Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher (9 page)

Marissa’s already waiting for me at the tables, eating a breakfast bar and swigging water. Marissa used to buy her snack and her lunch at school, but since her family’s gone into crisis mode, she’s been packing food from home, just like me.

Anyway, besides eating, she’s also standing there doing the McKenze Fidget. I used to call it the McKenze Dance because when she got nervous Marissa would bite her thumbnail and squirm around like she had to use the bathroom. It’s a lot more subtle now—she just sort of twitches at the knees—but I still know what it means.

“Hey,” I say, plopping down my backpack. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t even try to pretend it’s nothing. “I think my parents are going to split up.”

“Aw, don’t doom-and-gloom. They’re just fighting over money. They’ll figure it out.”

She shakes her head. “Mikey and I moved into Hudson’s last night.”

“Wait a minute—you’re
living
there?”

She nods, then bursts into tears. “My dad got totally drunk and was talking crazy stuff. Mom called Hudson, and he came and picked us up.”

“But … if they’re splitting up, why didn’t she leave
with
you guys?”

“She doesn’t trust Dad to be alone in the house! She’s afraid of what he’ll do.”

“You mean like hurt himself?”

“Like hurt the
house
.” She drops her voice to barely a whisper. “He was talking about torching it!”

I blink at her. “He was talking about burning down your house?”

“Shhhh! Yes! That way they could get the insurance money for it and all their artwork and stuff. It would be, like, three million dollars!”

I blink at her harder. “He would never get away with it!”

“No kidding!” She crumples onto the bench as she says, “Everything’s gone all crazy!”

I sit next to her and give her a hug. “Look. It’s like a really fierce storm, okay? But it will pass and the sun will come out and everything will settle down. For now, you just have to hold on tight and not get pitched overboard.”

She wipes away her tears and snorts, “You just got out of Needer’s class, huh? Nice simile.”

It takes me a second to switch gears, but when I catch up to her, I laugh. “You sure it’s not an analogy? Or a metaphor?”

Holly and Dot join us just as the bell rings, and Holly asks, “What happened?” because it’s pretty obvious that Marissa has been crying.

“Oh, nothing,” Marissa says. “Just stupid ol’ Danny again.”

Dot frowns. “I thought you dumped him!”

Now, it’s probably on account of Mr. McKenze being
in some kind of success competition with his brother—who’s Santa Martina’s very own “celebrity” eye surgeon—that Marissa hardly ever lets on that things at home are less than perfect. Oh, she does to me, but to the rest of the world? She tries to keep that under wraps. It’s, like, drilled into her brain by her dad not to talk about their problems. So I’m not surprised to hear her make up a story, even to Holly and Dot. I’m also not surprised that the story has something to do with Danny Urbanski. For one thing, it’s easy—he’s in high school now, just like Casey, and he’s not around to contradict her. For another, it’s totally believable—Danny’s nothing but a smooth-talking liar who is really good at making Marissa cry.

Holly obviously agrees with Dot. “He’s probably hitting on every new girl he meets at the high school.”

I look at Marissa and play along. “You’ve got to get over him, Marissa. Even Casey’s not friends with him anymore.”

And just like that, Marissa’s off the hook and I’m
on
it. “Hey,” Holly says, turning to me. “What’s going on with you and Casey, anyway? I saw him at your building yesterday. He went up to the second floor, stopped, just stood there forever, then turned around.”

I look over both shoulders and drop my voice when I say, “You saw him on the
fire escape
?” because that part of the Senior Highrise is right across Broadway from where she lives.

She nods. “I tried to call you, but your phone was busy for, like, an
hour
.”

“What time was it?”

She thinks back. “About seven?”

“Shoot. Grams was on the phone a
lot
yesterday trying to get ahold of my mom.”

“We’re going to be late,” Dot says, heading for class. “The bell rang ages ago!”

Holly follows her because they have the same third period, and Marissa and I chase after them, even though our classes aren’t in that direction. “Are you sure it was him?”

Holly nods. “Positive.” She laughs. “You’re not the only one with binoculars, you know.”

I have to break away from her or I’ll be late, too, so I call, “But what was he
doing
?”

“I have no idea!” she calls back. “I’ll see you at lunch!”

“See you at lunch!” we all shout at each other, then scatter to our separate corners of school.

The substitute in Mr. Vince’s class was really nice but didn’t know much about history. “I’m a Spanish teacher,” she told us, “and I received no real lesson plans, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to just read quietly at your desks.”

Sasha Stamos whips out her history book and starts pawing through it. “We just finished chapter two. Should we start chapter three?”

Everyone glares at Sasha as the substitute smiles and says, “Thank you. Yes. Please start reading chapter three.” And while she’s looking through Mr. Vince’s copy of our textbook for page numbers to write on the board, I notice Heather giving Sasha the extreme evil eye.

I guess Sasha picked up on the vibe, because she turns to me and whispers, “What’s
her
problem?”

I shrug. “You just turned free day into assignment day, and she will never forget it.”

“Free day?” She blinks at me. “What?”

“Never mind.”

And then she gets it. “Oooooh!” She looks around at the rest of the class and mouths, “Sorry!”

I lean forward. “Don’t expect Heather to accept your apology.”

“But … you do?”

“Hey, it’s no big deal.” She still seems to be worried about it, though, so I whisper, “Look, you’re right, and the rest of us are wrong. It’s just, this is
Vince’s
class, you know?”

She whispers, “So why do we even have to come to it?” I give her a beats-me shrug and she faces forward, but a minute later she’s talking to me again. “And pointing out that Heather is texting right now would be … ?”

“Oooh, very bad,” I whisper back. “Suicidal, in fact. Everyone would think you’re a rat, and Heather would find some big-time way to pay you back.”

“This is stupid,” she says, and turns around again.

Heather
is
texting. She’s doing a good job of hiding it because her book is open in front of her and it looks like she’s reading from it, but both her hands are under her desk and her thumbs are definitely moving.

I check over my shoulder to see if Billy’s breaking his little phone probation, but both of his hands are visible and he’s actually reading.

Well, there’s probably a comic book on top of his history book, but still. He’s reading.

And then I notice that Sasha is totally glaring at Heather.

I lean forward and whisper, “You might not want to get in a war with her. Take it from me—it’s not worth it.”

She glances at me and says, “She doesn’t scare me.”

I pull back with a little snort. “She should.”

This time when Sasha faces forward, she stays that way. So I open my history book and get started on the language worksheet Ms. Needer gave us in second period. Trouble is, the worksheet has us identify metaphors, similes, and analogies, and it makes me think about Marissa, which makes me think about our conversation at break, which makes me think about Holly seeing Casey on the fire escape of the Senior Highrise.

What was he
doing
there?

He won’t call me but now he’s going up the fire escape?

Or maybe he
had
tried to call but the line was busy. Grams had been on the phone a
lot
.

Anyway, by the time class lets out, I’ve forgotten all about Sasha Stamos and her little evil-eye exchange with Heather, but Sasha sure hasn’t. She’s watching Heather very carefully.

Heather’s oblivious—mostly because she’s texting as she walks, but also because she’s multitasking, snarling, “Move, loser,” as she elbows past me.

Sasha’s right behind me and says in my ear, “I can’t believe you put up with that!”

I shrug. “Every time I snap at her bait,
I’m
the one who gets caught.” Then I add, “She’ll eventually self-destruct. She always does.”

Sasha just frowns and passes me by.

So, okay. I have to admit—it made me feel pretty wimpy. I mean, there was a time when I
wouldn’t
have put up with Heather’s catty remarks. And I shouldn’t
have
to put up with them. But after a full year of
trying
to control my fist
and
trying
to control my tongue, I’ve actually gotten pretty good at it.

Well, except for my little relapse at the mall. But I didn’t actually
punch
her, so considering what I’m dealing with, I’ve been a model of self-control.

But now instead of being proud of myself, I’m feeling embarrassed.

You know,
weak
.

Now, there’s always a crowd of people going down the ramp when the dismissal bell rings. And even though it’s a mini-stampede, there’s usually no shoving or jockeying for position. Everyone wants out, and you just make yourself go with the flow.

So I was walking down the ramp minding my own business when all of a sudden Heather cries, “Heyyyyy!” and crashes to the ground with a
thud
, her hands sprawled out in front of her.

Everyone behind her comes log-jamming to a halt except Sasha, who tries to dance around her but takes a little tumble, too.

“You tripped me!” Heather screeches, pointing at me while she peels herself up from her pathetic spot on the ramp. “You hooked your foot around my ankle!”

“Oh, good grief,” I say to the sky, and step around her.

Sasha’s already back on her feet and going down the ramp, but Heather stays put. “You can run, but you can’t hide, loser!” she yells after me. “I’m reporting you!”

But then from behind me I hear, “Sammy wasn’t anywhere near you.”

It’s a guy’s voice.

Low, and very calm.

And when I turn around, who do I see has come to my rescue?

The Tricky Timer himself—Lars Teppler.

“Thanks!” I call up the ramp. “But you’ll never convince her of that. She’d blame me for her hair being red if she could!” I keep on walking. “Not that there’s anything wrong with red hair!”

Lars is helping Heather up, but Heather’s more interested in what’s
down
. “Where’s my phone?” she says, searching around. And after two whole seconds of looking, she says, “Who’s got my phone?”

I show my hands. “Not me!”

A lot of people have already stepped around her, but a couple of girls stop and ask, “What’s it look like?”

Heather’s almost frantic. “It’s got pink crystals. And a butterfly charm. It has to be around here somewhere!”

And
that’s
when it finally hits me that if I
did
have Heather’s phone, I could erase the picture and save Billy from his blackmail nightmare.

So I go back and start scouting around, too. I check the side of the ramp, down the space between the building and the ramp, in the weeds off to the side of the ramp.…

“Where’s my phone?” Heather shouts. “Who’s got my phone?” And she’s acting like such a psycho that the few people who are still helping her look for it just bail on her and head off to class, including me.

Now, as I’m running to make it to PE in time, I’m thinking how it would be a miracle for Billy if Heather’s phone was broken or lost forever. But it could also be a
disaster
for Billy if someone actually snagged it and saw the Die Dude picture.

So, okay. Maybe I’m slow. Or maybe I just wasn’t expecting something so tricky from her, but it wasn’t until I bumped into Sasha in the girls’ locker room that I thought, Hey, wait a minute …!

Sasha seemed to be out of breath and was flying through her clothes change, so I dressed out in record time, too, then ran to catch up to her. Part of me still couldn’t quite believe it, but I replayed the whole ramp scene in my head, and it was the only thing that made sense.

So after roll’s taken and we’re on our way down to the soccer fields, I jog alongside Sasha and ask real matter-of-fact-like, “So … what are you going to do with it?”

She just eyes me.

I laugh and say, “You were
smooth
. ’Course Heather thought it was me, but I didn’t tell her any different. And Lars stuck up for me, so don’t worry—I’m in the clear.”

She jogs along without saying anything for a minute but then asks, “Does Lars know?”

My heart starts slamming around because now I
know
it was her, but I try to sound real cool and collected when I say, “He might, but I don’t think so. I mean, he didn’t say, Hey! It was Sasha!” I make a little X with my fingers over my heart. “And I’m sure not telling. After everything she’s put me through?” I do a little sputter with my lips and laugh, “No way!”

She studies me with a sideways look but doesn’t say a
thing. And, really, I need more than I’ve got—I need to know where she’s put the phone and if she’s already scrolled through the pictures or what.

But I can’t ask her because it’ll make her all curious and then she
will
scroll through the pictures and, knowing Sasha, the first thing she’ll do is turn it over to Mr. Foxmore.

So when we’re lined up to run through some cone drills, I whisper, “Where’d you learn that little tripping maneuver? That was amazing. And nobody could tell!”

She hesitates, then gives me a sly grin. “I’ve got six brothers. You learn to survive.”

“Six brothers? Wow.”

“Yeah. And I’m right in the middle.”

We take our turns through the dribbling drill, and when we’ve looped around to the end of the line, I ask her again, “So what are you going to do with it? You sure don’t want to get caught with it.”