Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher, Page 3

“They dye the shoes to match the dress?” she says, like she can’t believe I’ve never heard of such a wonderful service. “I’d have you go today, but Kenny’s not working today, and he’s the only one I trust to get ’em done on time. He’ll be there from two to six tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  I just blink at her, wondering, Is what okay? The shoes? Or the time?

  “It’s easy, Sams. You just tell him it’s for Debra’s weddin’, and he’ll know what to do.”

  “S-sure,” I tell her, then get out of the dress and out of there as fast as I can.

  Now, as I’m tearing along on my skateboard with a stupid swatch of lavender in my pocket, I’m feeling very pent up. Very claustrophobic. Very, I don’t know, sweaty. And I’m thinking how I’ve never been the princess-wedding type. Way before this little bridesmaid fitting, the whole fairy-tale-wedding thing was something I just didn’t get.

  Maybe something’s missing in my brain.

  Or maybe I have no wish-I-was-a-princess gene.

  Or maybe my mom just didn’t read me enough fairy tales.

  Come to think of it, I can’t remember Lady Lana reading me any of those fairy tales where the girl gets swept up by a handsome prince and they live happily ever after.

  No Cinderella.

  Or Snow White.

  No Sleeping Beauty …

  And as I’m riding along, it hits me that maybe that’s because her fairy tale didn’t exactly come true. Not that I even know what her fairy tale was, but I do know that whoever my prince of a dad is, he didn’t exactly ride off into the sunset with her.

  He more just left her in the dark, scary woods with me.

  Which was probably even harder on her than I know because my mom is the princess type. She’s beautiful and acts like she’s regal and faints at the sight of blood.

  There’s a reason I call her Lady Lana.

  Anyway, there I am, riding along, having a rare moment of sympathy for my mother, when all of a sudden I realize that I’m almost at the house where Heather Acosta and her mother live. And that’s when I notice that there are two people going up the walkway to the house.

  Two people who are Acostas, but definitely not the ones who live there.

  It’s Casey and his dad.

  I almost flip a U-ie and beat it out of there. I mean, the last few times I spoke with Casey, he acted strange—distant and sort of uncomfortable—and the last twenty times I called his cell, it rolled over to voice mail and he still hadn’t called me back.

  Like I can’t take a hint?

  But I don’t flip a U-ie. I can’t seem to make myself. Oh, I slow waaaaay down, but I’m like a stupid moth to the flame, moving in closer and closer. And I know I’m going to get singed. I know it’s going to hurt. But I can’t seem to turn away.

  Plus, I can’t quite wrap my head around what he and his dad are doing.

  They’re carrying a bulky black dresser toward the house.

  And there’s a bunch of stuff in the back of a pickup truck in the driveway.

  Stuff like a bookcase.

  And a bed.

  Big stuff.

  And it’s not new stuff, either.

  There’s no plastic covering.

  Or cardboard boxes.

  It sure looks like moving day. Only what I can’t figure out is …

  Who’s moving in?

  FOUR

  First, I have another real pang of sympathy for my mother. All I can think is that Candi and Warren Acosta have gotten back together and that my mom has gotten burned.

  Again.

  Sure the Acostas have been divorced for years, and yeah, who could have seen this coming? But maybe something happened that made them realize that they belong together. Maybe Candi found out Warren was interested in my mom and turned on the ol’ charm. To me she seems like some kind of a firecracker cigarette—something I wouldn’t let anywhere near my lips—but obviously at some point whatever “charm” she had had worked on him.

  Anyway, Casey sees me coming, and since he’s saddled down with a big ol’ dresser, I guess waving is kinda out of the question. But he doesn’t even call out “Hey!” or nod hello. He just stops moving and stares at me.

  “What’s the holdup?” his dad asks, looking at him from around his side of the dresser.

  Casey cocks his head in my direction, and even from fifty feet away, I can see Mr. Acosta’s face morph into an uncomfortable Uh-oh …!

  The sections of sidewalk count off slowly under the wheels of my skateboard, clickity … clack, clickity … clack.… And the sound mixes with this light-headed feeling I’m having, which makes the whole scene seem like something out of a dream. Like I’m desperately trying to get away from a monster, only I’m moving toward it.

  Casey and his dad have some frantic exchange, and Casey practically drops his end of the dresser, forcing Mr. Acosta to lower his, too.

  “Hello there, Samantha,” Casey’s dad says, like, Isn’t it a lovely day, and oh, hey, do you hear the chirping birds? “What brings you out to this neck of the woods?”

  I totally avoid looking at Casey but lock eyes with Mr. Acosta. “A bridesmaid’s dress fitting. What about you? You and the missus have a reconciliation?”

  The minute it’s out of my mouth, my brain screams, The missus? Who says “the missus”? But it’s out there in the air, and I can’t exactly take it back, so I just stand there like I’ve got all the right in the world to go around saying things like “the missus” and quizzing him about his ex.

  He looks totally confused. “What?”

  I nod out at the truck. “Looks like you’re moving in.”

  “Uh …”

  I’m still not looking at Casey, but Warren sure is.

  “Tell her!” Casey hisses at his dad.

  Mr. Acosta looks back at me. “You, uh … When’s the last time you spoke with your mother?”

  “It’s been a while,” I tell him, and for some reason his question sort of rattles the mortar of my fortress wall, if you know what I mean. “Why? Does she know what’s going on?”

  He hesitates, then says, “She and I …” He shifts uncomfortably. “She’s been meaning to talk to you.…”

  I can feel the wall start to crumble. All of a sudden I’m shaky all over, because I just know—Lady Lana is at it again, keeping secrets that seriously affect me.

  “Yeah?” I snap. “I’m sure she’s also been meaning to be involved in my life and bake me cookies and attend my softball games.”

  He cringes. “Look, Sammy, I’m sorry. I know this is awkward. She said she wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Casey cuts in. “That my dad got a part on her soap.”

  Mr. Acosta flashes a look at Casey.

  “What?” Casey snaps at him. “I’ve told you for weeks that she’d better tell her or I would, and you didn’t do a thing about it. And here I had to tell her, anyway!”

  “You didn’t have to,” his dad snaps back.

  “Are you nuts?” He turns to face me. “I’m sorry, Sammy. It’s why I haven’t called you back. They kept saying they were going to tell you and that I couldn’t.” He shakes his head. “The whole setup stinks.”

  I blink at him. “You’ve known about this for weeks?” My head wobbles back and forth. “And what, exactly, is the setup?”

  Mr. Acosta turns his back on me and drops his voice, but I can still hear him when he says to Casey, “Lana needs to tell her.”

  “Get real!” Casey snaps, then steps around him and blurts out, “He’s moving to L.A., which leaves me stuck living here.”

  Now, maybe this should have been obvious from the beginning, but it wasn’t. My brain had painted a completely different picture. So even though the actual situation was probably a lot more realistic than my little reconciliation scenario, the news really knocks the wind out of me. “Y-you’re moving in with my mom?” I ask Mr. Acosta, and it sounds like I’m gasping for air.

  Mr. Acosta hurries to
say, “No, no. I have my own place,” but he’s looking pretty shifty-eyed.

  “Sure you do,” I say with a snort, doing my best to take cover behind what’s left of my disintegrated wall.

  “I do,” he insists.

  “Whatever.” I push off on my skateboard. “Tell my mom I hope you two live happily ever after.”

  “Sammy, wait!” Casey calls after me, but I pump the sidewalk hard with my foot and tear past their truck of furniture.

  I’m hurt that he knew.

  I’m hurt that other people’s feelings are more important to him than mine.

  And it’s killing me that he’s been keeping this secret from me. I mean, Lady Lana keeping secrets is one thing. I’m used to that. But Casey? I’ve trusted him with life-and-death secrets! How could he not have told me about this?

  Still, half a block later I look over my shoulder, hoping to see Casey, but he’s not chasing after me.

  He’s not even on the sidewalk, watching me go.

  * * *

  It took me a long time to go back home. I was really just trying to find someplace to be alone so I could think, but everywhere I went reminded me of something I didn’t really want to think about.

  Mostly, Casey.

  The mall, the little park outside the mall, the dugout at the baseball field … they all brought back memories of Casey. And then other places reminded me of Heather, which of course made me think about Casey.

  It’s really hard to forget about someone when everything reminds you of them.

  So I finally gave up and went home.

  Besides, there was one burning question that I could only get an answer to at home, and the more I thought about that question, the madder I got because I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

  So the minute I’d snuck through the door, I asked Grams, “Did you know about Warren the Wonderful moving in with Lady Lana?”

  She was wiping down a kitchen counter and froze in midswipe. “What?” she asked, blinking at me through her glasses.

  “You heard me. And I want the truth. Because you know what? I’m tired of you and her having secrets from me. I’m tired of you protecting her and saying you’re just protecting me. You’re always telling me to be honest with you, but you know what? You and stupid ol’ Lady Lana always keep secrets from me. If you expect me not to hide stuff from you, you better quit hiding stuff from me!” I punch my hands onto my hips. “Did you know that Warren Acosta got a part on The Lords of Willow Heights?”

  “No!”

  Right off, I know that she’s telling the truth, but her answer throws me because it’s not the one I was expecting. My fists come down. “You didn’t?”

  She shakes her head. “Are you sure? When did all this happen?”

  I snarl, “Who knows?” and plop into a kitchen chair.

  Now I’m acting mad at the world, but I actually feel a lot better than I did when I came through the door. At least for once Grams isn’t in cahoots with Lady Lana. At least for once I’m not the only one trying to piece things together in the dark.

  At least for once I don’t feel so alone.

  “He’s moving in with her?” Grams gasps, and sort of dissolves into the chair across from me.

  I snort again. “He denied it, but I could tell he was lying.”

  Grams puts both her hands flat on the table. Like she’s steadying it. Or herself. Or maybe the situation. “Samantha, please. From the beginning. And don’t embellish.”

  So I give her just-the-facts-ma’am, and when I’m all done, she takes a long, deep breath and says, “Your mother and I need to have a conversation.”

  “Good luck there,” I grumble, but then Grams gives me the sweetest, most sympathetic look ever and says, “I feel so sorry for you and Casey.”

  Suddenly my eyes are welling with tears, and my chin is quivering. It’s like she totally understands how horrible and complicated this has made everything. As much as my mother’s tried to hide it, she’s obviously been seeing Casey’s dad, and if they’re an item, what does that make Casey and me?

  Almost siblings?

  In-law—no, wait—outlaw siblings?

  How awkward is that?

  And, yeah, at least there was a reason Casey hadn’t returned my calls, but his dad being with my mom made Casey and me feel so … impossible.

  I mean, having Heather as a psycho “sister” would be bad enough, but Casey as a stepbrother? My brain can’t figure out what to do with that. And, yeah, maybe there’s no blood involved, but even before this—even when my mom and his dad had just gone on one date—the thought of them being together totally weirded both Casey and me out. And now that it looked like it was becoming a reality, I just didn’t know what to do.

  Grams holds my hand across the table and forces a little smile. “We’ll get through this together, all right?”

  I nod and choke out, “Thanks.” And even though I know how lucky I am to have her in my life, even though she’s the most wonderful, loving person, she’s my grandmother.

  The person I wish I could get through this with is Casey.

  FIVE

  Casey didn’t call.

  Not that night.

  Not the next day.

  I tried his cell phone a couple of times, but it rolled over to voice mail again, so I just hung up.

  Our phone did ring, but it was always Marissa, in a tizzy about her parents. “She’s throwing stuff at him!” she said the first time. “Can you hear that?”

  I could.

  “Uh-oh, gotta go!” she whispered, and hung up.

  The second time it was, “He gambled the house!”

  “What do you mean, he gambled the house? How do you gamble a house?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Were you eavesdropping? Maybe you heard wrong.”

  “Maybe … but I don’t think so. Mom is freaking out.”

  Something crashed in the background.

  “Uh-oh, gotta go!” she whispered, and left me hanging again.

  The third time it was, “Mikey and I ran away to Hudson’s. Can you come over?”

  “You ran away?”

  “Well, my mom knows where we are.”

  I rolled my eyes, because until recently Marissa’s family had a nanny, a maid, a gardener, and a grocery service, and running away would have involved a limo. “Did she drive you?”

  “No! I just called her when we got here so she wouldn’t worry.” She hesitated, then said, “Are you making fun of me? Because we’re in crisis mode over here, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  I mumble, “Sorry,” then say, “Look, we’re kind of in crisis mode over here, too, and it’s almost nine. I doubt Grams is going to let me come over.” I glance at Grams, and sure enough she shakes her head. She also gives me the cut-it-short signal, so I tell Marissa, “Actually, I’ve got to get off the phone now. We’re waiting for a callback from Lady Lana.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t get into it now. I’ll come by Hudson’s tomorrow and we’ll catch up, okay?”

  She says, “Sure,” and I get off the phone.

  Trouble is, my wonderful mother doesn’t call back.

  Not that night.

  Not the next day.

  I wasn’t exactly hanging around, holding my breath that Her Royal Flakiness would return one of Grams’ twenty phone messages, but by noon I was sick to death of hoping Casey would call, so I finally grabbed my skateboard and told Grams, “I’m going over to Hudson’s and then to the mall for shoes.”

  “Shoes?” she asks, all hopeful-like.

  I laugh because I know she’s thinking that maybe I’m sick of my torn-up high-tops and ready for a pair of “decent” shoes. “Yeah, Grams, shoes.” I pull the swatch of fabric from my jeans. “Lavender ones.”

  Her face crinkles. “To match the bridesmaid’s dress?”

  This totally surprises me because with the whole Lady Lana thing, I hadn’t even told her about the Mountain of L
avender or having to get shoes dyed. “Uh … yeah.”

  Her face crinkles harder. “Are the men wearing lavender cummerbunds?”

  I tilt my head a little. “How do you know these things?”

  She swipes some invisible sweat from her forehead. “I cannot see Gil Borsch carrying off lavender.”

  I laugh. “Me neither.”

  “Debra’s sewing everything herself?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “Poor dear,” she says with a sad little shake of her head. “Poor, poor dear.”

  Grams has our door open and is checking the outside hallway to make sure the coast is clear, seeing how it’s against the rules for me to be living with her and all. When she’s sure it is, she whispers, “Run along. And call me if you’re going to be later than six.”

  So I sneak down the hallway to the fire escape door, go outside and down the five flights of steps to the ground, then make my way along some bushes and across the grass to the sidewalk and jaywalk across the street over to the outskirts of the mall.

  It feels good to tear around the mall on my skateboard. The walkway doesn’t get walked on very much because everyone drives to get to where they want to go, but it’s a winding path that’s like a strip of parkway—it’s narrow, but there are lots of little sections. Shrubs. Grass. Pine trees. More shrubs, more grass, more pine trees. I like the parts where the trees are big and touch across the walkway because I feel like I’m skateboarding through the forest.

  Anyway, I had a nice ride over to Hudson’s, and then a nice time at Hudson’s. Mikey was there, and it’s not like I didn’t recognize him, but I did notice a change in him. He’d lost weight, for one thing. Not tons, but some. I noticed it most in his face because I could actually see his eyes. Before they were pretty much just dark slits in folds of fat, but now I could actually see them.

  “Looking good, Mikey!”

  “Thanks,” he said back.

  “How’s fourth grade going?”

  “Pretty good,” he said with a little nod.

  And that’s when I started noticing the other change in him.

  He wasn’t bratty or whiny or belligerent, he didn’t argue or call names or try to pull stupid pranks.

  He was just … quiet.