Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher

I knew she was right, but still, the whole situation felt wrong. I got off the phone thinking my mom and Warren were doomed. I mean, she already had huge secrets from him! Wasn’t that the beginning of the end?

  And maybe I should have felt happy about that, but I didn’t. I felt like I was living in the shadows of secrets. It felt cold. And dark. And … sad.

  I tried to forget about my mom as I horned in on dinner at Hudson’s, but that was kind of futile. And staying for dinner turned out to be awkward. Not because I’d invited myself but because Mrs. McKenze showed up with Chinese takeout and acted like everything was perfectly normal. Like, Oh, isn’t this fun, having little white boxes of food all over someone else’s dinner table.

  Hudson tried to keep the conversation going, but Marissa and Mikey were quiet, and I sure didn’t feel like I had anything to say. And then when Mrs. McKenze finally says she has to be going, Mikey chases after her and clings to her.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, trying to pull away from him. “You and your sister can’t come home quite yet.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” he says, and now he’s crying. “I want you to stay here.”

  Mrs. McKenze seems stunned by this, and after looking around at the rest of us, she pries herself free from Mikey and dashes for the door.

  Seeing this puts an awful lump in my throat because it sends me straight back to the day my mom left me with Grams and moved to L.A.

  It’s a panicky, heart-crushing feeling.

  One that makes you think you’d rather die than have your mother leave.

  Marissa hurries over and promises Mikey that their mom will be back, and I’m sure that she will be.

  Still, inside I know—things will never be the same.

  It turns out that the Community Presbyterian Church only holds about a hundred people. It’s small. And even though I was five minutes early, I was still the last one to show up, so there was this big flurry of introductions when I walked in. I had my backpack on and was holding my skateboard, and everyone else had a few more, you know, years under their belt, so I felt a little out of place.

  Make that a lot out of place.

  “So you’re Sammy,” they all said, and with a little too much gusto. Like they’d heard stories.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, shaking their hands.

  Officer Borsch’s groomsmen were all obviously cops. You can just tell. Something about the hair or the moustache or the way they dress … it just says cop.

  And Debra’s bridesmaids looked a lot like Debra, only less orange. They weren’t sisters, but they all had bleached hair and long, painted fingernails and lots of eye shadow.

  A man up near the altar called “Good evening!” and everyone turned to look at him. He had combed-back hair and wore aviator glasses, and the bottom two buttons of his sweater were popped open, leaving room for his pooching belly. “I’m Reverend Doyle,” he said with a smile. “Is everyone assembled?”

  When Debra told him that we were, he started conducting us around, showing us where we’d wait, where we’d walk, and where we’d stand. It was actually pretty painless, and really simple—especially for me, since I didn’t have any real duties except making it down the aisle without tripping. But we still had to go through the whole thing three times.

  So I was more than ready to dive into the “refreshments,” which were on a small table near the front door. They were actually just donuts, but they looked a whole lot better than the half of a cake donut that I’d snagged in the teachers’ lounge.

  The one I’d never had the chance to eat.

  And having to march past this spread of jelly-filled and maple and glazed buttermilk bars over and over and over, I felt like I was being tortured by donuts. So when the rehearsal dissolved into a discussion about rings and paperwork and the organist, I slipped away from the others and helped myself to a nice, fat maple bar, thinking that my part in all this was done.

  Trouble is, I’ve taken only two bites when Debra calls my name and waves me over to a side door. So I take another quick chomp, and once again I hide a donut in my hand the best I can, then I join everyone else outside.

  The minister turns on a floodlight, and Debra announces, “The reception’ll be back here.” She smiles at the men. “We’re having tri-tip barbecue, with Ray James at the grill.”

  There’s a chorus of “Mmmm!” from the men, so I guess this Ray James guy is some hotshot barbecuer or something.

  Anyway, we all look around at what’s really just a big backyard. “There’ll be tables and chairs out here, the DJ’ll be there, and our table will be right along here,” Debra says, pointing around all over the place.

  Everyone nods like, Yeah, okay, and then Debra says, “Parking’s going to be really tight, but Gil’s got a friend who’s offered to valet-park in the side lot, so we’ve got that covered.” She looks around. “Any questions?”

  No one seems to have any, so she says, “Well, I think that’s about it, then. Go on and help yourself to refreshments!”

  So while people file toward the refreshment table, I polish off the rest of my donut, grab my stuff, and then ask Debra, “What time do you want me to be at your house tomorrow?”

  “How’s about eleven?”

  I’m thinking, For a two o’clock wedding? but I just nod and say, “All right. See you then.”

  “You’re not stickin’ around for refreshments?”

  I shake my head, hoping there’s no maple frosting on my face giving me away. “I’ve really got to get home.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Nah,” I tell her with a wave as I head for the door. “I’m good.”

  But I’m not even halfway home when a white car pulls up alongside me. It’s an older model. Sort of big, with lines that are sharp instead of rounded.

  “Get in,” Officer Borsch says through the passenger window.

  “Hey, go back to your friends—I’m fine.”

  “You’re getting in,” he says. “I don’t like this neighborhood, and I don’t like you riding through it at night.”

  “I’m fine!”

  “Get in.”

  I roll my eyes and say, “Whatever,” as I get inside with all my stuff. His police scanner is still on, chattering under the dash, so I laugh and say, “Don’t you ever turn that thing off?”

  He shakes his head and drives forward. And neither of us says anything, even though I know I’ve got lots of questions shooting through my mind.

  Questions like, Are you really going to wear a lavender cummerbund tomorrow?

  Did you notice how orange your bride-to-be is?

  And You’re so calm. Aren’t you supposed to be freaking out or something?

  But then Officer Borsch points with his cast hand to the sidewalk on the other side of the street and says, “Isn’t that your friend?”

  “Huh?” I say, following his point.

  And then I see him.

  On his skateboard.

  Cruising along slowly in the opposite direction, all by himself, the breeze pushing back his hair.

  Casey.

  I watch through the front window, then the side windows, then the back window. I watch as he gets smaller and smaller behind us.

  “You want me to go back?” Officer Borsch asks.

  I shake my head and face forward. “No.”

  It’s a lie, but all I can hear are Casey’s words in my head.

  Stop calling. We’re done.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I had trouble falling asleep that night. I couldn’t get the picture of Casey rolling by on his skateboard out of my mind. I just wanted to grab him. Stop him. Talk to him.

  But he was gone.

  Rolled out of my life.

  When I finally did fall asleep, I had weird dreams. Really weird dreams. There was a wedding, with Reverend Doyle at the altar. He wasn’t wearing minister robes or anything—he was wearing a black cardigan, and the bottom buttons kept popping off. So he’d chase after them, th
en run back to the altar and push them on while people walked up the aisle.

  Only it wasn’t Debra and Officer Borsch getting married.

  It was my mom and Casey’s dad.

  Casey was there, and Heather was there, and Grams was there, and we were all trying to block them, but they walked right through us.

  Like ghosts.

  But Reverend Doyle’s buttons kept popping, and he couldn’t stay at the altar long enough to read the vows. And then all of a sudden rats were storming the church. Big, black, hunchy-backed rats in white tuxes and wedding gowns. They were running around all over the place—underfoot, on the altar, up the walls.…

  My mom started screaming and jumping from pew to pew while Heather screeched, “Get her, my pretties. Get her!”

  And I could hear my mother calling, “Samantha! Samantha!”

  I couldn’t see her anymore, but it sounded like she was drowning.

  “Mom!” I called, and I was looking all over for her. But it was like I was blind. I couldn’t see anything anywhere.

  “Samantha!”

  I shot straight up, gasping for air, and there was my mother, sitting at the foot of the couch. She was wearing a pale yellow sweater and white capris.

  There wasn’t a wedding dress in sight.

  “I think you were having a nightmare,” she said, stroking my leg through the blanket. “Why were you calling my name?”

  I flopped back down and panted for a minute. “I don’t remember,” I lied. Then I sat up a little and asked, “What time is it?”

  “It’s after nine. I’ve been here for about an hour. You must’ve been exhausted.”

  Now, the couch is plenty small enough without someone sitting on it while you’re trying to sleep.

  No wonder I’d been having bad dreams.

  And then I saw why she was sitting there instead of the chair—so she could get a better view of herself on TV.

  The sound was barely on, but still, there was a Lords tape running.

  I wanted to shove her off with my feet. Get her away from me. But then she scooped up my feet and put them in her lap. “Better?” she asked.

  I grunted and closed my eyes, trying to give her a hint.

  Which, of course, she didn’t take. “I heard you’ve been catching up on Lords,” she said, her focus on the TV. “I appreciate that.”

  I grunted again, sneaking a peek at her through slits in my lids.

  “Oh, this is the scene right before Jason got hurt.” She leaned forward a little and shook her head. “Poor guy.”

  “Are you talking about Jason Kruger?” Grams asks, handing my mother a cup of tea. Then she sits down in the chair with a cup of her own and says, “I was wondering why they’d replaced him—he was so good!”

  So my mom tells her, “A light fell on him and crushed a bone in his shoulder.”

  Grams gasps. “That’s terrible! Will he be coming back?”

  “He’s supposed to, but it’s obviously taking a while. I heard they’re having to do another surgery.”

  “So what happens in the meantime?” Grams asks, sipping from her tea. “If something like that were to happen to you, how would you make ends meet?”

  Lady Lana does a regal little nod. “It’s a good question. And in a way he’s lucky it happened at work. If he’d been hurt at home, he’d be in real trouble. But since it was a workplace injury, he’s still drawing a paycheck.” She picks up the remote to fast-forward to another scene. “Still, I’m sure he’d rather be on-screen than on workman’s comp.”

  I sit up a little. “You’re talking about a real person, not a character on the show?”

  My mother looks at me. “That’s right.”

  “So he got hit by a light in real life? Sounds like something that would happen on your soap.”

  She laughs. “Yes, it does.”

  “What time do you have to be at the church?” Grams asks me.

  “I have to be at Debra’s at eleven.”

  My mother’s eyes pop. “Eleven! I thought the wedding wasn’t until two!”

  I swing my legs down and sit up, saying, “But I’m a bridesmaid, and I’m supposed to be helping out.”

  “Is she still orange?” Grams asks.

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  My mother rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Like, Wow, how stupid can a bride-to-be be? But Grams tisks and says, “Poor dear.”

  I stand up and say, “Anyway, I’d better take a shower.” I look at my mom. “Thanks for visiting.”

  It came out kinda sarcastic. I didn’t mean for it to, but it did. And c’mon. Who could blame me? We’d talked about her soap and some guy she works with who’d been hit by a light and was now getting paid for staying home. Another thrilling conversation orbiting around Lana’s World.

  As usual.

  And, really, I wasn’t expecting her to hang around while I took a shower and dried my hair, but when I stepped out of the bathroom, there she still was.

  “I thought it would be fun to help get you ready,” she says, and that’s when I notice that the kitchen table is covered with makeup and mirrors and hair spray bottles and curling irons. There are three curling irons, all different sizes.

  “Uh, that’s nice,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “but I’m not into that.”

  “Oh, come on,” she coos. “Just a little.”

  “Uh … thanks, but no.”

  Grams is standing behind her, giving me granny signals with her face and her hands telling me to sit down and let my mother have at my face with her pots of paint.

  “No!” I snap at her, which makes my mother turn around and say, “She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to.” Then my mother looks back at me and says, “We could just do your hair?”

  Well, I’d feel like a real brat saying no to that, so I plop in a chair and shrug. “If you really want to.”

  Her face gets all … sparkly. “So, what’s your dress like? Simple? Elaborate? Clean lines? Frilly?”

  I scowl. “It’s lavender.”

  “Lavender?”

  “Mm-hmm. And it’s”—I ruffle my hands around me—“poufy and frilly.”

  She and Grams exchange grins as she says, “Okay, then!”

  So for the next twenty minutes she sprays and curls and clacks those irons around my head. And it seems so ridiculous that we’re not talking about anything real, but I don’t want to start a fight with her by asking about my father or how she thinks she can be in love with a guy she can’t trust with her secrets. So I just sit there.

  And, really, I can’t believe it can take so long to do someone’s hair, so I finally pick up a mirror, and when I see myself, I jump out of my seat. “I look like Little Bo Peep!”

  She laughs and takes away the mirror, then pushes me back into the chair. “You won’t when I’m done with you, I promise.”

  So I just sit there some more while she clacks and combs and sprays and rats, and when she’s finally all done, she presents me with the mirror and says, “Well?”

  I just blink at myself for a minute. She’s put my hair up, with a little bump at the back, but there are long, soft ringlets coming down at my temples and at the nape of my neck, and she’s pinned in fake pearls here and there.

  “It would look so much more balanced,” she says, “with just a little makeup. Maybe a wisp of mascara?” And before I know it, she’s whipped out the mascara tube.

  Now, I would have just stopped her, but as she’s unscrewing the brush, she says, “I really wish you’d patch things up with Casey. There’s no reason we both can’t be happy, you know. Even if the circumstances are a little … unusual.” The brush rakes through my lashes, and she says, “He’s miserable, and there’s no reason for it.”

  I push her hand away. “He’s not miserable! He told me to quit calling him!”

  Her perfect skinny eyebrows arch way up. “He told me you broke up with him.”

  “I did not! I called him over and over, and he never called me
back. And finally he sent me a text and told me to quit bugging him.”

  The mascara brush hovers in the air a moment before it comes toward my other eye’s lashes. And I want to slap it away, but my mom gives me a stern look and says, “You’d look ridiculous with only one eye done.”

  So I let her swoop through my other lashes, and while she’s doing that, she says, “A text, huh? To one of your friend’s phones?”

  “Yeah. Dot’s. But it would be nice if I could have my own phone.”

  She pretends not to hear that last bit. “And when was this?”

  I think back. “On Tuesday.”

  She pulls away a little. “This past Tuesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pushes the mascara brush back inside its tube and screws it closed. “That’s odd. Warren just took both Casey and Heather out for new phones. Seems Casey lost his during the move, and there was some issue with Heather’s.”

  “During the move?” I ask, blinking my sticky eyelashes at her.

  She’s coming at my face with a blush brush. “Mmm-hmm.”

  My brain is rewinding at lightning speed. “That was last weekend.”

  She nods, pushing the brush against one cheek, then the other.

  “But then—” And that’s when I remember. “What was that message you told Grams to give me? Something about a note? That I didn’t have to write that note?”

  “He showed it to me,” she said, looking through her lipsticks and glosses.

  “What did it say?”

  “That you didn’t want to see him anymore.”

  “No!” I cry, jumping out of my seat. “I never wrote him a note!”

  A lipstick comes at my mouth like a homing missile. “It looked like your handwriting to me.”

  “But it wasn’t!”

  “Hold still!”

  And that’s when it hits me—Heather!

  I collapse into the seat, and while my mother’s busy painting my lips, everything’s snapping together in my head:

  My missing homework in Vince’s class—Heather must’ve taken it from the in-basket for a sample of my writing!

  Casey not answering his phone or calling me back—Heather probably stole it the weekend he’d moved in. All this time, she’d had his phone!