Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher

  Now, through my head are flashing a million thoughts.

  That’s Mr. Foxmore? The new vice principal? The new discipline guy? The new Mr. Caan? The guy who flustered Grams and refused to see me?

  It can’t be!

  He seems so … soft.

  And he’s short.

  And his suit is all rumply!

  I mean, if he can’t even control his suit, how’s he ever going to control eight hundred junior high kids?

  But then it hits me that he just got Mr. Vince to do something that Mr. Caan—who looks and acts like a pro wrestler—had a really hard time getting him to do.

  Apologize.

  Sasha Stamos turns around and whispers, “My mom called the school about it yesterday!” She seems very proud and super excited, but then hesitates and adds, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  I nod, and as Mr. Foxmore comes back inside the classroom, Mr. Vince reaches for the rope at the bottom of the projection screen, which is pulled down in front of the whiteboard. “I’d like to know,” he says, looking around the classroom, “which one of you thought you could get away with this?”

  Then he yanks the rope, rolling up the screen and exposing a big, bold, red-lettered message on his whiteboard.

  A message that says, DIE DUDE!

  TWO

  I don’t know why I thought it was funny, but I did. I mean, come on. How seriously can you take a death threat when it has the word dude in it?

  So, yeah, I laughed. It just kind of came out. And other people laughed, too, so it wasn’t only me.

  But Mr. Vince?

  Oh boy.

  He took it really seriously.

  “You think this is funny?” He looked right at me. “Do you know you can get arrested for something like this? Do you know it’s a felony?”

  “A felony?” I blurted. “Writing on your board is a felony?”

  The rest of the class snickered, but I was already kicking myself.

  When am I ever going to learn to keep my stupid mouth shut?

  But off it yapped, anyway. “Hey, quit staring at me like that. I didn’t do it!”

  “Yeah? Then who did?” he asked, looking around the room. “Death threats are felonies!”

  Everyone sort of shrank back because he was definitely turning red around the edges. Then, over on my right, Jake Meers says, “Why do you think it was one of us? Someone could’ve put that up at break. Or earlier.”

  “Yeah,” David Olsen adds. “Like, did you use the board in first or second?”

  Mr. Vince just stares.

  First at Jake.

  Then at David.

  “Perhaps you should just erase the board and get on with class,” comes a quiet voice from behind us.

  Everyone turns to look at Mr. Foxmore.

  His gaze is cool.

  Calm.

  Mr. Vince says, “But—” and in that instant Mr. Foxmore’s look sharpens, an eyebrow arches, and his head cocks slightly.

  It’s a total ninja move, but just of his face.

  Mr. Vince hesitates, then picks up an eraser and wipes the message away. When he turns back around, Mr. Foxmore is gone.

  The vibe in the room was really weird after that. It was quiet and seemed calm, but the air was hot and angry. Like any second there’d be a downpour of hatred.

  We were all glad to escape to fourth period, and by lunchtime the whole school knew about the message, and everyone had different theories on how it wound up there.

  “You swear it wasn’t you?” Marissa whispered to Billy, who was sitting at our lunch table.

  “Why does everyone ask me that?” Billy said. “I’m the poster boy for peace, love, and understanding.”

  I laughed. “More like the poster boy for pranks, laughs, and under-studying.” I shrugged. “And who cares, anyway? Vince made a huge deal out of nothing. A felony? Come on!” I laughed again. “I’m just glad that it wasn’t me!”

  After lunch, though, I found out that Heather Acosta also had a theory. “I know it was you, loser,” she said, slithering up to me during science.

  “Oh, right,” I snorted, and that’s when it crossed my mind that Heather might be the person who’d written the message.

  Now, maybe I should have suspected that right away, but it was actually counter-intuitive. I mean, Heather was on Mr. Vince’s softball team last year, and let’s just say they’re peas in the same rotten pod. But Heather also has a history of setting things up so people she’s mad at get blamed.

  Usually, that’s me.

  The thought really bothered me, but when I told Marissa about it in drama, she whispered, “Look, stop worrying. It’s over. Erased. Just forget about her, okay?”

  Obviously, this was something she had no problem doing because, just like that, she switched subjects. “Do you want to go to Hudson’s with me after school?”

  I blinked at her. Hudson Graham is my friend. He may be seventy-three years old, but I’ve been dragging Marissa to his house for iced tea and good advice for over a year, and now she’s inviting me to go with her?

  “Why are you going to Hudson’s?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the change.

  “Because Mikey hangs out there after school.” She tossed me a scowl. “Mom says I have to either go straight to Hudson’s or straight home, and it’s way better than going home.”

  Something about this made me sort of, I don’t know … fold up on the inside. Not collapse or anything like that. Just kind of … close in. I mean, I knew that Marissa’s little brother had gone to “camp” at Hudson’s during the summer while their parents tried to straighten out their problems, but I figured when school started up again, that would be over.

  Obviously, it wasn’t.

  And the thought of Mikey and Marissa hanging out there, like, permanently, bothered me. I didn’t want it to bother me, and I couldn’t really explain why it bothered me, but still, it did.

  Maybe it’s because I’d finally gotten used to things. Hudson had helped me adjust to having an absentee mother, and to living secretly with Grams in a building full of old people, and to being in junior high school, and … and to believing it was okay to like my archenemy’s brother. And now, just when I thought things were settling down, everything was changing again.

  I wanted it to stop.

  I wanted to go back to having Marissa in my classes.

  I wanted to go back to having Hudson’s porch be my safe haven.

  I wanted to go back to having Mr. Caan as the vice principal and Mr. Vince in a classroom that I didn’t have to go into.

  And I wanted to go back to having Casey at school.

  Back to him calling me.

  “What’s wrong?” Marissa whispered.

  I shook my head and said, “I should probably just go home. I’ve been putting off stuff I need to do for Officer Borsch’s wedding.”

  She laughs. “I still can’t believe he asked you to be in the wedding. Does he secretly not want to get married?”

  I tell her, “Hey!” but I know exactly what she means. Whenever Officer Borsch and I deal with each other, there seems to be trouble.

  Sometimes big trouble.

  So him including me in his wedding was either really brave or really stupid.

  Maybe both.

  Which in a weird Borschman way made sense, seeing how I’ve accused him of being both.

  “He doesn’t have anything to worry about,” I tell Marissa. “I’m just in charge of the guest book. What can go wrong?”

  She laughs again. “Everything!”

  “Hey!”

  So she drops the insults and says, “But that’s next weekend, right? So what do you have to do today?”

  “Grams found me a dress for the wedding, but it’s too long and she’s making me hem it.”

  “She’s making you hem it? Why doesn’t she just do it? She’s really good at that sort of thing, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but she says it’s something I should know how to
do myself, so she’s going to teach me.”

  Marissa snickers. “Should be fun.”

  I scowl at her. “A thrill a minute.”

  So that’s the excuse I gave Marissa for not going over to Hudson’s, and it was actually a pretty lame one, seeing how I could have worked on the stupid dress anytime. But Marissa bought it, and I was glad. I don’t know why—I just kinda wanted to be left alone.

  Trouble is, the minute I’m home, Grams says, “Samantha! Sergeant Borsch called. He needs you to call Debra right away.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say, but it sounded urgent.”

  So I go to the kitchen, pick up the phone, and dial the number Grams had jotted on the notepad. And when Debra answers, I say, “Hey. It’s Sammy. I’m supposed to call you?”

  “Oh, Sams!” she says, and even in those two words I can tell she’s totally frazzled. “How’d you like a promotion?”

  “Huh?”

  “I need you to fill in for Robyn as my third bridesmaid.”

  “Uh … why?”

  She heaves a sigh. “Honey, sometimes what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas.”

  “What?”

  “To cut to the chase, she’s no longer in the weddin’ party, and I’d really appreciate it if you could fill in for her.”

  “But … can’t you just fire one of the groomsmen?”

  There’s a moment of silence. “No.”

  “But … don’t you have any other friends who could do it? Or relatives? I mean—”

  “Sam, look. I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate.”

  “Uh, gee, thanks.”

  She heaves another sigh. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that the weddin’s in a week, and everything’s goin’ wrong! Gil broke his wrist, Robyn dumped a lifetime of garbage all over me, the florist skipped town with my deposit, and the last time we met with the minister, he was drunk.”

  “He was drunk? And he’s marrying cops?”

  “Well, I’m not a cop, technically. I just work reception.”

  “You’re cop enough,” I tell her. “And how did Officer Borsch break his wrist?”

  She sighs. “He fell off a treadmill.”

  “He what!?” I mean, let’s just say that Officer Borsch could use time on a treadmill—a lot of time—but him actually running on one was something I couldn’t picture.

  She sighs again. “It was goin’ too fast, and he stumbled and fell. It’s his left wrist, too. So now his tux won’t fit right, and all our pictures’ll have an ugly white cast in ’em.”

  “Wow,” I tell her, trying to take it all in.

  “Sams,” she says, and her voice is suddenly all choked up. “I’m forty years old. I’ve never been married. This is a big deal to me. Will you please do me this favor? Honey, you know the big man adores you. You know we both do.”

  And that’s how I wound up saying, “Sure.”

  I mean, how could I not?

  So she tells me her address on Elm Street and says, “I’m around the corner from the Community Presbyterian Church. Just go down Constance, turn left, and there you are!”

  “You’re talking about that little white church?”

  “Yes!” she says all excited-like. “Isn’t it a perfect place for a weddin’?”

  I said yeah ’cause I didn’t know what else to say, then promised to meet her at her house the next day so she could take Robyn’s dress and turn it into mine.

  It wasn’t until I got off the phone that I started wondering if her wedding luck was about to go from bad to worse.

  After all, I was now officially in the wedding party.

  THREE

  Grams thought my “promotion” was a little odd, but after I told her about the broken wrist and stuff not staying in Vegas and the florist skipping town, she tisked and said, “Poor dear.”

  So the next morning I headed for Debra’s. And it’s not like I was in a hurry or anything. For one thing, I’d left the apartment plenty early. For another, I was getting fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress.

  Who’s in a hurry for that?

  So I decided to cruise by Hudson’s, which was kind of on the way, thinking that if he was hanging out on the porch reading the paper, I’d stop and say hi, and that if he wasn’t, I’d just keep going.

  He must’ve heard my skateboard, because he was watching the sidewalk with the newspaper already lowered as I clickity-clacked up to his walkway.

  “Sammy!” he called, and he actually stood up.

  I popped up my skateboard and turned onto his walkway. “Hey, Hudson.”

  “I’ve missed you, my friend,” he said, pouring me a glass of iced tea as I went up the steps.

  I plopped into my usual chair and took the tea. “Thanks,” I told him, and I meant it for more than just the tea.

  “So how’s the new school year treating you?”

  “Marissa didn’t tell you?”

  “Just briefly. But I’d like to hear it from you. What’s this Mr. Vince fella’s problem?”

  I laughed. I mean, usually adults try to get you to see the other adult’s side of things, but not Hudson. If I’m up against something, he’s always on my side, even when being on my side means helping me see how I can handle things better.

  Anyway, I took a nice, long drink of tea and then told him all about Mr. Vince’s “death threat,” and Mr. Foxmore’s ninja face, and Billy Pratt’s wanting guest speakers, and Heather Acosta’s itchy, witchy ways. It came out in one big, convoluted sentence, and when I finally came up for air, I took another nice, long drink of tea and said, “Aaaaah!” then smiled at him. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “Hmm,” he said, smoothing back one of his bushy white eyebrows as he grinned at me, “sounds like junior high is back in full swing.”

  I laughed. “What was I expecting, right?”

  He nodded. “Just keep yourself out of the fray where that Mr. Vince is concerned. I know Billy is a friend of yours, but do yourself a favor and steer clear of his antics. Teachers have more power than students, so you’ll find yourself at a distinct disadvantage in any altercation.”

  “You think it was Billy?”

  Hudson took a sip of tea. “You don’t?”

  The funny thing is, I didn’t. I didn’t know who it was, and the truth is, I didn’t really care. The only way Mr. Vince was going to die from that message is if he gave himself a heart attack over it.

  Anyway, Hudson and I talked some more, but when he asked me what was on my agenda for the day, I noticed my watch and jumped up. “Oh! I’m late!”

  “Late? Where are you off to?”

  “Debra’s!” I called from his walkway. “She’s marrying Officer Borsch! I’m in their wedding next Saturday! I’m a bridesmaid, if you can believe that!”

  He laughed. “That is a shocker!”

  I tore down the sidewalk and waved. “Thanks for the tea! See ya!”

  I found Debra’s house, no problem. It was creamy yellow with blue and green trim, and really cute. But it was also really … small. Like maybe someone got carried away building a little Danish playhouse. I felt kinda like Alice going up to the Mad Hatter’s house.

  Good thing I’d already had some tea.

  Anyway, the arched door swept open, and Debra greeted me with, “I was afraid you’d chickened out.”

  “Chickened out?” I laughed. “Me?”

  Then I saw the dress.

  “Yes, you,” Debra said when my jaw hit the floor.

  I tried to pull myself together, but I kept my distance from the dress, sort of circling around it. It had short, puffy sleeves and a long, puffy skirt and a big, puffy bow at the waist. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it was lavender.

  “Is that your favorite color?” I asked, trying to think of something to say.

  She scratched a long nail through the ratty nest of bleached hair on top of her head. “I was thinkin’ princess dresses. You know, a real storybook weddin’?” She looked at me. “Y
ou hate it that much?”

  I tried to laugh and say “No, of course not!” but it sounded more like I was choking. So I cleared my throat and said, “Hey, I’m into jeans and high-tops, you know that.” I stepped closer to the dress, trying to figure a way to be polite about this mountain of lacy lavender. “I can’t believe you made this,” I tell her, holding out one side of the skirt. “It must’ve been a lot of work.”

  She nods. “I’ve been a bridesmaid five separate times where we girls had to buy our own dresses. It cost an arm and a leg! I didn’t want to do that to my friends.” She sighs. “Besides, my mother made the dresses for the seven attendants at her weddin’, and their marriage is still goin’ strong forty-three years later. Mom says that the more you invest in somethin’, the less inclined you’ll be to give up on it.” She shakes her head at the dress. “After makin’ three of these, plus the men’s bow ties and cummerbunds, I guess you’d say I’m invested.”

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, so what do I do?”

  “Let’s get you in the dress and see how much I have to take it in.”

  So she leaves while I switch into the dress. It’s got three separate zippers at the waist, but I don’t even need to unzip them to get inside it. And when she comes back into the room and sees me drowning in a sea of lavender, she bursts into tears. “I don’t have time to start all over.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have somebody, you know, bigger that you could ask?”

  “No!” she says, flinging away a tear. She takes a deep breath, then zooms in and buzzes around me like an angry bee, jabbing pins into the dress as she cinches it up around me. And when she’s finally done telling me “Hold still! … Arms out! … Hold still! … Arms down! Hold still!” I feel like a porcupine, afraid of its own quills.

  “That’s it,” she mutters as she takes a last walk around me. “We’ll worry about the hem after we get your shoes.”

  “Shoes?” I ask.

  She stops moving and looks right at me. “It’s just for a few hours, okay?”

  “Meaning … ?”

  “Meaning you’ve got to go over to KC Shoes in the mall tomorrow and get fit for a pair of shoes. I’ll give you a swatch of the dress material.”

  “Wait, what?”