Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things

Anyway, all of us voted to walk instead of pay for parking, so we circled around the block.

  No parking.

  We went a street farther out, keeping our eyes peeled for a place to pull in.

  No parking.

  So I asked, “Did you guys want to go inside? Because I can just run the bird in myself.”

  Gary looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Aren’t we still snooping around?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. But I don’t really know what we’re expecting to find.”

  “Well, I want to go,” he said.

  I looked out the window again. “Okay, then we’ve got to find parking.”

  All of a sudden Cricket cries, “Look!” but it’s not a parking place that she’s pointing to. It’s a woman with amazingly long honey blond hair, pulling a blue and orange mountain bike out of the back of a steel blue SUV.

  It’s Janey, all right, and as we get closer, we watch her shut the back and push her mountain bike up alongside the driver’s door. Then, just as we’re passing by, she leans in the SUV’s open window and plants a kiss on the cheek of some guy wearing a ball cap.

  Cricket gasps. “Did she just kiss that guy?”

  I nod. “It sure looked like it.”

  “Go around the block!” Cricket tells her brother. “We’ve got to find out who that is!”

  “Why?” Gary asks.

  “Janey’s two-timing Quinn!”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do! He will! Go around the block, Gary!”

  Gary’s still not keen on the idea, but he do-si-dos through traffic and around the block anyway. Trouble is, we hit all red lights and everyone seems to be moving so slow that by the time we get back to where the SUV was, it’s long gone.

  The parking place, though, is still available. So Gary dives in and we all get out to deliver the itty-bitty mounted bird together.

  Now, it takes us a little while to get over to the museum. And then, as we’re finally shuffling up the entrance steps, the front door comes whooshing open and Janey comes blasting out. And before the door’s had a chance to finish closing, whoosh, it flies open again, and this time Quinn comes running out. “Janey! Janey, wait!” he shouts, but he’s too late. Faster than you can say, I’m outta here, Janey is on her bike and gone.

  Quinn throws his hands in the air and curses, then turns to us and says, “She dumped me! She dumped me.”

  “She was two-timing you,” Cricket blurts, like it’s the hottest gossip she’s ever heard.

  “What?” he asks, and suddenly his dark eyes look cold.

  Dangerous.

  Cricket takes a step back. “We . . . we saw her get her bike out of the back of someone’s car.” She points. “About four blocks that way. Then she went up and kissed the driver.” She hesitates and glances around at us. “At least we think it was a kiss.”

  He just stands there a minute, then starts back up the museum steps muttering, “Girls and their mind games! Why chase a guy if you’re just going to dump him?”

  Cricket follows him up the steps. “Are you going to tell her you know she was two-timing you when you see her?”

  He looks at her like she’s crazy. “Why would I see her?”

  “Well, she works here. . . .”

  “Not anymore. She quit!” He gives her an exasperated look. “Now can I please have some space?”

  So Cricket backs off, but I intercept him at the door and push the sandpiper on him. “We’re delivering this for Lester Blunt.”

  He looks at me, then the bird, then me again. “For whom?”

  I watch him very carefully. “Lester Blunt.”

  His forehead’s a mess of wrinkles, and they all seem to be shoving in different directions. “Who?”

  “You know, the taxidermist in Santa Martina.”

  His face smoothes a little. “Oh, right.” But then his eyebrows scrunch together as he asks, “Dennis asked you to do this? I thought you two hated each other.”

  “Uh . . . we haven’t talked to him.” Then I try to sound all nonchalant as I ask, “Is he the one who picks up and drops off projects?”

  “Usually.”

  “But . . . he doesn’t work for the museum, does he?”

  Quinn pulls the door open and says, “Look, if you don’t mind, I really need some space,” then disappears inside with the bird.

  As we start down the steps, Cricket sighs, “Poor guy. He’s really hurting.”

  Gary snorts. “At least he knows why he got dumped.” He eyes his sister. “You delivered that news so tactfully—very impressive.”

  Casey and I kind of grin at each other, and when Cricket realizes her brother is being sarcastic, she blushes and says, “I guess I really didn’t like her.”

  “I guess not!” we all say.

  On the way back to the Kuos’ we stopped and got dollar burgers because we were all starving, and after that we were wiped-out tired. And since Casey had to get going and Cricket said, “Can we unpack tomorrow?” I just hiked home.

  I like walking. Well, not when I have big balloon blisters or if it’s icy-windy or pouring down rain, but other than that, I really like walking. My friends all listen to music when they’re walking or cruising along on their skateboards or bikes, but I like to listen to the rhythm of moving. It kind of lulls my mind into a place where I can sort things out. Where I can think.

  And since my feet were feeling a whole lot better, I really wanted to walk. There had been so many new people and new places and changes in the last few days that I hadn’t really had the chance to get used to them. The walk home gave me time to turn all the new bits and pieces and people over in my mind. It was kinda like reviewing for a spelling test—it didn’t teach me anything new, it just got me more comfortable with what was there.

  But still. Like a list of spelling words, I couldn’t seem to string the bits and pieces and people together in a way that made sense. I was missing verbs. Or maybe my list was all verbs. Whatever. The point is, I may not have had any revelations, but by the time I got home, I felt better. At least I’d reviewed. At least I wouldn’t bomb the test.

  Not that there was a test, but you know what I’m saying.

  Then I walked through the door and discovered that I’d bombed a completely different kind of test.

  The trust test.

  Grams glared at me from the kitchen, where she was talking on the phone, and I heard her say, “She’s home now. . . . No, I’ll tell her. . . . No, Lana, I’ll do it. Goodbye.”

  She hung up, and I could tell that whatever she and my mother had been discussing was something that I was going to hate.

  My knees went wobbly, so I sat down at the kitchen table. “What’s wrong?”

  She crossed her arms, and I could see her counting to ten.

  “Grams? What’s wrong?”

  Then, in measured, angry words, she said, “You’re moving to Hollywood.”

  I’d been kind of expecting this since my mother had landed the role of an aristocratic amnesiac on The Lords of Willow Heights, but I hadn’t expected it in this way. And I’d expected that instead of agreeing with her, Grams would tell my mom that me moving to Hollywood was a bad idea. She’d tell her that we were getting along fine, that I had good friends and was making decent grades at school. Why mess up all of that and move me to a place I would hate?

  I would hate it, too. I mean, come on. The only thing worse than going to school with Heather Acosta would be going to school with Barbie and Ken.

  But here Grams was, telling me that I was moving. Not discussing, telling. And she was angry. Not at my mother, at me.

  And then it hit me—Casey’s dad had told my mom about the overnighter in the tent. And because my mother had then broadsided Grams with this little tidbit of scandal, I was now plastered with poop.

  Normally I would have started ranting about how unfair it was that she was telling me I had to move and how she and my mom were, once again, jumping to conclusions. But for some reason I felt more calm tha
n panicked. This really was an overblown misunderstanding.

  I had not done anything wrong.

  Well, except for that little bit about not telling the whole truth, but I pushed that whisper of doubt out of my mind, looked Grams in the eye, and said, “No, I’m not.”

  I said it calmly. Certainly. Like there was just no disputing this fact.

  She, on the other hand, screamed, “Yes, you are! This is not open to discussion!”

  Boy, was she flustered. She didn’t know what to do with herself—she was twitching at the face and moving all around this one little area in the kitchen without actually going anywhere. Which, for some funny reason, made me feel even calmer.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Grams twitched and sputtered some more, then did something I’d never seen her do before—she threw herself in a chair, buried her head in her arms on the table, and started bawling.

  I rushed over. “Grams, it’s all right. Everything is going to be—”

  Her head snapped up. “I will not go through this again! I will not!”

  Right away I knew what she was talking about. And even though I’d never actually thought about what it must have been like for her when my mom broke it to her that she was expecting me, in a little flash of understanding, I got it.

  “Grams. Grams, calm down. You’re not going to have to go through that again. I promise.” I gave a little laugh. “Grams, I’m thirteen years old!”

  Her cheeks were glistening with tears. “But kids grow up so fast these days! I’ve read statistics and I know that—”

  “Grams! Grams, get a grip! I’ve never even kissed a boy!”

  She took off her glasses and wiped away the tears. “But Lana told me—”

  “What does she know? Stuff she’s heard thirdhand from people who weren’t even there!” I held both her hands and said, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. It was an emergency, okay? There were five of us—three girls and two boys—in one tent. Did you want us to shiver out in the cold all night? Get attacked by coyotes or snakes or centipedes?”

  She looked horrified. “Centipedes?”

  “Or ticks or scorpions?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide.

  “Well, neither did we.”

  “There were scorpions out there?”

  I snickered. “Oh, yeah.”

  She looked at me a minute. Just looked. Like she wasn’t really sure it was me or not. Finally she said, “You’re growing up so fast, Samantha.” Her chin quivered. “Can’t you stop? Can’t you just stay my precocious little granddaughter forever?”

  I laughed and sat back in my chair. “No, but I could stay here forever. Or at least a lot longer.” I leaned toward her again. “I don’t want to go to Hollywood, Grams. I like living with you.”

  She nodded, then held my cheeks and said, “Thank you.”

  After she let go, I said, “The person you’ve really got to be worried about is your daughter.”

  “Lana? Why?”

  “She doesn’t think, Grams. She gave Warren Acosta her phone number, and obviously he’s using it!”

  “That’s how she found out about your camping trip?”

  “Bingo.”

  Grams’ jaw dropped. “She told me she’d heard a rumor!”

  I snorted. “Way off in Hollywood? Right.”

  Her eyes got wider and wider as she put the pieces together. “Is she dating him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But if she winds up marrying Warren Acosta, Heather would become your stepsister!” She stood up. “Oh, this can’t be! This cannot happen!” She headed for the phone. “I’ve got to put a stop to this. I’ve got to put a stop to this right now!”

  I chased after her, grabbed the phone away, and hung it back up. “You can’t, Grams. The more you try, the more she’ll go after him.”

  “But why him? Why him of all people?”

  “Because she’s Lady Lana, Grams.”

  I said it like it was the reason and the whole reason, but in my gut I had the awful feeling that it might be something even harder to control than my mother.

  Something a person really can’t change, no matter what they do.

  Fate.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I woke up in the morning with an itch on my arm. A maddening incessant itch on my arm. The more I scratched it, the worse it seemed to get, and when I finally looked at my arm, there was a rash that went from the outside of my elbow clear down to my wrist. “What in the world . . . ?”

  Then it hit me.

  “Poison oak?” I said, sitting up. “Is this poison oak?”

  Grams was making herself a cup of tea in the kitchen. “Let’s see.” She came into the living room and inspected my bumpy red arm from a safe distance. “Is that the only place you’ve got it?”

  Suddenly my other arm was itching, too. I tried not to scratch, but I just couldn’t help it. And sure enough, there were little bumps springing up all over it.

  Grams checked my back and my chest, felt my forehead, and said, “I would say yes. That’s poison oak.”

  “How do I make it stop itching?” I asked, and I sounded kinda panicky ’cause it seemed to be getting worse by the minute.

  “I don’t think we have any calamine lotion.” She headed off to the bathroom. “But let me check.”

  I told myself, “Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch,” which worked for all of thirty seconds before I broke down and ripped my fingernails across one arm, then the other.

  “You’ll spread it that way,” Grams said as she returned empty-handed.

  “It spreads?”

  She nodded. “Watch out for the pus. I’ve heard that’s how it spreads.”

  “It puses?”

  She gave her couch a worried look. “We should probably wash your bedding.”

  “This itch is driving me crazy!” I wailed.

  “Well, the pharmacy’s not open this early, and we don’t seem to have any anti-itch salves at all. Try icing it.”

  So I got an ice cube and rubbed it all up and down my arms. It did help some, but not enough for me to think about anything but the itch.

  “Your friend Cricket probably has some calamine lotion.”

  I looked at the wall clock.

  7:08 in the morning.

  She’d forgive me.

  I dialed the number, and the phone got answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Uh . . . Gary?” I asked.

  “Sammy?” he asked back, then made a sleepy chuckle. “Of course it’s you. Who else uses the phone as a weapon?”

  I cringed. “Sorry to be calling so early, but do you guys have any calamine lotion?”

  “You got poison oak?”

  “Yeah, and it’s killin’ me!”

  He chuckled again. “I’m sure we do. Come on over.”

  I’d barely hung up when the phone rang. And normally I don’t answer the phone, because what would I be doing there at seven in the morning answering the phone like I lived there? Only I figured it had to be Gary hitting *69 to tell me, Oops, don’t bother, we’re all out. So I didn’t wait for Grams to answer the phone. I just snatched it up and said, “You’re out?”

  There was a moment of silence and then, “Sammy?”

  I lowered my voice. “Casey?”

  “Sorry. You’re awake, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My dad says your mom’s making you move to Hollywood. . . . Is that true?”

  “Uh . . . it was, but now it’s not.”

  “It’s not?” He let out a breath, then whispered, “Man, I hate it when parents jerk your chain. I got like zero sleep last night.”

  My heart did a ridiculous little aww. He’d lost sleep over me moving?

  I glanced behind me at Grams, which I shouldn’t have because it totally gave away that I was having a private conversation. “I’m on my way to the Kuos’,” I whispered into the phone. “You want to meet me there?
”

  “Sure.”

  So I got off the phone and headed for the bathroom to get dressed, only Grams’ voice intercepted me. “Who was that?”

  I could have lied and said Cricket, but instead I told the truth. “Casey.”

  Her eyebrows went up, but they didn’t fly up like they would have a year ago.

  Or even a day ago.

  She blew on her tea and said, “Does he know our situation? Or just our phone number.”

  I snorted and said, “Our situation. And you can thank Lady Lana for that.” Which was true. Yeah, I’d given him our phone number, but I’d told him about “our situation” because of my mother.

  “Hmm,” she said, which was very un-Grams-like. Normally she’s a flustery bundle of nerves about “our situation.” She blew on her tea again, then said, “That Lady Lana is in some really hot water.”

  I sputtered, “What?” because Grams is always harping on me to not call her Lady Lana. She thinks it’s disrespectful and sarcastic, which, of course, it is. That’s the whole point.

  Anyway, I got dressed and headed for the Kuos’. And believe me, I didn’t walk. I broke a land speed record riding my skateboard.

  “Hey,” Cricket said, letting me in, and when I showed her my arms, she nodded and said, “Ooooh. That’s bad.”

  “You didn’t get it?”

  “Not yet.”

  I followed her down to the bathroom. “Well, where’d I go that you didn’t?”

  She pulled a small pink bottle of calamine lotion out of a cupboard over the toilet. “Lots of places.”

  “Nuh-uh! All I did was follow you!”

  “Oh, really? How about that campground where you found the boar? That place was covered with poison oak.”

  I smeared the lotion all over one arm, then the other. It was kinda chalky, but the coolness felt great.

  “Better?” she asked.

  I nodded, then said, “Bearable is more like it.”

  She closed the cupboard. “Yeah, time’s really the only cure. Today and tomorrow and the next day will be bad; after that it starts to go away. Takes about a week.” She smiled and headed up the hallway. “You hungry?”

  “Actually, yes!”

  “Cereal? Bacon and eggs? Pancakes?”

  Out of Gary’s dungeon came, “Pancakes!”