Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher, Page 4

  “Wow,” I said after I’d been there awhile and Marissa and I finally had some alone time on the porch. “Mikey’s changed.”

  Marissa nodded, but she frowned, too. “I’m actually kind of worried about him. He’s taking this whole thing with Mom and Dad really hard. I tried to explain that they’re just in a fight like he and I are always getting into, and that they’ll figure things out, but I think he’s scared. Shoot, I’m scared. It’s like we’re in the middle of some big explosion, and family parts are flying everywhere.”

  “It’s because your dad’s still gambling?”

  She looks over her shoulder and drops her voice even further. “Hudson says you can gamble away your house by taking out a loan or a second loan on it and gambling away the money.”

  “But … did your dad really do that?”

  “I don’t know! Mikey and I were banished to our rooms yesterday, so I had to sneak out and listen through walls. I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard, though.”

  I thought about this a minute. “So your dad would have to pay the bank back, and if he doesn’t … ?”

  “Hudson says the bank seizes the house.”

  “Like, kicks you out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow.”

  So we talk some more about her mom and dad and all the things that were shattering inside the McKenze mansion, and when she’s finally talked out, she asks, “So what’s going on with Lady Lana this time?”

  I roll my eyes. “Compared to what you’re going through, I feel stupid even talking about it.” But when I give her a rundown on Loopy Lana’s latest greatest, she gasps and says, “Unbelievable!”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like she’s home throwing things and shouting insults, or has a gambling problem.”

  “Maybe it’s like my dad,” Marissa says after a minute. “Maybe your mom knows what she’s doing is messing everyone up but can’t stop.”

  “Oh, please. There’s no such thing as Selfish Divas Anonymous. She doesn’t have a problem, she is a problem. She just doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”

  Anyway, I did feel better talking it all out, and after we had some snacks with Hudson and Mikey, I invited Marissa to come along with me to get the bridesmaid shoes. I pulled the swatch from my pocket and said, “Can you picture me in a big, puffy lavender dress with matching shoes?”

  Marissa’s eyes bugged. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded and wagged the swatch in front of Mikey. “Can you believe it? Me. In lavender shoes.”

  It was the first smile I’d seen on him since I’d gotten there.

  “Not high-tops, either,” I told him, trying to keep the smile going. “Let me tell you—it’s gonna be weird.”

  “Can I come?” he asked.

  “To see me get lavender shoes? Are you serious? That seems like the boringest thing ever!”

  He looked down. “I’ll be good.”

  We all fell quiet. Then Hudson said to him, “Probably not a good adventure for you, m’man. How about another game of foosball?”

  My eyebrows went flying. “When did you get foosball?” I turned to Mikey. “How about you go get the shoes and I’ll stay here and whip Hudson in foosball.”

  But I could tell—Mikey still wanted to tag along.

  Then Marissa gives me the wiggly eye—you know, trying to tell me something without letting Mikey know she’s spilling a secret. And the funny thing is, I understand right away what she’s saying.

  Mikey doesn’t want Marissa to leave.

  “Hey,” I tell Mikey, “if you want to tag along and witness the incredible sight of me in sissy feet, come on.”

  He smiles again, so I point at him and say, “But no blackmailing me, you got it?”

  He nods, then turns to Hudson and says, “Foosball after, okay?”

  Hudson’s fine with that, so I leave my skateboard on his porch and off we go to the mall.

  Now, the last time Mikey, Marissa, and I walked to the mall together, Mikey complained the whole way about how tired and thirsty and hungry and tortured he was. He even lay down on the sidewalk a few times to throw tantrums. Marissa had to drag him along with a dog leash, if you can believe that.

  But as we’re walking along now, he’s quiet. Oh, he’s huffing and puffing and even kind of grunting, but he’s trucking along behind us in a really determined way. Everything’s pumping—his legs, his chubby little fists, his puffy red cheeks … they’re all chugging together like he’s some Little Engine That Could going up a steep, steep hill. The sidewalk’s totally flat, but apparently for Mikey it’s like a twenty percent grade.

  “Wow,” I whisper to Marissa as we’re cutting through a mall parking lot, “that’s unbelievable.”

  She nods. “Hudson’s like magic. His boot camp over the summer really helped. And the kids at school noticed, which helped, too.”

  “Noticed that he’s lost weight?”

  She nods.

  “Hey!” Mikey calls, hurrying to catch up with us. “Can’t we take a shortcut through Cheezers?”

  “It’s longer to the shoe store that way,” Marissa says.

  “But it’s faster to the mall,” Mikey says back.

  Marissa and I exchange looks, and then Marissa asks him, “Plus, are you sure you’re cool with going through a pizza place?”

  “I’m cool with going anywhere that’s cool,” he grumbles, wiping his brow. “And it’s a lot cooler going that way.”

  I stand there looking at him a second. “You remember the last time we went on a walk?”

  “Yeah,” he says, kinda glowering. “Don’t bug me about it.”

  “I’m not gonna bug you about it. I just want to say you did a great job keeping up this time.”

  “Yeah?” he says, wiping his brow again. “Well, you’re not even sweating.”

  I turn to Marissa. “You know what? His shortcut may be longer, but I think this boy has earned some air-conditioning, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do!”

  “Thank you,” he says, heaving a sigh, and off we go to the back door of Cheezers.

  Now, every time I go to Cheezers, I swear I’m not going back. It’s one of those pizza places that specialize in cardboard crusts and seem to attract bikers. Plus, I don’t like going through it as a shortcut to air-conditioning because you’ve got to go right past the counter, where some grumpy-looking guy gives you the evil eye as you walk by. There are about five of them who work the counter at different shifts, but I think they’re all brothers or cousins or something because they’ve all got dark hair and a moustache and that same don’t-push-it-kid way of looking at you.

  Anyway, just before we get to the walkway that leaves the parking structure and crosses over to Cheezers, we pass by three gleaming, custom-painted Harley-Davidson motorcycles. One’s dark orange with flames painted across the gas tank, one’s blackish purple with laughing skulls, and one’s royal blue with screaming eagles across it.

  “Those are amazing,” Marissa says as we stop and gawk. “My dad almost got a Harley, but Mom wouldn’t let him.”

  “When? Recently?”

  She shakes her head and eyes Mikey. “Before the Mess.”

  “Can we please go inside?” Mikey asks. He’s trying hard not to whine, but he’s obviously not happy with us for stopping.

  So we scoot along to the back door of Cheezers, and when we get inside, Mikey lets loose a giant “Aaaaah!” and just stands there for a minute with his eyes closed, soaking in the coolness.

  “Come on, Mikey!” Marissa calls, because we’re already by the counter trying to ignore the Evil-Eye Guy, who’s got us pegged as shortcutters.

  Now, there’s a half wall that divides the order counter and the soda machine area from the picnic table dining room. And because Mikey’s now sniffing the air like he’s about to have a major junk food relapse, and because we have to go back for him and I’m trying to avoid the Evil-Eye Guy behind the counter on the right, I turn to the left and get a full-o
n view over the half wall.

  The dining room’s pretty empty. There’s one couple just starting their pizza, and one table of four bikers wearing do-rags who are down to crumbs and beer. And normally, I would just kind of take all that in and keep on walking, but now I do a double take at the do-rag guys because I know one of them.

  I’d know him anywhere.

  And he’s the last person on earth I’d expect to see wearing a do-rag.

  SIX

  I grab Marissa by the arm and do a sly point into the dining area. “Check it out!”

  She gasps, then whispers, “That’s Mr. Vince?” as we both duck behind the half wall and crack up.

  Mikey’s figured out that something more interesting than cool air and the aroma of pizza is happening by us, so he hurries over. “What’s so funny?”

  I stand up and shake my head, keeping my back to the dining room. “Never mind.”

  Marissa stands up, too, and takes another quick look across the divider before following me toward the main door. And we’re both still laughing because … well … even though there’s always something weird about seeing your teachers outside of school, seeing them drinking beer in a do-rag? That’s beyond weird. That’s … delicious.

  “Why don’t you guys ever tell me what’s going on?” Mikey asks, and he’s definitely in whine mode now.

  We’re out of Cheezers and on the main walk of the mall, so I stop and tell him, “Well … you have a history of blackmail, extortion, and tattling, that’s why. I don’t know if I can trust you with secrets.”

  “You can so!” he says, and he looks kind of hurt.

  “Really?” I eye Marissa like, What do you think?

  She shrugs. “He’s been pretty great on this walk. I think maybe we should test him with one.”

  So I nod and say to Mikey, “You up for that?”

  His eyes get big—well, as big as they can, anyway—and his head bobs like crazy while his whole roly-poly body seems to bounce in place.

  “Okay.” I lean in and whisper, “You heard Marissa and me talking about my history teacher, right?”

  “The Die Dude guy who hates you?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Anyway, he’s in Cheezers with some friends drinking beer and wearing a do-rag!”

  “What’s a do-rag?”

  “One of those head bandannas that motorcycle guys wear? Mr. Vince is the one in a T-shirt. The other guys have on leather jackets. Go check it out.”

  Mikey starts to scurry back into Cheezers, and Marissa calls, “Be sly, okay?”

  He bobbles his head, then disappears inside Cheezers. A minute later he’s coming back out, moving like he’s part of a top-secret mission. “I can’t believe that’s your teacher.”

  “Yup,” I tell him. “Neither can I.” Then I drop my voice like I’m trusting him with something really, really big. “If you ever see him around town, you let me know, okay?”

  “Why?” Mikey whispers back. “Is your teacher a bad guy?”

  Now, when Mikey asks that, I swear his ears stretch up and out and quiver. Like they’re just twitching to scoop in some classified information. So I drop my voice even further, look from side to side, then say, “His code name is Captain Evil.”

  “Really?” Mikey asks, and his voice is barely a whisper.

  So I nod and put my finger in front of my lips. “Top-secret, okay?”

  His head bounces up and down like it’s dribbling on his shoulders.

  I laugh and say, “All right,” and give him a chummy slap on the arm. “Now let’s go. I’ve got foo-foo shoes to try on!”

  There are very few stores in the mall where I haven’t gone in before, but KC Shoes is one of them. For one thing, I get my shoes at the thrift store. But even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t go to KC’s. The mall’s other shoe stores have stacks of boxes and you can just serve yourself, but KC’s is like an old-time store where you have to ask to see a shoe in a certain size.

  Anyway, we go inside, and right away I’m uncomfortable. There are mirrors everywhere and Plexiglas podiums that have shoes displayed like fine art. I’m afraid to touch anything, and I’m worried that Mikey might have a relapse and become Bratty Mikey.

  Or Whiny Mikey.

  Or Bull-in-a-Shoe-Shop Mikey.

  And then I meet Kenny, which doesn’t help matters. He’s got slicked-back blond hair, a pencil-line moustache that sits right above his lip and comes nowhere near his nose, and three gold rings on his right hand and none on his left. He’s also wearing the shiniest shoes I’ve ever seen, and they’re blood-red, with thin black laces.

  He looks like he probably has a side job selling snake oil.

  I pull out the swatch and show it to him. “I’m here to get shoes for a wedding?”

  His beady eyes light up, and he gives me a very snaky smile. “You must be Sams!” he says. “Debra told me you’d be coming in today.” And in a flash, he’s maneuvered me to a seat and is unlacing my right shoe.

  Now, let me tell you, this is a weird sensation. For one thing, I always untie my own shoes. For another, he’s down on one knee in front of me and has my worn-out high-top resting against his professionally creased pants. Plus, he’s holding my foot, and the only other time someone has held my foot like this was on a camping trip when I had the worst blisters in the whole wide world, and that person was Casey.

  So I’m sitting there with my foot on his leg, freaking out a little. And I’m trying to get the thought of Casey out of my mind, but it’s like being in the doctor’s office and knowing that you’re about to get a shot. You can’t stop thinking about it until it’s over.

  At least ol’ Kenny was fast on the draw. He had my shoe off quick and tried not to seem too grossed out when he took off my sock.

  Hey, it was clean when I left the house, but I’d walked clear from Hudson’s, so it was a bit steamy, okay?

  Anyway, he had me stand my naked foot on a measuring ruler, then zipped into a back room and returned a minute later with two shoe boxes.

  “Here we are,” he says, sitting on a stool in front of me. He hands me a nylon sock, whips a shoehorn out of his pocket, flips open a shoe box, and produces an all-white, closed-toe stiletto.

  I’ve only got the nylon half on when my eyes bug out at the shoe. “I can’t wear those!”

  “Wow,” Marissa gasps. “Those are high.”

  Kenny has the shoe at the ready near my foot. “Of course you can,” he says. “You’ll be smashing in them.”

  I finish pulling on the nylon. “Yeah, I’ll be smashing onto the floor in them!”

  “You’ll be fine,” he tells me with an oily smile. “It’s what the other girls are wearing.”

  “I can’t get flats?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just passed gas. “Heavens no!”

  “Just do it,” Marissa says. “It’s only for an hour, right? You can take them off after the ceremony.”

  So I stick out my foot, and he does this smooth maneuver with the shoehorn that somehow gets my foot inside the shoe. “How’s that feel?” he asks.

  I stand up and take a few awkward steps. “Freaky,” I grumble.

  “Tight in the toe?”

  “Yes!”

  He checks it out, making me wiggle my big toe. “No, it’s perfect. The next size will be too big.”

  So he slips the other shoe on, and I stilt-walk around the store for all of ten ridiculous seconds, then plop back down in my chair. “Whatever,” I say, yanking them off.

  He boxes them up, tapes the swatch to the lid, and says, “I’ll have them ready Friday after three. Debra’s prepaid them, so I believe we’re all set.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, and we get out of there as fast as my high-tops can take me.

  Now, Mikey had been almost invisible inside the shoe store, so I turn to him and say, “That has to be the worst store in the mall, and you were the best you’ve ever been!”

  Marissa nods. “You were great, Mikey.”


  He smiles at us. “It wasn’t easy.”

  We laugh, and then Marissa asks him, “So, do you want to go to the pet store?” because watching fish swim is Mikey’s favorite pastime.

  “Is that okay?” he asks.

  Marissa looks at me, so I shrug and say, “Sure.”

  Trouble is, on our way over to the pet store, we go by the food court, and who do we run into?

  The Queen of Mean.

  The Ear-to-Ear Sneer.

  The one and only Heather Acosta.

  She’s not alone, either. She’s hanging out with her friends Monet and Tenille and a few guys from school. There’s Lars Teppler, who I’ve got in a couple of classes, and David Olsen from Mr. Vince’s class, and then there’s Billy Pratt.

  “Oooh, baby!” Heather calls over to me. “Rebounding hard, huh?”

  I give her a look like, What?

  She points to Mikey. “But you and Blubber Boy look so right together!”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve flattened Heather. Oh, I’ve had the urge—I’ve just managed to control it. But now I had the urge, and believe me, it was overwhelming. And it wasn’t because of some ridiculous insult Heather Acosta was throwing at me—she’s always throwing insults at me.

  It was Mikey.

  She’d called him Blubber Boy like he wasn’t even there.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I yank her out of her seat and shove her about five feet across the food court. “He’s got feelings, you know.”

  She laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh because Heather Acosta’s been on the receiving end of my fist before. “Yeah?” she says, trying to act all cocky. “Sorry I didn’t see them. Probably because they’re buried under all that fat.”

  I stop and just stare at her. Then I look over my shoulder at her group of friends. “Why do you guys want to hang out with a person who makes fun of little kids?”

  I’ve got to hand it to her—even when she’s shaking in her shoes, Heather’s got nerve. “Hey,” she says, “he’s not little, and I was making fun of you.”

  I stare at her a minute, then shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

  And at that moment I knew that flattening her wasn’t worth it.

  It wouldn’t change anything.