Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (16 page)

When I come back from the bathroom, Marissa and Dot have trashed the old poster and started on a new
one. Dot sees me and whispers, “She
so
did that on purpose.”

“I think she was baiting me—trying to get me suspended.”

Marissa puts her hand out for me to slap. “You stayed so cool—I can hardly believe it. Did you tell Ms. Roth-hammer?”

“No. I mean, why? Heather'd just say it was an accident and I'd look like a tattletale.” I picked up my sponge and dipped it in paint. “I am
not
going to let her trick me out of playing. It's just not going to happen.”

And that's what I focused on for the rest of the day. I turned in my make-up work to Mr. Pence, had my regular homework ready with the rest of my table, and in the middle of the lecture, when Heather whispered, “Soakin' it all up, loser?” I ignored her. Just ignored her.

And all through practice at the high school, I kept my focus on the game. She tried to cut me down by hissing “Twitty Turtle” and “Grid-Faced Gorilla” because of all my catcher's gear, but I took a deep breath and ignored her some more. She was not going to make me lose my cool.

She was not.

Even Mr. Vince and Babs hovering around at practice didn't get to me.

Too much, anyway.

I just told myself I wouldn't give them a reason,
any
reason, to horn in on my spot. All I had to do was stay in control. I could handle Babs being there. I could handle Mr. Vince. And yeah, I could handle Heather Acosta,
too. If I just bit my tongue when she baited me and checked my fist at the dugout, I could get past her. She was a pest. A miserable mosquito. All I needed was the right repellent, right? She wouldn't be able to touch me. She'd buzz and whine in my ear, but she wouldn't light.

It wasn't until the next morning that I found out exactly what the Miserable Mosquito would go through to suck my blood.

And just how badly it would hurt.

I didn't notice them until after practice, when we were climbing up the hill behind the dugout. And at first I thought it might just be my imagination. But when they saw me do a double take, they turned away too quick, they started walking too fast, and
then
they kicked into cool 'n' casual.

Definitely suspicious.

Dot asked me, “What are you looking at?”

I reached right over her and tugged on Marissa, because Marissa's got the eyes of a hawk. “Look! By the trees. Is that the Gangster Girls?”

Marissa's also got the nerves of a chicken. She went from an ace-pitcher strut to a squawk and a flutter in two seconds flat. “Oh, no! Sammy, do not, do you hear me, do
not
follow them!”

“Who, you guys? Who are they?”

Poor Dot. I flew right past her question, saying, “I don't want to follow them, Marissa! But what do you think they're doing here?”

Marissa goes white. “Ohmygod. They're following
us
?”

“I'd say watching. Definitely.”

“But why?”

“Good question.”

Dot tries again, pointing across the field. “Are you guys talking about those girls way over there?”

Marissa slaps down her hand. “Don't
point
.”

“Well, who
are
they? And why are you guys acting so scared of them?”

“They're
gangsters
, that's who they are!”

Dot squints at the three of them in the distance, saying, “
Gangsters?
How do you know they're gangsters? They look pretty normal from here.”

“Yeah? Well that's 'cause they're a long way off. You can't see their
scars
. Or their faces.”

“They've got scars on their faces?”

“No! They've got gang scars on their arms, but their faces are, you know,
hard
. Like they could kick your tush from here to Sisquane!”

“Oh,” she says, then, “Hmm.” Like she doesn't quite believe her. “Well, how do you know them?”

Marissa rolls her eyes and says, “How
else
?” and throws me a dirty look.

So on our way over to where Dot's father is waiting in his truck, I give her a lightning-fast outline of what's been going on. And through the whole story Dot blinks a lot, but she doesn't say a word. Not until we're at the truck. Then she rests her hand on the passenger-door handle, looks straight at me, and says, “Sammy, I'm with Marissa on this one. The whole thing sounds crazy and dangerous.”

“I know! I agree, all right? Why does everyone think I don't agree with this?”

Marissa and Dot look at each other and shrug, then Dot yanks the door open and asks me, “So why do you think they were here?”

“I don't know! It's not like I invited them! They go to
school
here. Maybe that's all it was. You know, hanging around after school.”

She shakes her head and climbs in, whispering, “I doubt it. And I'd be nervous if I were you. Very nervous.”

“Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot!”

Mr. DeVries calls, “Hi, girls!” across the bench seat. “Will you be taking a ride today?”

I call, “No thanks,” but Marissa totally bails on me, saying, “You know, I think I will.” She leans in the door. “Is there room for my bike in back?”

“
Ja
, sure!” he says, and as he gets out, Marissa rolls her bike to the back of the truck, saying, “No offense, Sammy. I'm just beat.” Then she adds, “And I have a ton to do tonight.”

I almost said, Yeah? Like what? But I bit my tongue. Then before you know it, off they go, leaving me to clomp my way up Broadway alone.

At first I was just sort of irritated. I mean, Marissa and I always walk as far as we can together. Lots of times I go way out of my way just so I can walk with her a little farther. I even go to the arcade with her. Not to play—just so I can hang with her a little longer.

Which, now that I think about it, is how I got myself involved with gangsters to begin with. I mean, if I hadn't been hanging with Marissa at the arcade, Pepe's mom
would never have given me her little to-go bag. And if Marissa hadn't wanted to come to the high school fields, we never would have even
met
the Gangster Girls.

But really what I was, was hurt. I mean, if Marissa was just tired and wanted to go home, that was fine. But it felt like more than that. It felt like she didn't want to be around
me
. Like I was a jinx or something.

Now, I don't believe in jinxes. And I'm sure Marissa would tell you
she
doesn't believe in them, either. But since we had the tournament coming, well, it seemed almost logical.

See, softball players are superstitious. For example, Marissa won't wash her winning-game socks. Seriously. She'll let them petrify before she'll wash them. She'll wear them game after game after game until we lose, and
then
she'll wash them.

And okay. I have little rituals, too. Like I check the knots on my mitt and I pull and tug and, you know, adjust it. I also have little imaginary conversations with my dad, but the mitt was originally his, so that makes sense, right?

Besides, these are things I got in the habit of doing because I was nervous. And now I do them because they make me feel centered and happy. What I do is nothing like not washing your socks because you think they're lucky. That's just gross.

Anyway, I was clomping along Broadway, feeling like a leper, when I decided to switch out of my cleats and back into my high-tops. You can't exactly
sneak
anywhere in
cleats, and I was getting near the Senior Highrise, so I finally decided to stop and change.

I was on the mall side of the street, where they have nice little grassy knolls and benches to rest on after you've worn yourself out shopping. And I was plenty worn out from thinking jinxing thoughts about my friend Marissa McKenze, but as I sat down on a bench I sensed a quick movement to my left.

My instinct was to whip around and look, but I caught myself in the nick of time. Instead, I reached down to untie a cleat and tried to act casual as I scooted my eyes over. I'm talking, I cranked them
way
over in my head. And what did I see?

Nothing.

There was no one there.

But the chills running down my spine told me that I hadn't imagined someone there. The chills told me I was being watched. I was being
followed
.

Then I saw something move again. A quick out-and-back behind some bushes.

I switched my shoes, my mind racing. I couldn't let them know where I lived. I had to lead them
miles
away from the Senior Highrise, and I had to do it without letting on that I knew I was being followed.

Which ruled out going to the police. I'd give myself away if I backtracked to the station. I couldn't go west, either. Why had I crossed Broadway if I lived on the west side? So I stuffed my cleats next to my mitt in my backpack, threw it over my shoulder, then took off across the
mall grass, through a small plaza, and around a parking lot to Main Street.

Now I'm trying to calm down, but adrenaline's pumping through me like crazy. How could I have come so close to leading them straight to the Senior Highrise?

I forced myself not to look back, not even once. Then, when I got clear over to the intersection of Main and College, I pushed the Walk button and scooted my eyes around in my head again. And there they were, half a block down Main—the Gangster Girls.

Believe it or not, I was relieved. As Hudson says, there's nothing like knowing your enemy.

I crossed Main and headed north. Just trucked along like I didn't have a care in the world, but the whole time I'm wondering:
Why
are they following me? If they wanted to powder my bones, they could have done that ages ago. I mean, the three of them against me? I wouldn't have a chance.

But if they didn't want to beat me up, then what? Did they want to know where I lived so they could beat me up
later
? What had I done to them, anyhow, except ask a few questions? It's not like I'd been rude or anything.

I kept walking, pulling them away from the Highrise. And I'd nearly made it to Donovan Street when I decided to hang a left into a residential area. And the minute I was around the corner, I
ran
.

At the first intersection I took another left, then the first right. I ran a few more blocks, jogging left and right, and finally I ducked beside a tree, watching to see if the Gangster Girls had been able to trail me.

After a few minutes, there was still no sign of them, so I headed for Broadway.

The north end of Broadway is always busy. People, traffic, road construction—the place is always honking and smelling of tar. And that section of Broadway is like a mecca for mechanics. It's got tire stores and tranny shops, Spiffy Lubes and body shops. There are at least three parts stores, and every block's got a used-car lot. You may
think
your car's gone off to the great junkyard in the sky, but chances are good it's been resurrected and put up for sale somewhere on North Broadway.

And even though the air was clashing with revving motors and whining wrenches and clanging metal, my mind was still preoccupied with the Gangster Girls and Snake Eyes and Pepe's mom because I
still
couldn't figure it out. Why were the Gangster Girls following me? Why had Snake Eyes been following Lena? Why was Lena so afraid of Snake Eyes? How could Lena have killed her own husband, or boyfriend, or whatever? Tippy had made Joey sound like a nice guy. Why kill him?

Then all of a sudden I remembered that Tippy had said something about Joey working up at a muffler shop. I slowed down and scoured Broadway for a muffler-shop sign. Both sides, both directions. And what did I see? Nothing.

A mechanic's mecca with no muffler shop? I didn't believe it. So I found a phone booth, hit the yellow pages, and started digging.

There were two muffler shops on North Broadway, all right. And according to the phone book, Manny's
Mufflers was in the same block I was standing on. Speedy Muffler was about six blocks down.

So off I went, checking addresses, looking for Manny's. And pretty soon I see a yellow and black MANNY'S MUFFLERS sign, stretching above the BOOM-BOOM BABY STEREO and WATSON TIRE signs, trying to claim its own little piece of the sky.