Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (14 page)

“Can you leave the umbrella?” she asks me.

“Uh … no. It's not mine.”

“Whose is it?”

I collapsed it. “My grandmother's.”

She considers this a minute, then nods. “My nana would make me give it back, too.”

All of a sudden I had an idea. “Where does your nana live?”

She shrugs. “In a different city.”

“Which one?”

“Santa Luisa.”

“Santa Luisa? Well, why don't you go live with her? She'd probably love to have you!”

She cocks her head, blinks, then goes back to petting Barbie's head. “She don't want me.”

“What? I don't believe it.”

“She's not legal.”

“You mean not a citizen?”

She nods.

“When's the last time you saw her?”

“Dunno.”

“Last week? Last year?”

“Long time. Papa threw a can at her and she won't come back no more.”

What a champ. I shook my head and said, “Tippy, I hate to leave you here, but I have to go….”

“That's okay. It's not raining no more.”

“I'm not worried about the rain.” I stand up and say, “Do you want to go to the police? Tell them about your mom and dad?”

She looks at me, horrified. “No!”

I crouch down again. “Why not? They're not taking very good care of you. I'm afraid they're gonna really hurt you someday. Is there anyone else you can stay with? An aunt? Someone like that?”

She shakes her head. “Besides, I gotta make them breakfast.”

“Who? Your
parents
?”

She nods. “It helps them feel better.”

My heart completely bottomed out. I could picture her scrambling eggs and buttering toast, serving breakfast to a couple of monsters who'd turn around and throw things at her. I wanted to grab her hand and take her home with me. I couldn't just
leave
her here.

But then she takes
my
hand and says, “If you give me a boost, I can get in easier.”

“Get in where?”

“The window.”

I looked back and forth along the side of the building. “Where?”

“Back here.” She pulls me along behind the garage and sure enough, there's a window. “It falls down, so it's hard gettin' back in,” she says.

“Are you sure there's no one else you can stay with?” She raises her foot for a boost. “You gotta go home,”
she says, like of course she's willing to climb in and out of windows and dodge bottles and Barbie heads to be at home.

She wiggles her foot at me and says, “Hurry. I'm cold!” so I weave my fingers together and let her plant a fat wad of mud in my hands as I lift her and her one-legged Barbie up to the window.

The window's an old heavy wooden one, and as Tippy scrunches through, it rubs against her backside and legs, then clunks closed as her feet disappear inside. A second later the window rasps up and there's Tippy, smiling down at me. “See?” she whispers. Then she waves and says, “Bye, Sammy!”

She ducks out of view, but I just stand there for a minute, looking at the window. Finally, I rub the mud off my hands the best I can, pick up Grams' umbrella, and head for the walkway. Car or no car, it was time to get home
.

Now, in the back of my mind I heard water splashing, but I wasn't paying any attention. I was thinking about Tippy and how you shouldn't have to grow up with a one-legged Barbie. I mean, if you're going to have a Barbie at all, it should have all its parts.

So the sound of splashing water didn't alarm me because, hey, it had been raining, right? It could have been water splashing out a downspout or something.

But when I come out from behind the garage, I stop short, because right by where Tippy and I had been hiding, there's a man, relieving himself in the bushes.

And it's bad enough that there's someone,
any
one
there, but when this guy faces me across the bushes, my blood freezes stiff in my veins.

He's got hatred for eyes.

Steel for a mouth.

And there's no doubt about it—he recognizes me, too.

I didn't waste time while Snake Eyes got himself assembled. I hauled down the pathway toward the gate, and I must have been flying with fear, because I shot over six feet of pine like a bottle rocket.

Then I ran. And I ran so hard I thought my lungs would burst from the pain. The truth is, I'd never been so scared in my whole life. Not when I was trapped behind a Dumpster by a desperate thief, not when I was driving the wrong way down Cook Street in a hijacked motor home, not even when I was face to face with a dangerous drug dealer. No one,
nothing
, had ever scared me as much as seeing Snake Eyes.

I can't explain his eyes. They're dead. Cold, black, and dead. But when he saw me, they instantly came to life.

I started kicking myself for telling Tippy my name. If he asked her, it would be a snap—or a slap—to get her to tell. And I kicked myself even harder for not checking out the car better. I could have had a license-plate number right now if I'd just gone snooping a little! Instead, I'd hidden in a bush with a girl named Tippy and a legless Barbie. I could've been peed on!

But okay. Now I knew what he was driving. At least I'd be able to be on the lookout for him.

I dove behind some bushes at the mall and checked up and down Broadway, then Cook Street. Was he after me? In his car? On foot? I hadn't even looked over my shoulder to see if he was chasing me—I'd just bolted.

Then I remembered how he'd been tracking Pepe's mom at the mall.

Slowly.

Methodically.

With his
nose
.

Was he out there sniffing me down? Was I leaving some funny muddy odor everywhere I went?

I checked the soles of my high-tops—they'd been washed squeaky clean. And I was relieved that the rain was starting to fall again. If there was a trail, it would be washed away.

Wouldn't it?

I didn't put up the umbrella. It would slow me down, and I had to get
home
. Grams was probably having a fit!

I charged up the street as fast as my legs would take me, snagging Mrs. Wedgewood's bag out of the bushes without even slowing down. And before I started up the fire escape, I checked around, this way and that, making triple sure Snake Eyes wasn't on my trail.

By the time I reached the fifth-floor landing, I was drenched. Your basic drowned, breathless rat, sneaking into a building. Though Mrs. Wedgewood seemed more concerned about what had taken me so long than how I looked.

I completely lucked out, too, because Grams was taking a bath and didn't even hear me come in. So I was home, I was safe, but boy! was I shaking. For one thing, I'd run harder than I'd ever run in my life, and that right there will make you shake. But I was also scared. Scared of Snake Eyes, scared for Tippy, scared to think what had happened to Pepe's mom. I was scared of everything, even Grams. I could just hear her: What had I been
thinking
? How many times did I have to do something like this before I
learned
? Did I want to get myself
killed
? What was she going to
do
with me?

And I knew she'd be right. Completely right. I'd been an
idiot
.

I stripped out of all my clothes, put my shoes by the heater, and hid everything else under the sink, thinking I'd slip them in the hamper when Grams was out of the bathroom. Then I pulled on my pajamas, and in my panic I decided I had to wash my hair to cover up the fact that it was drenched.

I checked around the kitchen sink. My choice was dish soap, dishwasher soap, or bar soap. I chose the dish soap.

I didn't even use that much, but when I was done, my hair felt like straw. But as I wrapped it up in an old cotton dish towel, I wasn't worrying about my hair, I was worrying about what I should
do
. I wanted to talk to Officer Borsch
bad
, but he was off duty.

I told myself that at least Lena was still alive. Or she had been a few hours before, when she'd tried to call home. And Tippy seemed to have everything under control—for tonight, anyway. And if Snake Eyes had Lena,
then why was he stopping by her parents'? Maybe he
didn't
have Lena. Maybe he was still looking for her!

My brain wouldn't stop echoing with questions. But in the end, I decided that what I'd do was write everything down for Officer Borsch, seal it up, and leave it for him in the morning on my way to school.

School! Oh, no! I looked at the stack of books on the kitchen table. How was I ever going to do all of last night's
and
all of tonight's homework? I slid into a kitchen chair and started organizing my assignments. I was going to be up all night!

Just then Grams comes out of the bathroom. “Samantha!” she says. “Why didn't you tell me you were home? I was in there worrying about you!”

“Oh, sorry,” I tell her.

“You washed up in the sink?”

“Mm-hm.”

“How did it go? Did Mrs. Wedgewood reimburse you?”

“She's got the receipt. Says she will tomorrow.”

Grams says, “Hrumph!” and then I remember the change, crammed in my jeans pocket under the sink. “There was some change—I'll…uh… I'll get it to you as soon as I'm done with this.”

“You think I don't trust you?” she says with a smile, then goes off to read on the couch.

Well let me tell you, that shot a pang of guilt straight through me. But at that point I couldn't get sidetracked with confessions—I had to get busy on my homework!

I had trouble concentrating, though. Tippy and Snake
Eyes kept running through my brain, and I couldn't help feeling like I'd done things wrong.
All
wrong. Like nobody who needed help was actually
getting
any help.

I also had trouble concentrating because I was sort of overwhelmed by all my homework. It had only been two days, but I was so behind! And I started thinking about Pepe's mom and how she'd probably never factor another polynomial or study the structure and function of cells or the thees and thous of Shakespeare. How could you keep up when you had diapers to change and spit-up to clean and formula to mix
every
day? After one day and night with Pepe, I was already miles behind.

I got back to work, making myself concentrate. And when Grams finally headed off to bed, she asked me, “Still not done?”

“A lot to make up from yesterday.” I looked up at her and asked, “Grams?”

“Yes, dear?”

Then I blurted out something that had been haunting the back of my mind. “Did … did Mom drop out of high school?”

“Drop out?”

“Because of… you know… me.”

She studied me a minute, then said, “No. You came the following year.”

“But … so did she drop out of college?”

Grams hesitated, then nodded. “But you need to ask your mother these questions.”

“But she won't talk to me!”
She kissed me on the forehead. “Give her time. She will.” And with that she headed off to bed.

I woke up the next morning with my head and arms sprawled across the table and drool all over Officer Borsch's letter. “Samantha!” Grams cried. “Oh, lord! We both overslept. Come on, come on!” she said, gathering my papers. “You'll be late to school!”

My hair was still wrapped in the towel. Sort of. And while my grams deluded herself into thinking she could whip me up some oatmeal, I tried raking a brush through the outrageous tangle on my head. Finally I gave up and hosed it down in the sink to start over. But it was still like straw, and really, I didn't have time to fix it. I just pulled it back into a scrunchie, threw on some clothes, whipped together a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, grabbed an envelope, and flew out the door.

Some mornings oatmeal is just not in the cards.

And I didn't have
time
to go by the police station, but I did anyway. Just flew in the door, picked up the courtesy phone, told them about the envelope I'd slid under the door, and hightailed it over to William Rose Junior High.

My legs were like jelly by the time I got to school. And normally, I would've just served my lunchtime detention for being tardy, but after Ms. Rothhammer's phone call, I was paranoid about doing
any
thing that might make me lose my spot on the team.

But as I raced up the steps to the school, I realized that
something was wrong. Half the school was still out front, huddled around the lawn, and Vice Principal Caan was talking to them through a megaphone. “All students should be heading to class at this time. The tardy bell will be ringing in two minutes, so if you don't want to have lunch with me, get to your classes!”

Could I make myself go directly to class? No way. I raced over to the lawn to see what everyone else had already seen: PB RULZ branded in four-foot letters across our lawn.

Mr. Caan came over to shoo me and a group I was standing near to class. “Go on, guys. This is really not worth spending lunch with me.”

I followed Mr. Caan as he made for the administration building. “How'd they
do
that?”

“Gasoline,” he says, then stops short. “Don't you get any funny ideas, Sammy. This sort of thing will not be tolerated, whether it's done by Paul Bruster students or ours.”