasional glare) and feeling like an outcast, a little voice inside her head told her that she’d been right.

The kid
was
fat.

What she’d said
had
been funny.

The little voice brought a certain level of comfort. A kind of relief from the pressures of change. And with that comfort, a snarl began forming at Heather’s lip. She didn’t deserve to be treated like a pariah! Not after how hard she’d been trying to make up for the past. If Sammy died (or was in a coma forever), did she want to be friends with these people? With Marissa and Holly and goody-goody-Dutch-shoes
Dot
?

“You okay?” came a voice in her ear.

She started, then turned.

It was Casey.

“No,” she told him, and suddenly she felt like crying. “I don’t think I want to be here.”

“Why aren’t we making that list?” he said, noticing the blank piece of paper in front of her and the Sharpie in her hand. Then he turned to the others and called, “Hey! Hey, guys! Let’s get going on the list!”

When everyone had moved closer, Heather passed the paper and the marker over to Marissa. “Here. You should do this.”

When a long-standing enemy offers an olive branch, it’s not always easy to take it. But although the two girls locked eyes for a long (somewhat tense) moment, and although Marissa would have been (mostly) justified in saying, Darned right I should! she finally just gave a silent nod of thanks and accepted the paper and pen.

“Okay,” Marissa said, “let’s start with that hotel thief.”

“The guy Sammy waved at?” Dot asked. “I heard about that! She was using binoculars and spotted him stealing stuff. And when he looked up and saw her, she waved at him!”

“That’s the one!” Marissa said, and everyone laughed.

So Marissa started jotting things down, sketching a rough chart of people, from politicians Sammy had thwarted to criminals she’d trapped, writing as quickly (and still legibly) as she could while people threw in names and rumors they’d heard and remember-whens.

And with each new story shared, the crowd around the original group grew.