Slammin' Dave was grinning at me but good. He shook my hand and said, “What's your name, kid?”
“I'm not a kid!”
He gave a soft snort. “Sure you are. And take my advice—enjoy it while you can.” Then he says, “So? You gonna tell me your name or am I gonna have to make one up?” And before I can even say, It's Sammy, he says, “I got it! You're The Tiny Tiger.”
“The Tiny Tiger? I'm not a—”
He laughs, “Oh yes you are!” Then he calls over to Tony, “Hey, give The Tiny Tiger her cut!”
Now, I'm expecting all these musclemen to laugh and roll their eyes at my new, stupid name, but they don't. They all just sort of nod like, Yeah. Fits.
Tony smiles as he peels off two twenties. “Nice going, chiquita.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking the money.
Slammin' Dave calls, “Intermission's over, boys! Time for some pain!” He spreads the ropes for me to climb through and says, “You're welcome back anytime, Triple-T.”
“Triple-T?”
He's grinning, boy. Grinning big. “The … Tiny… Tiger.”
“I am not a tiny tiger!” I tell him as I climb out of the ring, but really, how mad can I be? I've got forty bucks in my hand, and I took a front bump on my first try.
Now the truth is, with everything that had happened, I'd completely forgotten why I was at Slammin' Dave's to begin with. But as I was heading for the front door, it all came flooding back. The Psycho Kitty Queen's cat. The Bulldog cat snatcher…
I looked over my shoulder. El Gato was busy talking to Dave on the far side of the mats, so I decided to take a quick peek into the room that's to the right of the front door. Maybe that's where the Bulldog had gone.
It turned out to be an office. I went inside and whispered, “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty” under the desks, but I didn't find any cats. Just roll-around chairs, a computer, wrestling posters, and papers. Papers everywhere—newspapers, printer paper, legal pads, maps, receipts—I'd never seen such a messy office. And boy, did it smell!
“Take a wrong turn?” a voice behind me rasped.
I jumped and turned. El Gato was standing there, staring at me with his creepy cat eyes. I kind of smiled at him and said, “Uh… I was just going to use the phone real quick. My mom's probably, you know, worried.”
He took me by the collar. “Quit prowling around and get out.”
“But—”
“You heard me,” he said, then dragged me along and tossed me outside.
Oh well. It's not like I'd found any evidence of kitty-napping. But what had happened to the Bulldog? I stood on the sidewalk thinking for a minute, then decided to go next door to the Pup Parlor.
When Vera saw me, she said, “You're back! Are you doing better than you were before?”
I laughed. “A lot better.” I showed her the forty bucks. “And richer!”
Meg and Holly were paying attention now, too. “Where'd you get that?” Holly asked.
“At Slammin' Dave's,” I said with a grin.
“Slammin' Dave's?” Meg asked. “How on earth…?”
So I started running off at the mouth about going to Hudson's and having another encounter with the Psycho Kitty Queen and what she had said about some bulldog-looking guy stealing her cat, and how that got me sucked into following some bulldog-looking guy into Slammin' Dave's, and how I hid under the wrestling ring and got flushed out by El-Gato-the-Freaky-Cat-Dude and wound up winning forty dollars by doing a front bump on my first try
Holly's jaw was dangling, but Vera frowned and said, “They sound like a bunch of basement bookies.”
“Basement bookies?”
“You know, gamblers.”
I thought about it a minute, then said, “Was that illegal?”
Meg snorted. “I'm sure it was. You were like a horse at the races…”
Vera nodded. “Or a bird at a cockfight.”
“Or a bull at the rodeo.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “A bull at the rodeo? People bet on bulls?”
Meg shrugged. “People bet on just about anything.”
Vera was still nodding. “And if they know lucky, they'll bet on girls who are lucky.”
“Lucky? Me?” I couldn't believe my ears. “I'm not lucky, I'm cursed.”
Meg and Vera both rolled their eyes. Then Meg said, “I've never actually known anyone who's managed to go down in age.”
“That's right,” Vera added. “I'd give what's left of my teeth to go down a year.”
“But not to be thirteen!”
“Honey,” Vera said, “if I could do thirteen again, believe me, I would. And this time I'd do it right.”
“Right? You can't do anything right when you're thirteen. Seems like everything you do is wrong.”
Meg laughed. “I might do the same things, I'd just go about them different.”
Vera said, “Well, I wouldn't be in such a dad-gum hurry to grow up. Why, I remember when I was thirteen, the one thing in the world I wanted was this ruby red lipstick at the five-and-dime. I was mad for that lipstick. But Mother wouldn't even let me try it on! For three years I heard, ‘When you're sixteen. Not until you're sixteen!' When I finally did turn sixteen, she bought it for me, and do you know what? It looked god-awful on me. I waited three years for a tube of lipstick that I wore but once.”
Then Meg said, “You never told me that story before, Mom. It reminds me of those boots I wanted. Remember those?”
“Those white go-go boots?”
“Yes! And you would absolutely not get them for me?”
“Oh, Meg, honestly. You cannot compare go-go boots to a lipstick—”
Now, while the two of them are going on about go-go boots and lipstick, Holly pulls me aside and whispers, “Personally, I'm with you.”
I chuckle and say, “Thanks.” Then I ask, “Can I use your phone?”
She nods and takes me into the kitchen, whispering, “There are worse things than being thirteen, but still, I cannot believe your mother.”
“Tell me about it.”
She hands me the phone and says, “Is that who you're calling?”
“No way.” I punch buttons on the dial pad and say, “I'm calling someone much more reliable.”
When Hudson answers the phone, I say, “Hey, Hudson. I need your psycho neighbor's phone number.”
There's a moment of silence, then he says, “You mean Miss Kitty's?”
“You got more than one psycho neighbor?”
He laughs. “Actually, yes. But here, let me get you her number.” A few seconds later he's back. And after I jot down the number, he says, “Now, Sammy—”
“Don't worry, Hudson. I'll be polite.”
“Good girl. I take it you have some information for her?”
“Maybe. I spotted a guy who looks just like a bulldog.”
“Oh,” he says, and believe me, it's a real skeptical oh.
“Well, he went into Slammin' Dave's, but I lost him after that. I'm just going to tell her about him—she can check it out herself if she wants to.”
So we say bye, and while I'm punching in the Psycho's number, Holly says, “I don't get why you want to help someone who's so mean.”
“I don't know. I guess if it was Dorito that had been snatched, I'd want help tracking him down.” Then all of a sudden, “Hello, Miss Kitty speaking” comes purring in my ear.
“Uh, hi. This is Sammy. Hudson's friend?”
Her tone turns sour. “You again? Ebony better not be dead!”
“Well, I haven't exactly found him. I—”
“Then why are you calling? I didn't give you my phone number. You have no right to bother me this way. I have—”
“Will you please just listen?” She was suddenly quiet, so I said, “You know how you said you saw a guy who looked like a—”
“Pit bull,” she spits out. “A vicious, good-for-nothing pit bull!”
“Wait—a pit bull? Before you said he looked like a bulldog!”
/> “Pit bull, bulldog—same difference.”
“No, it's not! A pit bull doesn't look anything like a bulldog.”
“Oh, come on. They're dogs!”
“So's a Chihuahua and a Saint Bernard!”
“Quit harassing me! Don't you ever dare call this number again!” Click.
After I put the phone down, Holly said, “She thinks a pit bull looks like a bulldog?”
“She probably doesn't have a clue what either of them looks like.” I stood up and shook my head. “I can't believe I went through all that because she said ‘bulldog.'”
Holly smiled. “Look at the bright side—you won forty bucks.”
I grinned. “True.”
Then the phone rang, which made us both jump. But right away we laughed, and Holly answered it, saying, “Pup Parlor.” My heart sank, though, when she pulled a face at me and said, “Uh, yes, she is,” and handed the phone over, mouthing, “It's your grandmother!”
I hesitated, then took the phone. Dead cats and back bumps couldn't delay me forever. It was time to go home and try some of Hudson's advice.
Grams was calm enough on the phone, but when I snuck through the apartment door, my mother attacked me with, “Where have you been?”
I gave her a surprised look. “Why, visiting with Vera and Meg and Holly and let's see… spending time at Slammin' Dave's … discussing things with Hudson …” I nodded and headed for the fridge. “Yeah. That pretty much covers it.”
She followed me. “You mean to tell me you've been running around all over town discussing our business with other people?”
I shrugged and hung inside the refrigerator. “Just seeking an objective perspective.”
“Samantha!”
I took out a leftover sandwich and cocked my head at her. “Yes?”
My mother rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, which was actually very interesting to observe—it was the exact same move Grams makes when she's fed up with me.
“So,” I asked, taking a bite of sandwich, “did you two have a nice afternoon?”
“A nice…?” Grams was looking at me like I'd lost my very last marble.
I walked into the living room, saying, “Well, I'm sure you had lots to discuss.”
Mom crossed her arms. “All right. What's the game?”
“Game?” I shrugged. “Just making polite conversation.”
Grams stepped forward and said, “Samantha, you may not believe this, but your mother is pretty torn up about what she's done.”
“Oh, by the way,” I said, ignoring her comment, “Hudson has invited us all out for brunch at the Santa Martina Inn tomorrow.” I took a giant bite of sandwich. “To celebrate my birthday.”
Grams' brow furrowed into unhappy rows. “But… your mother and I wanted to take you out to brunch ourselves.”
“Oh,” I said, then chewed for the longest time. Finally I swallowed and said, “Well, I'm sure you want to make me happy on my birthday, right? And what would make me happy is to accept Hudson's generous invitation to take us all to brunch.” I gave my mom a forced smile. “He's really looking forward to meeting you.”
Mom looked uncertain. “Because of all the terrible things you've said about me?”
“No, because he's a fan of yours. He says you're really good in Lords.”
Grams was blinking like crazy. So was Mom. And inside I felt great. Almost calm. Maybe there really was something to this acting mature stuff.
If only I could keep it up.
* * *
I made it through the whole evening without complaining, criticizing, or making one sarcastic remark. And my reward for this nearly impossible feat?
My mother accused me of being “aloof”
Whatever.
My big decision that night was whether to sleep on the floor in the living room with my mother, or on the floor in Grams' room. I was madder at my mom than I was at Grams, but Grams can be a pretty fierce snorer. I considered crashing on the bath mat, but Dorito didn't seem to like it in there, so I wound up on the floor of Grams' room. Way off in a corner.
Grams and Mom stayed up talking, which I eavesdropped on for a while, but they were being very careful about what they said, and then they started talking about Lords. And believe me, once my mother starts up about her soap, that's it. You can kiss talking about anything else goodbye. Besides, it had been some day, and I was exhausted. So I just curled up with Dorito and thought about everything that had happened. About the cats in the trash and the Psycho Kitty and the whole adventure at Slammin' Dave's. I still couldn't quite believe I'd won forty bucks. Forty bucks! I could actually buy myself a birthday present.
But what?
Everything I own fits in Grams' bottom drawer—you name it, and I probably don't have it. So what did I want? What did I really want?
Besides a normal mother.
Or being fourteen instead of thirteen.
That was stuff forty bucks couldn't come close to buying.
So I made myself think about things. You know, tangible items. And after a while I decided that I'd really like to have my own portable CD player. Marissa had a jack splitter and two sets of headphones for hers—which was fun, but I never really got to listen to music when I was alone. And believe me, Grams is not into the kind of music I like, and vice versa.
But after I figured out what I wanted, my brain went back to being mad about having to be thirteen twice. Maybe it would be all right to be Vera's age and then go back to being thirteen. But being thirteen twice back-to-back? That was teenage torture!
I also thought about Vera's first lipstick and Meg wanting go-go boots. You have to understand—Meg is not the go-go boots type. She's about five-eight and stocky. Not fat, just big boned and, you know, strong. So the thought of her in white go-go boots and a miniskirt or hot pants or whatever you wear with go-go boots was a little, uh, scary?
Eventually I drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew it was morning and Grams was standing in front of her open closet, trying to decide what to wear.
So I stumbled into the bathroom, but my mom was already in there, messing with makeup.
“Good morning,” she sings out.
I just grunt and act like I'm still asleep as I tinkle in the toilet.
“I'm looking forward to meeting Hudson.”
“Grmmm.”
She drops her voice. “Your grandmother became… flustered when she talked about him. Is there something going on between the two of them?”
“Grmmm-ummm.”
She pulls a face. “What does that mean?”
“Grmmm-ummm.”
She screws her mascara tube closed and snaps, “Why can't we ever have a normal conversation?”
I just flushed the toilet and mumbled, “Happy birthday to you, too,” and went back to bed. And as I curled up with Dorito, I knew I hadn't been very mature in the bathroom, but I told myself that my mom deserved every bit of sarcasm I dished her way. It was her own fault for having a thirteen-year-old twice.
But I couldn't go back to sleep, and the truth is I felt kinda guilty. Hudson's voice kept murmuring through my brain… She knows she was wrong, and she apologized. Show her how mature you really are….
So I got up, got dressed, and joined Grams and Mom in the living room, where they were having tea.
“Happy birthday, darling,” my mother says, and Grams smiles and nods. “Happy birthday, Samantha.”
“Thanks,” I tell them, sitting down cross-legged by the coffee table. “Can we have cake for breakfast?”
Grams laughs, “Cake?”
“You don't want to spoil your appetite for brunch,” my mom says. “If it's anything like it used to be, their brunch will fill you up for the entire day.”
I look at her and ask, “When have you been there?”
“Oh… it was years ago.”
“Years ago?” I wait for a second, then ask, “Is that all I'm gonna get?”
My mom shrugs, and I can t
ell she's about to give me some lame story instead of the truth, so I just shake my head and mutter, “Why can't we ever have a normal conversation?”
“Samantha!” my grams snaps.
“Sorry. Sor-ry! But she asked me the same thing when I wouldn't answer about you and Hudson.”
“About me and…,” Grams says, her cheeks turning all red.
I face my mother and say, “I think you can look to each other for the answer to your question.”
“My question?” my mother asks, looking all confused.
“About why we can never have a normal conversation! You guys have way too many secrets. Why can't you just tell me who you went to the Santa Martina Inn with?”
“Because it's really irrelevant,” my mother says.
“Well, was it my father?”
My mother's lips pinch together for a second, then she says, “Stop with the third degree, would you?” and all of a sudden she spills some tea and has to run to the kitchen for a rag.
Now, there are all of four drops spilled, but of course Grams gets up to help her. And then they notice how late it's getting, so my mom disappears into the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup while Grams goes back into her bedroom.
So I curl up with Dorito on the couch. And after flipping through a dozen magazines, I finally call out, “We're gonna be late!”
Like magic they both appear, but they must've drunk the same evil potion, because they take one look at me and at the same time they say, “You can't go to the Inn like that!”
I look at my sweatshirt and jeans and high-tops, then brush off some cat hair. “There. That's better.”
“No!” Grams says. “That is not better!”
I shrug. “It's my birthday, right?”
“But… I think the Inn has a dress code!”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, it does not.”
Grams sputters a bit, then finally says, “Why don't you wear that sweater your mother gave you for Christmas?”
“Oh, she doesn't have to wear that,” my mother says, then smiles at me like she completely understands why I don't want to be caught dead wearing pink angora.
But what flashes through my mind is that if I wore the stupid sweater, I would totally blow them away. I mean, how mature would that be of me? So I said, “You know what? I'll wear the sweater. And I'll put on better jeans.”