Me!
Ditched!
And by a mother.
What kind of mother ditches a thirteen-year-old, let alone in Vegas? It didn’t matter that I was her daughter’s archenemy. She’d stolen my tip—well, that was the only thing that made sense—and then abandoned a thirteen-year-old, one who’d been very polite and helpful, especially considering the snotty way her daughter had acted, and left her to fend for herself in a town full of gamblers and drunks and strippers!
Not that me being safe was her problem, but come on!
We were supposed to be working together!
Now, yesterday I would have expected this. But I really thought we’d made some progress. Candi had been pretty normal—especially considering that until this Vegas trip, she’d always come at me like a rabid hissing cat. And Heather had gone a whole half hour without calling me loser.
But after I’d mentioned the pin, things had apparently reset to pre-Vegas. Probably because Heather was afraid I would say other things that would knock a hole in the wall of lies she’d built up about me.
What’s funny is, before sitting down to eat with Heather, I hadn’t thought about the pin jab in ages. It had happened over a year ago, and she’d done a bunch of way more vicious things since then, so the jab had sort of faded in my mind.
But now I was thinking about it again, wondering why in the world she’d done it in the first place. I mean, a person doesn’t just go off and jab another person with a pin because they won’t give them some lunch money. It wasn’t like a stick-’em-up where she said, Give me money or I jab you! It was more like a stick-and-run where I’d already said no and she’d used that as an excuse to jab me.
So as I’m rolling down the Strip, I rewind to that morning when we first met. Heather had been talking to an eighth-grade guy named Taylor when Marissa and I had stepped up to ask for help finding our homeroom. And although Heather had snubbed us and made a crack about my high-tops, Taylor had been friendly and helpful, which had totally backcombed Heather.
I didn’t get it, that’s for sure. It’s not like we were flirting with Taylor. We were just sort of nervous and lost. But it seemed to flick some possessive switch in Heather’s brain, and before you know it, she’s jabbing me with a pin and I’m punching her in the nose.
After that she became Psycho Heather, constantly looking for a way to get back at me. I always said it was because she didn’t like my shoes, since I really couldn’t explain how she could be so bent out of shape over a war she’d started.
But now the picture of Heather and her dad flashed through my mind, and for the first time I could see that the road through Heather’s Valley of Hatred started before I stumbled onto it. That there were signposts behind Taylor’s Gulch or the Cliffs of Casey. Signs I hadn’t seen before, because I’d entered the valley from a side road and had concentrated on getting out instead of looking back.
“Wow,” I gasped, because as I looked back through the valley now, there was a giant flashing neon sign that was impossible to miss.
WARREN’S EXIT.
The girl in the picture with Warren was not the girl I knew. She was carefree and happy. And knowing Heather now, there was something really … sad about seeing how she used to be. And as I rode along picturing her with that sunny smile and her arms wrapped around her father’s neck, it hit me that maybe that’s where it all came from.
From trying to hold on.
From being forced to let go.
From feeling left behind.
Abandoned.
That thought actually knocked me off my skateboard and made me pull over. It’s like I couldn’t even hold it in my head, let alone ride a skateboard or even walk with it echoing around up there.
Whatever had happened between Candi and Warren, Warren had left, and Heather had been left behind.
Sort of like Lady Lana had left me behind.
And it wasn’t that Warren had actually abandoned Heather, but people would say the same thing about my mom. Lady Lana checks in, “tries to communicate,” and sometimes actually visits. And she would say that at least half our problems come from me being “disengaged” or “antagonistic” or just plain “bratty”—words I’d have no problem using to describe Heather.
I tell you, when you find some deep connection between you and your archenemy, it is scary stuff. And really, I didn’t know what to do with this little revelation. I’d had a pang of sympathy for Heather when I’d seen the picture of her and her dad, but now?
This was worse than a pang of sympathy.
This was us in the same boat.
Us rowing with only one oar.
Us trying not to drown in our little oceans of hurt feelings … which had somehow merged into one gigantic ocean of mixed-up hurt feelings.
I was back in the busy part of the Strip now, so I just stood off to the side, blinking and thinking and wanting to go back to not having made this connection. I mean, this made things so complicated. It was much easier when Heather was simply psycho.
After trying to make sense of everything flashing through my brain, I found myself wanting to talk to Heather.
Crazy, I know!
I mean, for one thing, she wouldn’t listen. She’d call me a loser and shut me down before I could get out what I wanted to say.
And … I didn’t really know what I wanted to say.
There was so much Heather didn’t know about me. And she wouldn’t believe I really understood her situation unless she did know. But I couldn’t tell her anything without risking everything. If she ratted me and Grams out, we’d be kicked out of the Highrise, and Grams couldn’t afford to live anywhere else.
And how could I risk that—why would I risk that—just to patch together some sort of peace with Heather?
A peace she would probably just reject anyway.
My brain felt really muddled, and I stood there for the longest time, trying to sort things out. And even though part of me kept reminding the other part of me that I’d been ditched in Las Vegas by Heather and her mother, my new little revelation kept getting in the way of being totally ticked off.
Which ticked the first part of me off big-time!
I mean, come on!
I’d been ditched in Sin City!
Finally I started down the Strip again. I was obviously getting nowhere standing around thinking, and since I was having zero luck tracking down any Elvises, I wanted to get back to the pay phone and try calling Pete again.
And maybe Grams.
And Hudson.
And definitely Casey.
Because even riding my skateboard couldn’t keep that panicky feeling from bubbling up again. It was now dark, I was exhausted, and I had no plan.
I did keep my eyes peeled for other pay phones, but I didn’t see any, so I eventually wound up back at the liquor store.
The guy behind the counter was busy watching his surveillance monitor, so I slipped over to the pay phone, and the first thing I did was call Casey. I just wanted to talk to someone, you know? And Casey was my number one choice.
There was no answer, though, so I tried Hudson.
No answer there, either, so I stared at the phone for a long time and decided not to call Grams. I wasn’t really as mad at her anymore—not that I knew why—but it seemed kind of heartless to call her and tell her what was going on. It was better for her to think I was mad at her and in Las Vegas with Marissa and her mother than to know the truth.
I also thought about calling Marissa, because she had to be home by now, only that felt selfish. She had plenty of worries of her own without me piling on, and besides, if she wasn’t home dealing with McKenze madness, she was probably getting ready to escape to the Valentine’s dance with the rest of my friends.
So I skipped Grams and Marissa and called Elvis. And after the second ring, I about jumped for joy when I heard, “You’ve reached the King!”
“Pete!”
“Who’s this?”
“Sammy!”
He hesitates. “You’re not calling from the usual number.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been ditched. I’m guessing they tricked a tip out of you.”
“Tricked a—well, that would explain why you stood me up.”
“I stood you up?”
“I waited for you in front of the Hard Rock like we agreed. You were gonna square up for the tips. I was booked to do an appearance at a party, so I couldn’t wait around forever, but when you didn’t show up and didn’t answer your phone, I figured you’d gotten what you wanted and stiffed me.”
“No! And it wasn’t me you talked to. I have no idea what the tip was or where they went, but I promise to pay you, okay?”
He’s quiet a second, then says, “Why are you workin’ with these people?”
I let out a big sigh. “It’s too long and complicated to explain. Can you just tell me what you told them? And then tell me where I can meet up with you to pay you?”
“Well, here’s the deal. That tip I got a few hours ago was for Mandalay Bay.”
“The big place across from the airport?”
“Exactly! She was spotted on the first floor, going into the House of Blues.”
I didn’t really know what the House of Blues was, but it didn’t seem to matter. “She’s gotta be long gone by now.”
“You could check out the casino. People get caught up gamblin’, you know.”
“But … she’s not here to gamble, she’s here to get married!”
“Hmmm,” he says.
That’s all.
Just “Hmmm.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve seen a lot of brides, Sammy. She’s not acting like one. She’s not dressed like one. You sure that’s why she’s here?”
“Yes! And what do you mean, she’s not acting like one and she’s not dressed like one?”
I can practically see him shrug. “Brides go to the spa. Have a manicure. Get their hair done. Shop.”
“She was shopping!”
“But she didn’t buy. She’s not carrying bags in either picture.”
“Wait. What pictures?”
“You think I’m gonna hand out fifties with no proof? I got two picture texts—both are her.”
“Can I see them?” Then I add, “I have to square up with you anyway, right?”
“That’d be nice, sure.” He thinks a minute. “How about I meet you at the House of Blues.”
“Uh … I go to Mandalay Bay and go inside?”
“Yeah. It’s on the first floor. Let’s meet at the box office. I’m at the Excalibur right now, so it’s not too far for me, and you’ll be headin’ there anyway, right?”
“Got nowhere better to go.”
“So where are you right now?”
“Uh … inside a liquor store somewhere between that big Paris balloon and the MGM.”
“You’re … Sammy, get the hell out of there. What are you doing in that dive?”
“It’s the only pay phone I could find!”
“Well, hang it up and get out!” Then he adds, “It’ll take you a while to get to Mandalay Bay, so I’m going to work the streets a little, okay? But I’ll be there, all right?”
“So will I, promise.”
Then I head out, glad that I found at least one person to talk to.
Even if it’s an Elvis impersonator.
And I owe him a hundred bucks.
SEVENTEEN
So much about Las Vegas feels like an illusion. Or maybe it’s just a real-life study in perspective. Whatever. I rode and I rode and I rode and was really relieved to finally get past the big pyramid. But then it was another forever of riding to get to the Mandalay Bay walkway, and then another endless ride past huge waterfalls and little lakes and palm trees galore to get to the actual entrance.
Anyway, what I find inside is a resort like the MGM Grand, only grander. And golder. Definitely not meant for a ragamuffin girl and her skateboard.
Still, I try to walk like I do belong and know exactly where I’m going as I make my way through the Hundred-Acre Lobby. And I figure if this place is anything like the MGM, the thing to do is get to the casino, where there’ll be handy-dandy signs hanging overhead telling me which way to go to get to the House of Blues.
The trouble with acting like you know where you’re going is that it requires speed. You don’t meander if you know where you’re going. You don’t wander or saunter or, you know, dawdle. But walking like you know where you’re going when you don’t can be really embarrassing if you wind up at a dead end and have to make a U-turn. I mean, you still have to act like you went that way on purpose, when anyone watching knows you’re completely lost in a maze of slot machines and poker tables.
But part of the reason I keep having to make U-turns is that there are no signs for the House of Blues. Anywhere! Plus I don’t know what the House of Blues looks like. I’d heard it’s a music place. And I figure it’s in the shape of a house and that there’ll be, you know, blueness involved. So when I finally find it, I’m like, Really? I mean, the only way I can tell it’s the House of Blues is that there’s a flaming red heart above the entrance with HOUSE OF BLUES over it. Which, trust me, should say HOUSE OF MUD instead.
Seriously, the place looks like a big mud cave with a gazillion chunks of … stuff embedded in the walls. Colored glass, pieces of metal, smooth stones, little masks … It’s the weirdest place I’ve ever seen, and there’s absolutely nothing blue about it.
Anyway, I guess I’m gawking because a guy with gauges in his ears and full-sleeve tattoos grins at me as he heads inside. “Cool, huh?”
What’s funny is, I’m actually relieved to see a scary-looking guy with gauges and tattoos ’cause he’s the first person I’ve seen in the resort who looks like he doesn’t belong there, either. So I nod and say, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Outsider art,” he tells me, then gives me one of those cool-guy head jerks that means “See ya” and cruises inside.
I step forward a few feet, but what I see is not a music place, it’s a restaurant. One that looks like it’s been plucked out of a bayou. It’s got a huge tree in the middle of the room, lots of strings of lights, and a whole swampy vibe.
So if the House of Blues is a swampy restaurant inside a mud cave … why would there be a box office?
A waitress with an empty drink tray sees me gawking and calls over, “May I help you?”
“Is there a box office?” I ask her.
She points back out and to my left. “Just around the corner.”
“So you’re a restaurant and … what?”
“A concert hall?” she says, like she’s not sure I could really be asking such an obvious question. Then she adds, “We’re also a gift shop.”
“Oh.” Then real quick I say, “Uh, have you maybe seen”—I dig up my mom’s picture—“this person?”
She comes over and checks out the picture. “No,” she says, shaking her head.
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“When did your shift start?”
“At three.”
So since I can’t think of anything else to ask, I just tell her thanks and head around the corner the way she’d pointed.
I don’t see any box office, but I do see the gift shop. It’s another big cave entrance with weird art all over it, and when I go inside, I see it’s full of House of Blues T-shirts and rock ’n’ roll groupie stuff.
Well, Lady Lana wouldn’t be caught dead in here, but the guy behind the register isn’t busy, so I go up and show him her pictures anyway.
“Don’t remember her,” he says.
So I ask him, “Where’s the box office?” and he points back out the door and says, “Just around the corner.”
So I go back out and keep going, and sure enough, there’s a box office.
The first thing I notice is that there’s no Elvis hanging around.
The second thing I notice is the marquee. It lists s
ix dates, and next to February 14 is DARREN COLE—SOLD OUT.
Just like that, I feel miserable. I mean, talk about whiplash karma. I’m standing at the place where Darren Cole—the guy who wrote Casey’s and my song—is playing on Valentine’s Day?
And like someone going, Tisk-tisk-tisk! right in front of me is a picture of ol’ Darren with his arms crossed, looking tough in front of his band of Troublemakers.
Suddenly all I want to do is call Casey. So I go up to the box office and ask the guy inside, “Is there a pay phone nearby?”
“Right around the corner,” he says, pointing.
So I continue going “right around the corner” but all I see are escalators next to a mini food court. So I keep going and what I find as I enter the mini food court is not a pay phone.
It’s also not Elvis.
It’s the Queen of the Ditch.
The Mama Witch.
The one and only Candi Acosta.
Now, back in Santa Martina I’d have thrown myself in reverse and gotten out of there quick. But here all I can think about is how I’ve been ditched in Sin City by this woman, and for some reason that thought changes everything.
She’s not scary anymore.
She’s pathetic.
Well, she’s also a liar and a sneak and a thief and a coward, but what that adds up to is pathetic. Plus, she’s not looking very scary. She’s sitting in a bistro chair with her shoes off, her hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup, and her eyes closed.
I look around for Heather, and when I don’t see her anywhere, I sneak up to Candi’s table, slip into the chair across from her, lean forward so my face is pretty close to hers, and thump my skateboard on the ground hard to wake her up.
Her eyes fly open, her cup knocks over, and all of a sudden she’s face to face with me. “Aaaah!” she cries, and practically falls backward trying to get away from me.
“You must be so proud,” I tell her, “ditching a thirteen-year-old.”
If this had been Heather, she would have called me a name and made some snide remark. Or jabbed me with a pin. And since Candi seems like she’s just a grown-up version of Heather, I’m expecting her to do something similar.