Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher

  Mrs. Ambler laughs. “Usually, there’s half a donut left so that they don’t feel they have to!”

  Now, for somebody who’s got to be closing in on a hundred, Mrs. Sanford is moving quick! So I cram back inside my little wedge and hold my breath while my heart does its best to slam an escape hole right through my chest. And I know it doesn’t make sense, and I know it’s a stupid thing to do, but I duck my head between my knees and cover my head with my arms. Maybe there’s no science behind it, but I think eyes are like magnets for each other, and that looking at someone you’re hiding from somehow makes them look at you.

  So there I am, feeling like a stupid ostrich, hiding my head in my knees, when I hear Mr. Foxmore’s voice. “Have either of you seen Samantha Keyes?” And let me tell you, he is not sounding happy.

  I bury my head even deeper.

  All I can think is, I’m dead.

  I am so dead.

  Then all of a sudden there’s a loud crushing noise right next to me, which makes my skin about fly off my body, and Mrs. Sanford is saying, “Samantha?”

  So, yeah, I’m totally busted.

  Only then Mrs. Sanford says, “She’s certainly not in here.”

  I almost can’t believe my ears. And when I dare to turn my head and look, there’s a donut box sticking out over the rim of the trash can and Mrs. Sanford is gone.

  They start filing out, talking at the same time about where I might be and where I’m supposed to be and where I’m gonna wind up if I’ve ditched school. And since I can’t exactly materialize inside the supply room and pretend I’ve fallen asleep behind some boxes or something, I do the only thing I can think to do.

  I dump the donut in the trash and beeline for the faculty lounge bathroom.

  Once I’m inside, I start making noise like I’m having a humdinger of a time using the facility. I flush the toilet, I run the faucet, I bang down on the towel dispenser lever, and I come out whistling and pretending to dry my hands.

  Mr. Foxmore’s head pops into the faculty room just as I’m coming out of the bathroom. “What are you doing?” he demands.

  “Sorry!” I tell him, tossing the paper towel beside the donut box in the trash can. “Nobody was around to ask permission, and I really had to go!” Then I turn it back on him. “I can’t believe you left me in there so long! Especially since I haven’t even done anything wrong!” I put my hands on my hips and say, “Do you know how hot it is in there? I could have passed out and you would never have known. Isn’t there some kind of law against locking students in a closet?”

  “It’s not a closet, and obviously you weren’t locked in!”

  “Could have fooled me,” I grumble. “And I’ll bet there’s a law.”

  He gives me a look and a head wag—a double ninja strike meaning, Watch your mouth and, Follow me.

  So I follow him, but it’s really helping my nerves to be on the offensive, so I don’t watch my mouth. “I’m not the bad guy, Mr. Foxmore, and I don’t like being accused. Just because you don’t know who’s been doing this Die Dude stuff doesn’t mean you can lock me in a hundred-degree closet with no food and no bathroom. I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch because of all of this, and I’m—”

  And then we walk into the conference room, and who do I see?

  My mother.

  Not my grandmother, making up stories about why my mother can’t be there.

  My mother.

  And she’s chumming it up with Officer Borsch like he is the most interesting man on the planet.

  My mother is always beautiful. Makeup or no makeup, first thing in the morning or late at night, she’s always beautiful, and she knows it.

  Worse, she knows how to use it.

  Now, she’s not wearing jeans and some sort of random top. She’s wearing the movie-star version of a power suit. It’s a few shades shy of tomato red, and soft-looking. Like the material is just happy to be wrapped around something so beautiful. The skirt hits about three inches above the knee, and the blouse under the blazer is a silky white. Her lipstick matches her suit, and so do her high-heeled pumps, which are pointy and have little brass buckles across the tips. I guess so her toes aren’t tempted to pop out and run away.

  Anyway, she looks amazing. Her hair is perfect, her makeup is perfect … she looks powdery and clean and, well, like she belongs in the movies—something that is obviously not lost on our new vice principal.

  “You must be Mr. Foxmore,” she says, gliding over to him with her hand out as he tries to pull his jaw off the floor. “I’m Lana Keyes. Samantha’s mother?” She takes his hand and gives it a gentle shake as she coos, “I understand that my daughter might be in some sort of trouble?” She gives me one of her movie-star smiles. “Hello, darling.”

  Well, even though this is the first time in the year-plus that I’ve been going to William Rose that my mother’s stepped foot on this campus, she’s obviously here to audition for the Perfect Mother Show.

  Which I guess is better than her playing her usual role in How I Ruined My Daughter’s Life.

  So I say hi back and plop my tattered jeans into a conference chair. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I tell her. “I have an alibi, and I’m being railroaded. Plus, they locked me inside a hundred-degree closet for an hour without lunch or a bathroom.”

  My mother gives her own version of the ninja look. It’s not a flying side kick or a roundhouse slam like Mr. Foxmore delivers.

  It’s gentle.

  Open.

  Disbelieving.

  And I can tell—it knocks him flat.

  “Is this true, Mr. Foxmore?” she asks, and it sounds more like a melody than a string of words. “I would think you’d be worried about a lawsuit.”

  This is not a threat.

  It’s concern.

  Deep, heartfelt concern.

  “We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this, Ms. Keyes,” Mr. Foxmore says. “We didn’t mean for it to take this long. And I would like to resolve things quickly. Has Sergeant Borsch told you about the events leading up to this?”

  “He has,” she says with a dainty nod. “And I must say I’m puzzled that Samantha would be under scrutiny, given the male voice on the recording and the”—she shivers—“nature of the second threat.” She looks at Mr. Foxmore with big, innocent eyes. “Honestly, can you imagine Samantha capturing and killing such a beast?”

  Before he met my mother, Mr. Foxmore would probably have said, “Oh yeah. I can definitely see that.” But now that I’m this delicate beauty’s daughter, well, that changes everything. “We’re worried that her friend got her involved in this,” Mr. Foxmore tells her. “That maybe she just went along out of peer pressure.”

  My mother turns her movie-star eyes on me. “Samantha?”

  “I had nothing to do with any of this.” I look at Mr. Foxmore. “Unless it’s a crime to be Billy Pratt’s friend. And if it is, you’d better charge the whole school. I know you’re new here, but everyone loves Billy. And that’s not just because he’s funny—he’s also nice. He tries to keep the peace between groups.… He’s like a goodwill ambassador. And, yeah, he does stupid stuff sometimes, but that gross dead rat? That voice on the phone? None of that is Billy’s style. He’s more just goofy, and I can’t believe he had anything to do with it, either.”

  Mr. Foxmore doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so Officer Borsch jumps in with, “It does all seem circumstantial where Sammy’s concerned. And it wouldn’t be the first time I got called here for pranks that one student tried to blame on another.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Like Mr. Foxmore is not really appreciating the Borschman’s comments. But my mother soothes the vibe by making a suggestion. “It seems to me,” she says gently, “that there’s a considerable amount of reasonable doubt here. Why don’t we let Samantha get back to class so she doesn’t miss any more valuable learning time, and let Sergeant Borsch continue his investigation?”

  Mr. Foxmore scratches his eyebrow, then nods
and says, “I really appreciate your coming. It helps to meet the parents and get a bigger picture of a student’s situation.”

  And that’s it.

  I’m free to go.

  And since there’s only about twenty minutes left in school, and since I have no idea what to say to my mother, I start for the door. Only then I remember—my backpack.

  “I’ll be right back with it,” Mr. Foxmore says when I ask him about it.

  So there I am, stuck with my mom and Officer Borsch, feeling unbelievably awkward.

  “No ‘thank-you,’ Samantha?” my mother asks softly.

  “Thanks,” I grumble. Then I eye her and say, “I guess I’m still in shock to see you here. And just so you know, I really am innocent.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she says, coming toward me with a smile.

  Obviously, she’s still auditioning.

  She turns her smile on Officer Borsch as she wraps an arm around me. “Gil tracked me down.”

  Officer Borsch nods and tells me, “Your grandmother helped me with that.”

  My mother lets go of me and fingers a strand of hair away from my face. “I understand you’re going to be a bridesmaid in his wedding this weekend.”

  Trouble is, delivering that one line totally blows her flawless performance, because just as she says it, Mr. Foxmore walks back in the room.

  Now, I’m not sure if Mr. Foxmore heard what my mother said, or if it sank in who “his” was, but there’s suddenly a really awkward vibe in the room. It could be coming from the Borschman, or it could be coming from Mr. Foxmore. I don’t know, but I can only do one thing.

  Grab my backpack and go!

  SIXTEEN

  I was charging over to drama, taking a shortcut behind the cafeteria, when I ran into Billy sitting against the wall.

  He was on the ground.

  By himself.

  “Hey,” I said, skidding to a halt. “You okay?” But as I moved in closer, it was easy to see that he was not okay. So I swung off my backpack and sat next to him. “What happened?”

  He digs a stick into the dirt. “Foxmore doesn’t believe me, and neither does my dad.” He gives a sort of dejected shrug. “Nothing new.”

  “Wait. Your dad didn’t believe you? Why not?”

  He snorts. “ ’Cause I’m a screwup and a loser and a great big disappointment.”

  I squint at him. “What?” I watch him a minute, then say, “Wow, Billy. Even my mom—who, believe me, is not my biggest fan—stuck up for me.”

  He digs at the dirt harder. “Yeah, well, like I said—nothing new.”

  Now, sitting there watching him, it hits me how the whole time I’ve known Billy, I’ve never heard him talk about his family. Ever. And maybe it’s because I totally avoid talking about mine, but not knowing anything about his never seemed odd to me.

  Until now. Now all of a sudden I want to know: Are his parents together? Divorced? Does he have brothers? Sisters? Dogs? Cats? Do they live in an apartment? A house? Is there a gerbil in a cage on his dresser?

  I cock my head a little. “So your dad and you … don’t get along?”

  “It’s my dad and everybody,” he grumbles. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” Then he stands up and puts his hand out to help me up. “Come on, Sammy-keyesta, we better get to class before they arrest us for something else we didn’t do.”

  He’s trying to sound cheerful, but it’s really not working. And once I’m standing and we’re face to face, he doesn’t head to class—he just stares at me.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Do you believe me?”

  I look him right in the eye. “I do.”

  He takes a slow, deep breath. “Thanks.” Then, as we start toward the drama room, he asks, “So who do you think’s doing this stuff, and why are they trying to frame me?”

  “You? How about me? They put your phone in my backpack, remember?”

  He gives me a halfhearted grin. “Well, you, I understand.”

  I backhand him. “Hey!” Then I ask, “You do believe me, don’t you? That I didn’t swipe your phone?”

  “Are you kidding me, Sammy-keyesta? Of course!” Then he frowns and says, “Heather was really ticked about her phone, but I don’t know how she could have pulled off stealing mine.”

  “She might have snagged it off the desk on her way out to the drill. Anyone could have, but I don’t know who else would have.”

  He nods. “She was back in class before me, too.”

  “She was?”

  “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “But I still don’t think it’s her. I can’t see her getting anywhere near a rat.”

  “What do you mean?” I grumble. “She is a rat.” But I have to admit—he does have a point. Then I have a thought. “What if …”

  “What if what?”

  I drop my voice. “What if she’s blackmailing someone else?”

  “Like who?”

  “Could be anyone, knowing her.” I think some more. “Or what if she’s just working with someone else?” But Monet and Tenille were the only two people I could think of who might go along with one of Heather’s schemes, and they weren’t smart enough to pull something like this off. I also couldn’t see either of them anywhere near that nasty rat, even with Heather cracking a whip.

  So I shrug and say, “Or maybe Heather has nothing to do with it. Maybe it’s just someone who hates Vince. Or someones.” I snap my fingers. “What if one person did the rat and another took your phone and did the phone message?”

  He looks at me. “Kinda like I did the board but not the rat?”

  “Exactly! Maybe it’s like a Die Dude Derby or something, where everyone who thinks Vince is a pain enters the race to leave him a message!”

  “A Die Dude Derby?” He pulls a goofy face. “We’ll be Die Dudin’ all year!”

  I laugh. “See what you started?” Then I whisper, “Did you tell your dad or Mr. Foxmore about writing on the board?”

  He stops. “Are you kidding me? No!”

  “Well, you were being so, you know, cavalier about it during lunch.”

  He starts walking again. “Yeah, well, everyone knows I’m an idiot.” He snorts. “Just ask mah daddy.”

  Now, we’re hustling to get to drama before class is completely over, only just before we get there, the door next to the drama room opens and Cisco walks out. “Hey,” he says, looking around as he’s locking the door behind him, “did you get yourselves cleared?”

  Billy eyes me, and I can tell he’s thinking what I’m thinking: Man, I hate gossip.

  “How’d you find out?” I ask.

  He just shrugs. “I hear things.”

  “Well, hear this—we’re innocent.”

  He laughs. “Did I say you weren’t? You two are good kids. Anyone can see that.” He grins at Billy. “You’re a clown, but that doesn’t make you bad.”

  “Well, whaddya know,” Billy says. “Thank you, Cisco!”

  Cisco’s still grinning at him. “You wouldn’t, for example, have target practice on some little princess’s, uh, muddy pink phone, would you?”

  We both blink at him like, What?

  “Hmm,” he says, looking up at the sky. “Then again, maybe if it came right down to it, you would. Maybe I would.” He scratches the back of his neck and does a real relaxed one-shoulder shrug. “Every boy in the last two PE classes couldn’t seem to resist.”

  I start busting up. “Are you saying … ?”

  He’s still grinning as he starts to walk away. “I’m saying nothin’. And whatever it is I’m not sayin’, you didn’t hear it from me, got it?”

  “Got it!”

  So, yeah, Billy and I are totally cracking up as we jet over to drama, but before we go inside, we try to straighten up and act serious. I mean, how good would it look to come to class laughing after being grilled about “death threats” by the VP?

  Turns out I was worrying about nothing because since school’s almost out, everyone in the drama ro
om is talking, and it’s super loud inside. Still, we act all serious as we check in with Mr. Chester, but the minute we’re done with that, Heather corners us and says, “I don’t know how you got it, but I know you did. And you are going to pay, you hear me? You’re gonna pay!”

  Now, she is right in my face spraying hate spatter all over me, and I’m sorry, but I’ve about had it with her stupid accusations. So I shove her back and say, “No, you listen to me. I didn’t touch your phone, and I’m not the one having target practice on it. So keep your stupid, unfounded, backstabbing accusations to yourself!”

  She squints at me. “Target practice?” And then she gets it. “Who … ?”

  “Every boy in the last two PE classes, that’s who.” I look her in the eye. “It’s called karma, Heather. What you do to other people winds up coming back on you.”

  Then I grab Billy and take off, wondering if what I’d said would ever soak in.

  “Wow,” Marissa said after school let out. “Were you and Billy in the office that whole time? What happened?” She looks over her shoulder. “And what did Heather say to you in there? I thought you were going to pound her!”

  So I start with the juicy stuff—target practice.

  “No!” Marissa gasps.

  And then I launch into the story about my mother and how she put on the Perfect Mother Show for the Borschman and Mr. Foxmore.

  “She’s still in town?” Marissa asks.

  “Apparently,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, at least she helped you for once.”

  “I know,” I grumble, because it’s so much easier to deal with bad when it doesn’t dabble in good.

  Now, to make a long story short, Marissa used to ride her bike to school, but over the summer her dad totaled it with his car as he was tearing away from the house. So instead of a bike, she now has a skateboard—one that Hudson got for her for two dollars at a garage sale.

  Trouble is, she doesn’t ride very well. She’s wobbly and can’t seem to decide which foot to push with. She keeps switching. And fumbling. And picking up the skateboard and walking.

  It drives me crazy. Especially when I want to move.