Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City (7 page)

“Don’t you dare go rock ’n’ roll on me!” Mrs. McKenze
said over her shoulder. “I don’t need more problems than I already have!”

She was sounding kinda frantic, so I held on to my board and told her, “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go rock ’n’ roll on you. And I’ll make sure Marissa doesn’t, either.”

“No TVs out the window, Mom, promise,” Marissa said with a laugh.

Mrs. McKenze’s head just wobbled. Like, Please, Lord, save me. But when it turned out our room was the very last one on the right, Marissa and I eyed each other.

It would have been way faster to ride!

Anyway, the room was big. It had a bedroom with its own sitting area, a living room with a huge couch and two cushy chairs, a kitchen area, and a huge bathroom. It was three times as big as Grams’ apartment.

“You’re serious?” I whispered to Marissa, ’cause I’d never been in any place like it.

But Marissa sighed and shook her head like this was a miserable excuse for a hotel room. “We used to get a deluxe suite.… You should have seen it.”

“Well, that couch looks pretty comfortable to me,” I whispered, and it did. A lot more comfortable than Grams’ couch.

And that’s when it hits me.

Grams!

“Uh …” I look around. “I need to find a way to call Grams.”

Marissa hesitates. “Does she know … anything?”

“I left her a note, but it just said I didn’t know when
I’d be home and that I’d call.” I spot a digital clock next to the couch. “That was five hours ago!”

“So what are you going to tell her?”

Just then Mrs. McKenze comes out of the bedroom scrolling through her cell phone as she says, “I’ve got to make some calls, so please just give me a few uninterrupted minutes,” and before we can say a thing, she’s closed the bedroom door tight.

“Quick,” Marissa says, “do it now!” She hands me the room phone and punches in Grams’ number, and as it’s ringing, she whispers, “Good thing you guys don’t have caller ID.”

But the truth is, I’m not sure if I care if Grams knows where I am anymore. I mean, it depends. If she knows Mom’s getting married, then I’m furious with her, too. But if this is another case of Lady Lana not caring how what she does affects me
or
Grams, then I don’t want Grams to worry about me being in Las Vegas.

All of a sudden there’s no time to think about it. “Hello?” Grams says on the other end.

“Hi, Grams, it’s me. Sorry I couldn’t get to a phone sooner.”

“Where
are
you?”

“I’m with Marissa.”

She hesitates, then hrmphs and says, “We all know what
that
can mean.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying.”

She was leading me down a sidetrack where I didn’t
want to go, so I brought it back to the reason I’d called. “Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m fine, and that I’m spending the night with Marissa.”

I can practically see her eyebrows go flying. “You’re telling me, not asking me?”

I take a deep breath. “Marissa’s all stressed out about her dad, so please? I promise you, I’m safe, and Marissa’s mother is here, so you have nothing to worry about.” And since she’s not arguing and it feels like I may have miraculously worked this conversation so I won’t have to tell her where I am, I decide it doesn’t matter at this point if she already knows what my mother is up to. “So … I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait!” she says, and I can tell her granny radar has kicked in. Probably because she can tell I’m trying to get off the phone. “Are you at their house? Why did it take this long for you to call me?”

My brain races around for an answer and finally I tell her, “This was the first chance I had to call.”

“So where are you?”

“With Marissa and her mom.” And because I know that’s not going to cut it, I add, “In a hotel.”

“In a hotel? Where?” And then, like a crack starting across a sheet of ice, she asks, “What if your mother calls wanting to … wanting to talk to you?”

I can feel myself drifting away from her. “When’s the last time she’s done
that
?”

“Samantha! Why aren’t you telling me where you are?”

“Maybe because you didn’t tell me about Mom’s little weekend getaway?”

It comes out cold.

Hard.

There’s a moment of silence and then I can feel her start to panic. “Samantha … Samantha, please tell me you’re not in Las Vegas.”

And just like that, my whole body is shaking, chattering away.

She knew!

“But I’m not supposed to lie to you, remember?” I tell her through my teeth.

“Samantha!” she wails, but I’m totally iced over. Her being upset just slides right off me. She knew! After everything my mom’s put her through, she’s still willing to keep her secrets. Still choosing her over me. “Sorry, Grams, but I’m done listening to you stick up for Mom. Her getting married is stupid and selfish and
mean
, and I’m done just taking this.”

“Her getting—”

“I didn’t want
you
to worry about where I was, but since you’ve known about this all along, I don’t know why I even cared!”

“Samantha—”

“Maybe if
you’d
stood up to her sooner, I wouldn’t have to sneak into cars and hop onto planes and weasel my way into other people’s hotel rooms!”

“Samantha, please—”

“
No!
I’m done!” I shout. “I can’t believe you kept this
from me!” Then I slam down the phone and burst into tears.

“Wow,” Marissa says, putting an arm around me. “Are you okay?”

“No!” I shout at her. “I’m not okay! Grams knew! She
knew
.”

Marissa looks over her shoulder at her mother’s bedroom door and tells me, “Shhh!”

“Sorry,” I mumble, but I just feel so … betrayed.

“What in the
world
is going on?” Mrs. McKenze cries, flinging her door open.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper. “I’m really, really sorry.”

And I’m not thinking about anything but being betrayed, but apparently Marissa is. “Would it be okay if Sammy slept on the couch tonight?”

“Slept on the …” Mrs. McKenze moves in closer. “What happened?”

Marissa heaves a sigh. “Her mother.” Then she shakes her head a little, like, Don’t even ask.

So Mrs. McKenze takes a deep breath and says, “It’s fine. And, Marissa, sweetheart, I’ve got to fill out forms online for your father—getting him out is not going to be as easy as I’d hoped.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to post bail, and I don’t know if I do that at the justice court or the district court—I don’t even know the difference! And I can’t talk to your father, because inmates are not allowed to receive calls.” She holds her head like it might explode. “Inmates! Your father is
an inmate!” She lets go and says, “And we can’t visit him without filling out forms … but first I have to register, and I’m not sure how or where to do that.” She shakes her head and whimpers, “I feel like Sammy—I just want to cry. And I have
such
a headache.” She gives Marissa a pleading look. “Could you two go down to that little store by the water fountain and get me some aspirin and maybe get us all some sandwiches? We completely missed dinner.”

As upset as I was about Grams, I knew I was also just
hungry
. And I guess Marissa was, too, because she grabs me by the arm and yanks me off the couch and says, “Sure.”

“Promise me you’ll stick together, okay?” She hands Marissa some cash. “And please come right back.”

So off we go, down the corridor to the elevators, down the elevators to the water fountain, and past the water fountain to the convenience store. And since Marissa is either blocking it out or in denial about her dad being in jail, she keeps asking me what I’m going to do instead of talking about what she’s going through.

And the truth is, I’m kind of glad, because it feels good to just walk and talk with Marissa and plan out how I’m going to confront my mother. Marissa even makes me laugh a couple of times, which helps a lot. And we do exactly what Mrs. McKenze asked us to—we buy the aspirin and sandwiches and head straight back.

Which, if you ask anybody, qualifies as a minor miracle.

On our way back up we’re the first people on the elevator, which I discover is actually worse than being the last. People keep cramming on and we keep squooshing back. And just as we’re sure the elevator can’t fit any more
people, we hear a voice cry, “Hold the door,” and someone actually does.

And then in squeezes a woman with a huge red suitcase.

Marissa grabs onto me and gasps, and like a ton of turds it hits me.

My luck had been just a mirage.

I turn away from the elevator door and duck while people squoosh in tighter. Marissa stoops, too, and we look at each other all bug-eyed as we hear, “Excuse me … excuse me … oh, thank you … I’m sorry … we’re getting off at four … can you …? Thank you.”

Then the door closes.

I don’t dare look as the elevator goes up, but I’m pretty sure I know who the other half of “we” is. Then the elevator stops, and I hear her voice go, “This is it, Mom,” and I know I’m right.

“What are
they
doing here?” Marissa mouths.

I’m just working out that the reservation for Acosta must not be for Warren and my mom, but for Warren’s ex and the last person on earth I want to deal with—Heather.

But them being in Las Vegas actually does make sense. “Probably the same thing I am,” I whisper to Marissa.

Marissa shakes her head. “Wow. Your mother has no idea what she’s in for.”

The doors are open, and since Heather and Candi are
already off the elevator and there’s no time to
think
, I grab Marissa and announce, “Excuse us, we have to get off here, too,” and push forward.

“No!” Marissa whispers, yanking back.

I drag her along. “Yes!”

The fourth floor looks just like the fourteenth, with a short elevator hallway that leads to an open area with a bunch of long corridors branching off it like the spokes of a wheel. Heather and her mother are already out of sight, so I hurry toward the open area and catch a glimpse of a big red suitcase disappearing down a corridor to our right. “There they go!”

But Marissa stays put by the elevators.

“Come on!” I whisper, waving her along.

She finally takes a few steps forward. “Why? I don’t want to talk to them! And I promised Mom we’d be right back! What are you going to do if my mother gets mad and kicks you out?”

I move forward so I can peek down the corridor. “I just want to see where they’re staying, okay? Nothing else.”

She finally gives in and we watch as Heather and her mother stop at a door about a third of the way down the corridor and slide their card in about six different ways before unlocking it and going inside.

Since the doors down the corridor all look the same, it would be easy to lose track of which room they went into, but there’s a tray with dishes outside the room right across the hall from them. So I’ve got my mark, and the second Heather and Candi’s door closes, I jet down, read
the room number, and jet back. “Four fifty-six,” I pant when I join up with Marissa.

“So now what?”

“Now we get back to your mom!”

Once we’re on the fourteenth floor and don’t have to worry about people in the elevator hearing, Marissa says, “So if they’re here and your mom’s
not
, how are you ever going to find her?”

I don’t have an answer, so I just march along saying a whole lot of nothing.

“Well, do you think
Heather
knows where they’re staying? They wouldn’t have come clear out here if they didn’t know more than we do, right?”

We’re practically running down the hallway to make up for my little detour, and it’s hard to run
and
think
and
be in shock. “I don’t know! But she’s sure not going to tell me!”

“So true.” Then when we get to the door, she whispers, “So do you want to look up wedding chapels and start calling around?”

“Now?”

“I think a lot of them are open all night.”

So the minute Mrs. McKenze’s disappeared back inside her room with the aspirin and a sandwich, we dive into our food as we dig through the room’s phone book. And almost right away we discover that there are about a hundred wedding chapels in Las Vegas.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say through a mouthful. “It’ll take us all night to call these!”

“And what if they didn’t make an appointment? Some people just show up, wait in line, and get married.”

I shake my head. “I’m never going to find her.”

“You’re just now getting that?” Then she rubs it in by pointing to an ad that reads, Love in the Fast Lane—Drive-Thru Weddings. “I doubt people get appointments for that.” She points to another ad, for the Love Me Tender Wedding Chapel that has a picture of a white gazebo with Elvis playing an acoustic guitar. “Can you see your mom getting married by Elvis?”

“No! I can’t see my mom doing any of this stuff! I can’t even believe she’d get married here! It’s so tacky!”

Marissa takes a huge bite of her sandwich but still manages to say, “She’s never had a wedding, right? So maybe because you and your grandmother are against her marrying Casey’s dad, this is the closest she can get to a dream wedding.”

“Getting married in Las Vegas is not even
close
to a dream wedding!”

Marissa shrugs. “Maybe getting married here has just been stigmatized.”

“Stigmatized?
Stigmatized?
”

“Sure. Here, look at this,” she says, pointing to another ad. “This one offers limousine transportation, a fresh floral bouquet, professional photographs.… And the wedding parties I’ve seen at the chapel downstairs are always decked out.” She shrugs. “They look classy.”

“Classy,” I say, staring at her like she’s lost her very last marble.

She gets up and goes to the sink for a glass of water. “I’m just saying, if there are a hundred chapels, not
all
of them are going to be tacky!”

“Well, great,” I say, getting up for a glass of my own. “If there are a hundred potentially untacky chapels, how will I ever find the one she’s going to? And since my mom’s
not
staying at this hotel after all, how will I ever find her?”