Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher (21 page)

He actually laughs, then all of a sudden stops laughing and says, “Oh—and watch that kid … What’s his name? Lance? Larson?”

“Lars? Lars Teppler?”

He snaps his fingers. “That’s him.”

“What about him?”

“He seems to have a lot of observations. About you in particular.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like he saw you waiting in line to use the pet tag machine at the pet store.”

“He what?” But then I remember the Dog Tag Weirdo I’d been watching when we’d been at the mall with Mikey.

“He also says you’ve got a lot of upper-body strength and that the classroom windows were open during the evacuation.”

“So he’s saying I pulled myself in through the window? And how would
he
know about my ‘upper-body strength’? That’s just weird.”

“He told me you had the chin-up record in your PE class.”

“But he’s not even in my PE class! And guess what?
Heather
opened those windows. Right before the alarm!”

“Hmm,” he says with a scowl. Then he starts the car and says, “Well, Foxmore was very keen on all Lars’ observations. So, like I said, do yourself a favor and curb the attitude at school. This is a lot more serious than you might think.”

So I tell him thanks and close the door, and when he takes off one way, I take off another. My head feels like it’s swimming, and the only clear thought I seem to have is that Officer Borsch is right.

The more I know, the less things seem to add up.

I came home to a note from Grams telling me she’d gone out to dinner with my mother. “Nice of them to invite me,” I grumbled to Dorito as I leaned on the open refrigerator door, looking for something to eat. Actually, I was glad they hadn’t asked me along. Being around my mom always makes me lose my appetite. Why waste a good dinner?

Anyway, there was a whole lot of nothing in the fridge, so I wound up opening a can of tomato soup. And as I sat at the kitchen table eating goldfish crackers and soup, it hit me that I never have dinner alone in the apartment. Even when I come home late and eat by myself, Grams is always around. She could be in her bedroom with the door closed, but I know she’s right
there
. I can feel her, right
there
.

Once I had that thought, sitting there eating all alone felt weird.

Really
weird.

The crackers seemed loud.

The hum of the refrigerator was buzzy.

The clock on the wall clicked.

Click … click … click …

Had it always clicked?

Why didn’t it tick?

What kind of clock clicks instead of ticks?

Now, I’m not supposed to eat in the living room, but I scooped up my soup bowl and the box of crackers and went to the couch, where everything was quiet.

Well, except for the crackers—they were still loud.

I turned on the TV for company, but there was nothing good on, so I figured I’d earn a few brownie points with Grams and put in a
Lords
tape. I was planning to watch for just a little while, but since Grams had recorded the episodes back to back and had cut out the commercials, one episode just sort of ran into the next. And even after the soup and crackers were long gone, I still sat there, stupidly watching. I think I was too beat up to move. I mean, it
had
been another crazy day, and who could blame me for just vegging on the couch, right? But then before I know it, it’s after eight o’clock, and Grams’ key is sliding in the door lock.

In a flash, I press the OFF button of the remote, scoop up my dishes, and dash for the kitchen. But I guess I didn’t press the button long enough, because the TV
doesn’t
go off.

Now, given the choice, I’d rather be caught eating in the living room than watching a soap. And even though I was just doing it so Grams couldn’t accuse me of not being “involved” in my mother’s life, I still felt embarrassed about it. Like I’d been caught doing something I
wasn’t
supposed to do instead of something Grams had been
asking
me to do.

“How was dinner?” I ask from the kitchen, hoping she’ll come over and talk to me instead of noticing what’s on TV.

Well, I guess I was acting a little too cheerful, because right away her granny radar goes up. She zeroes in on me suspiciously, then scans the apartment until she focuses on the television. “Oh!” she says, moving over to the living room. “You’re watching
Lords
.”

I hurry in there, too, and switch off the TV. “Only so you’ll stop saying I’m a terrible daughter.”

She blinks at me through her glasses. “I never said that!”

I plop onto the couch and cross my arms. “Well, Lady Lana’s a terrible mother, and you said I was just like her.”

“Samantha!” she says, but she says it softly. Like she’s shocked by my interpretation. And maybe a little hurt by it, too.

And, really, I don’t know why I’m acting the way I am. I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed. “Sorry,” I mutter, grabbing a pillow to hug.

She studies me a moment, then picks up the remote, saying, “Well, where are you in the story? Is Abigail still brain-dead?”

“What do you mean,
still
brain-dead? If you’re brain-dead, you’re brain-dead!”

Grams gives me a look like, Oooooooh, maybe not! Then she asks, “Well, has Mrs. Porter confessed who Abigail’s father really is?”

I snatch the remote from her. “No! And why would I watch a stupid soap where people don’t know who their father is when I’m
living that life
?”

Grams covers her mouth, then looks up to the ceiling, her eyes blinking like mad.
Blink-blink-blink. Blink. Blink-blink. Blink!
It’s like she’s praying in Morse code.

Finally she says, “That was very stupid of me. I’m sorry. And I will have another talk with your mother about this, because I agree with you—the situation’s ridiculous.” She eyes me. “Especially now that she’s head over heels for Warren.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, great.”

“She is,” she says, shaking her head. “They’re like two teenagers in love.”

I look at her. “What? Wait—you went out with
both
of them?”

She nods. “It was delightful.”

I squint at her. “Anyone else there? Like Heather? Or Casey? Or
Candi
?”

“No, of course not.”

“So it was meet-the-mom time?”

Grams shrugs. “I suppose so.”

“Great,” I say, slouching into the couch. “Just great.” I turn my head to look at her. “She barely knows him! And he doesn’t know
her
at all!” I sit up a little. “Like, does he know she can’t cook and hates to clean? Does he know she freaks out if it’s windy ’cause it messes up her hair?” I sit up even straighter. “And, hey—does
he
know who my father is? ’Cause if it’s such a big oh-my-God-don’t-tell-Samantha secret, shouldn’t he know before he marries her?”

“Good heavens! Can you not rush them to the altar?”

“
Me?
I have nothing to do with this! But can’t you see?
That
is
where this is going—why else would she want you to meet him? Officially! Over dinner!” I squint at her. “I mean, why is she still even here? She never stays this long!”

Grams eyes pop. “You don’t know?”

“Know
what
?” I throw my hands in the air. “And of course not! I’m the last person to know anything!”

“She’s going to the wedding.”

“What wedding?” But then it hits me. “No! She can’t crash Officer Borsch’s wedding! And why would she want to?”

“She’s not
crashing
it.”

“Well, you can’t just take her! She barely even knows him!” I flash her a disgruntled look. “But see? Not knowing someone and weddings make total sense to her!”

“Samantha,” Grams says with a laugh, “Gil invited her.”

“He
what
? Why would he do that?”

She shrugs. “You’re in the wedding? She’s your mother?”

“But why would she go?”

She gives another shrug, and this time it comes with a little smile. “You’re in the wedding? She’s your mother?” Then she adds, “She’s excited to see you as a bridesmaid.”

“Oh,
right
,” I grumble. “The only reason she’d go is to steamroll everyone when they toss the bouquet.”

She studies me a minute, then says, “That’s not fair. She’s trying, okay? She helped you out at school, she was very agreeable at dinner, she’s staying for the wedding.…”

I scowl at her. “There is no
way
she’s hanging around all this time just to see me in a stupid poufy dress.”

Grams nods. “Well, she is also helping Warren clean and paint the inside of the house he was renting out in Sisquane.”

“She’s
what
?”

“They want to make sure he gets his security deposit back.”

“No, I mean you’ve got to be kidding me. She doesn’t know how to clean. She doesn’t know how to paint.”

Grams laughs. “It’s not hard to figure out.”

“But it’s hard
work
. She faints at the sight of a dust mop!”

“Oh, she does not,” she scoffs, but she grins at me like she knows
exactly
what I’m talking about.

“And you know what? If she’s gonna stick around town until Saturday, she’d better watch her back.”

Grams frowns at me. “What is
that
supposed to mean?”

So I tell her about Heather spying through Hudson’s window and all that, and when I’m done, she says, “Are you sure she wasn’t just spying on
you
?” So
then
I have to tell her what Heather said when she ambushed me and all
that
. “See?” I say, showing her my hands and then pulling up the sleeve of my gym shirt, which I’d kept on after PE so people would stop asking me what happened.

“Oh my!” Grams says, and believe me, her eyes are enormous.

“And at this point Heather must know Mom’s on
Lords
, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“So what lie has Mom fabricated about where I’m living? I mean, does Warren know I’m living here?”

Grams shakes her head. “I have no idea.”

“Well, it
matters
.”

“Yes, it does!”

I grab my forehead. “Isn’t anybody else worried about this? I mean, maybe Warren won’t blow the whistle on us, but if Heather finds out? She is majorly ticked off and would love to make our lives miserable! So, yeah, Mom better watch her back, ’cause if Heather gets a chance, she will go totally psycho on her.”

Grams thinks about this a minute, then takes a deep breath. “Heather would probably feel anger toward
any
other woman.” She shakes her head a little. “Girls can be very possessive of their fathers.”

I scowl at her. “I wouldn’t know.”

She just ignores that and says, “I’ll tell Lana what you said, though.” She pats my knee and stands up. “Maybe Warren can smooth things over with Heather.”

“Good luck there,” I grumble.

She heads for the kitchen, but halfway there she turns and says, “Oh. Your mother had a message for you.”

I twist my head to look at her. “Yeah, what?”

She looks up toward the ceiling like she’s trying to remember. “She said to tell you: ‘The note was unnecessary. There’s no reason you both can’t be happy.’ ”

I sit up straighter and twist all the way around. “What?”

So she repeats the message, then says, “She said you’d understand.”

I snort and flop back around. “Well, I don’t.”

“I sensed it had something to do with Casey,” she says, moving into the kitchen, “but she refused to elaborate.”

“Well, I didn’t write him any
note
,” I tell Grams. “And I didn’t write
her
any note.”

And, really, if I’d had a normal mother, I would’ve just called her up and asked her about it, but I didn’t want to think about her, or Casey, or Warren the Wonderful, or anything else, for that matter.

I just wanted to take a shower and go to bed.

Ol’ Scratch ’n’ Spit was not in homeroom the next morning, and there was something weird about his desk.

It was totally … clean.

The substitute also looked very … clean. He seemed too young to be a teacher. And he had a really shiny nose. Actually, his whole face was shiny, but his nose looked
polished
.

He also seemed a little too happy to be filling in for Mr. Vince. Like maybe this was the first time he’d been on that side of the podium and he thought it was really
amazing
to be there.

Whatever. All I know is he was nice, and happy, and didn’t scratch or spit.

He also had no information about Mr. Vince.

“Can you find out?” Crystal Agnew asked. “We’re worried about him.”

The rest of us eyed each other like, Oh yeah,
right
—speak for yourself.

Now, after what Officer Borsch had said about Mr. Foxmore thinking I was grand marshal of the Die Dude Parade, I’d actually considered staying home from school. Before, Officer Borsch had had my back, but now I was
flying on my own, and I sure didn’t want to spend the day trapped in the office.

Besides, I’d woken up tired, and I figured what would one day—one
Friday
—hurt?

Plus, I could sure use a day without Heather Acosta.

It was the thought of Billy that got me moving. I still had a sort of low hum of worry about him. It was like a sound you don’t even know is there until you notice it, and then you hear it all the time. And you ask yourself, Where is that sound coming from?

So I dragged myself to school, and at break I was glad I had.

“Sammy-keyesta!”

When I turned around, the low hum vanished. “Billy!” I called back with a wave. I hurried over to him. “I missed you yesterday!”

We gave each other a hug, and then Billy said, “The police did, too. They came by to see me.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, playing dumb. And then I tried to be sly by asking, “How’d that go over with your dad?”

“It was just my mom, so that was cool.” Then he gave me a look I’ve never seen on Billy before. It was soft. Really
sweet
. “He came back last night and told me he had it on good authority that I was not the Die Dude Vandal.”