Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher (24 page)

“Brandi and
Tippy
?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, like these are real names and not nicknames or something. Then she just goes on with, “I’m takin’ my dress over to the church after they show up. Would you like to come by here, too? We could take your dress at the same time.”

Well, that sure beat hauling a mountain of lavender up the fire escape, so I tell her, “Sounds like a plan.”

“All right. So I’ll see you at the church tonight at eight.”

I start to say okay, but then I stop cold. “You’ll what?”

She cocks her head a little. “For the rehearsal?”

“Uh … what rehearsal?”

“The weddin’ rehearsal?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

She covers her face with her hands. “Oh, Sams, I’m so sorry.” She peeks out at me. “Please tell me you can make it.”

“But … why do we have to
rehearse
?”

Marissa looks at me. “How else will you know what to do?”

“I don’t know! How should I know? I’ve never been in a wedding before. I’ve never even been
to
a wedding before!”

Debra eyes me. “Which is why we need to rehearse!”

I point to the dress. “Do I have to wear
that
?”

“To the rehearsal? No, hon,” Debra says. “It’s just a run-through. No dress code requirements. I know eight
o’clock is late, but Tippy and Brandi are flyin’ in today, and it’s the only time that worked for everybody. It’ll be quick, I promise.” She gives me a pleading look. “There’ll be refreshments afterward … ?”

I let out a deep, puffy breath. “Okaaay.”

Then I grab Marissa and get out of there.

By the time we get back to Hudson’s, it’s almost six o’clock. “I should have called Grams from Debra’s,” I tell Marissa. “She’s probably worried.”

Sure enough, Hudson greets us with, “You better call home, Sammy.”

So I do, and what I find out from Grams is that my mother has been waiting around the apartment so that she can spend some “quality time” with me.

“She’s just trying to get out of painting and cleaning,” I grumble.

Grams sighs. “Samantha, honestly. You need to be a little more gracious about these overtures.”

“They’re more like over
dues
,” I grumble.

“Samantha!”

“I know. I’m sorry. But it’s not like she asked if I was, you know,
available
. All of a sudden
she
decides she needs to spend some time with me, and I’m supposed to drop everything? I’ve got a wedding rehearsal to go to tonight.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do.” Then I add, “How else am I supposed to know what to do?”

“But—”

“So, see? If the world revolved around something besides Lady Lana, she might have checked with me ahead of time.”

“But … why didn’t
I
know about it? When is it? What time will you be home?”

Now, I don’t exactly want to get into the
facts
about this, so I start giving her
other
information. “Oh, Grams, you wouldn’t believe what we’ve been going through today. Debra went to a tanning place but didn’t think she came out dark enough, so she got some of that tanning lotion, and it turned her completely
orange
. So Marissa and I have been picking up shoes and hemming dresses and trying to help her get the orange off her skin.”

“You were
hemming
?” she gasps.

“All in the line of duty,” I tell her. Then I throw in, “So, see, the bride-to-be’s a basket case, and it’s been a pretty intense afternoon for the bridesmaid. I know I should have called earlier, but this was the first chance I had. And now I’ve got to eat something and get over to the rehearsal.”

“Oh my,” she says, then after a pause she asks, “How orange is she?”

“Carrot orange.”

She sighs. “Poor dear. Poor, poor dear.”

“So tell Mom sorry, but I really have no ‘quality time’ to spend with her tonight. I’m probably not going to be home until nine-thirty or ten.”

“That late?”

“Yup. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Then, ’cause I know
she
will
worry that I’m
not
fine, I add, “I’ll ask Officer Borsch to give me a ride.”

“That would be good. And by the way, Warren does not know that you’re living here, so that secret’s still safe.”

I hesitate, then ask, “So where does he think I’m living?”

There’s a kinda long pause, and then Grams says, “With your father.”

“With my—Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Then something hits me. “So he
does
live in Santa Martina?”

“Uh … I didn’t
say
that,” Grams says, and I can tell she’s really uncomfortable being tangled up in my mother’s secret. She drops her voice and says, “You know I can’t get into that.” Then she adds, “And I agree with you—I don’t like what she told Warren, either, but we’ll just have to deal with it. At least she had the good sense not to put us in jeopardy.”

“But Casey knows! What if he talks to his dad?”

“You see how unfortunate that is now?”

I knew she was right, but still, the whole situation felt wrong. I got off the phone thinking my mom and Warren were doomed. I mean, she already had huge secrets from him! Wasn’t that the beginning of the end?

And maybe I should have felt happy about that, but I didn’t. I felt like I was living in the shadows of secrets. It felt cold. And dark. And … 
sad
.

I tried to forget about my mom as I horned in on dinner at Hudson’s, but that was kind of futile. And staying for dinner turned out to be awkward. Not because I’d invited myself but because Mrs. McKenze showed up with
Chinese takeout and acted like everything was perfectly normal. Like, Oh, isn’t this fun, having little white boxes of food all over someone else’s dinner table.

Hudson tried to keep the conversation going, but Marissa and Mikey were quiet, and I sure didn’t feel like I had anything to say. And then when Mrs. McKenze finally says she has to be going, Mikey chases after her and
clings
to her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, trying to pull away from him. “You and your sister can’t come home quite yet.”

“I don’t want to go home,” he says, and now he’s crying. “I want
you
to stay
here
.”

Mrs. McKenze seems stunned by this, and after looking around at the rest of us, she pries herself free from Mikey and dashes for the door.

Seeing this puts an awful lump in my throat because it sends me straight back to the day my mom left me with Grams and moved to L.A.

It’s a panicky, heart-crushing feeling.

One that makes you think you’d rather die than have your mother leave.

Marissa hurries over and promises Mikey that their mom will be back, and I’m sure that she will be.

Still, inside I know—things will never be the same.

It turns out that the Community Presbyterian Church only holds about a hundred people. It’s
small
. And even though I was five minutes early, I was still the last one to
show up, so there was this big flurry of introductions when I walked in. I had my backpack on and was holding my skateboard, and everyone else had a few more, you know,
years
under their belt, so I felt a little out of place.

Make that a
lot
out of place.

“So you’re
Sammy
,” they all said, and with a little too much gusto. Like they’d heard stories.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, shaking their hands.

Officer Borsch’s groomsmen were all obviously cops. You can just tell. Something about the hair or the moustache or the way they dress … it just says cop.

And Debra’s bridesmaids looked a lot like Debra, only less orange. They weren’t sisters, but they all had bleached hair and long, painted fingernails and lots of eye shadow.

A man up near the altar called “Good evening!” and everyone turned to look at him. He had combed-back hair and wore aviator glasses, and the bottom two buttons of his sweater were popped open, leaving room for his pooching belly. “I’m Reverend Doyle,” he said with a smile. “Is everyone assembled?”

When Debra told him that we were, he started conducting us around, showing us where we’d wait, where we’d walk, and where we’d stand. It was actually pretty painless, and really simple—especially for me, since I didn’t have any real
duties
except making it down the aisle without tripping. But we still had to go through the whole thing three times.

So I was more than ready to dive into the “refreshments,” which were on a small table near the front door.
They were actually just donuts, but they looked a whole lot better than the half of a cake donut that I’d snagged in the teachers’ lounge.

The one I’d never had the chance to eat.

And having to march past this spread of jelly-filled and maple and glazed buttermilk bars over and over and over, I felt like I was being tortured by donuts. So when the rehearsal dissolved into a discussion about rings and paperwork and the organist, I slipped away from the others and helped myself to a nice, fat maple bar, thinking that my part in all this was done.

Trouble is, I’ve taken only two bites when Debra calls my name and waves me over to a side door. So I take another quick chomp, and once again I hide a donut in my hand the best I can, then I join everyone else outside.

The minister turns on a floodlight, and Debra announces, “The reception’ll be back here.” She smiles at the men. “We’re having tri-tip barbecue, with Ray James at the grill.”

There’s a chorus of “Mmmm!” from the men, so I guess this Ray James guy is some hotshot barbecuer or something.

Anyway, we all look around at what’s really just a big backyard. “There’ll be tables and chairs out here, the DJ’ll be there, and our table will be right along here,” Debra says, pointing around all over the place.

Everyone nods like, Yeah, okay, and then Debra says, “Parking’s going to be really tight, but Gil’s got a friend who’s offered to valet-park in the side lot, so we’ve got that covered.” She looks around. “Any questions?”

No one seems to have any, so she says, “Well, I think that’s about it, then. Go on and help yourself to refreshments!”

So while people file toward the refreshment table, I polish off the rest of my donut, grab my stuff, and then ask Debra, “What time do you want me to be at your house tomorrow?”

“How’s about eleven?”

I’m thinking,
For a two o’clock wedding?
but I just nod and say, “All right. See you then.”

“You’re not stickin’ around for refreshments?”

I shake my head, hoping there’s no maple frosting on my face giving me away. “I’ve really got to get home.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“Nah,” I tell her with a wave as I head for the door. “I’m good.”

But I’m not even halfway home when a white car pulls up alongside me. It’s an older model. Sort of big, with lines that are sharp instead of rounded.

“Get in,” Officer Borsch says through the passenger window.

“Hey, go back to your friends—I’m fine.”

“You’re getting in,” he says. “I don’t like this neighborhood, and I don’t like you riding through it at night.”

“I’m fine!”

“Get in.”

I roll my eyes and say, “Whatever,” as I get inside with all my stuff. His police scanner is still on, chattering under the dash, so I laugh and say, “Don’t you ever turn that thing off?”

He shakes his head and drives forward. And neither of us says anything, even though I know
I’ve
got lots of questions shooting through my mind.

Questions like, Are you really going to wear a lavender cummerbund tomorrow?

Did you notice how orange your bride-to-be is?

And You’re so calm. Aren’t you supposed to be freaking out or something?

But then Officer Borsch points with his cast hand to the sidewalk on the other side of the street and says, “Isn’t that your friend?”

“Huh?” I say, following his point.

And then I see him.

On his skateboard.

Cruising along slowly in the opposite direction, all by himself, the breeze pushing back his hair.

Casey.

I watch through the front window, then the side windows, then the back window. I watch as he gets smaller and smaller behind us.

“You want me to go back?” Officer Borsch asks.

I shake my head and face forward. “No.”

It’s a lie, but all I can hear are Casey’s words in my head.

Stop calling. We’re done
.

I had trouble falling asleep that night. I couldn’t get the picture of Casey rolling by on his skateboard out of my mind. I just wanted to grab him. Stop him.
Talk
to him.

But he was gone.

Rolled out of my life.

When I finally did fall asleep, I had weird dreams.
Really
weird dreams. There was a wedding, with Reverend Doyle at the altar. He wasn’t wearing minister robes or anything—he was wearing a black cardigan, and the bottom buttons kept popping off. So he’d chase after them, then run back to the altar and push them on while people walked up the aisle.

Only it wasn’t Debra and Officer Borsch getting married.

It was my mom and Casey’s dad.

Casey was there, and Heather was there, and Grams was there, and we were all trying to block them, but they walked right through us.

Like ghosts.

But Reverend Doyle’s buttons kept popping, and he couldn’t stay at the altar long enough to read the vows.
And then all of a sudden rats were storming the church. Big, black, hunchy-backed rats in white tuxes and wedding gowns. They were running around all over the place—underfoot, on the altar, up the walls.…

My mom started screaming and jumping from pew to pew while Heather screeched, “Get her, my pretties. Get her!”

And I could hear my mother calling, “Samantha! Samantha!”

I couldn’t see her anymore, but it sounded like she was drowning.

“Mom!” I called, and I was looking all over for her. But it was like I was blind. I couldn’t see anything anywhere.

“Samantha!”

I shot straight up, gasping for air, and there was my mother, sitting at the foot of the couch. She was wearing a pale yellow sweater and white capris.