Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (19 page)

“I have no idea.” I slap the roller onto the wall and push the paint out hard and fast. “What ticks me off most of all is that nobody ever believes me!”

Marissa paints over her initials and says real matter-offactly, “That's because you lie about everything, Sammy.”

I stop painting. “I don't lie about everything!”

“Sure you do.”

“Marissa! I'm a really
honest
person!”

“I know. But you still lie about things. A lot.”

“I tell the truth whenever I can.” “I'm not saying it's your fault, I'm just saying you do. Which is why people don't believe you.”

“Well, why didn't they believe
you
?”

She looks my way and says, “Because I'm your best friend.”

I start rolling really really fast. “You think I'm a jinx, don't you?”

“A
jinx
?” She thinks about this a minute, then says, “No, but I do get in a lot more trouble being your friend than I would
not
being your friend.”

“Are you saying…are you saying you don't want to be my friend?”

She laughs. “ 'Course not! I just wish you hadn't told Officer Borsch that we live together. It makes
me
have to lie.”

“I know,” I tell her. “And I'm sorry.”

“Well, it wouldn't be a problem if you would just stay out of trouble.”

“But I
try
to stay out of trouble.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Marissa!” “Okay… let's take this whole Snake Eyes thing. If you hadn't gone snooping that night, you wouldn't have seen him outside that shack, and he probably wouldn't be trying to track you down, and —”

“But Marissa, Pepe's mother is missing. Don't you feel any kind of responsibility about that?”

“Me? No! Why would I? I didn't tell her to ditch her baby.”

“But Marissa, I think she's in
trouble
. And Pepe's going to grow up without his mother!”

“Have you thought that maybe that's a good thing if she's a murderer?”

“But I don't think she is.”

“Sammy, you don't even know her!” “There's just something wrong with the whole story.” “Whatever.” She quits midstroke and looks my way. “Look, I just want to get this done and get back to school, okay? The tournament's tomorrow and there's no way I'm going to miss practice.”

So we put our shoulders into it. And as I pushed and shoved the roller back and forth, sweating over repainting Bruster's wall, I could see why people got really mad about this kind of thing. Maybe it took only minutes to tag, maybe it seemed like an innocent little prank, but it was going to take us hours to fix it.

We finished a little before noon. Ol' Grouchy Gulch took us back to school and delivered us to the office without a
word. We were told to wait in the admin-building foyer while she was let into Mr. Caan's office. And after she left, we
still
had to wait. “He'll be done with his meeting in just a few minutes,” Mrs. Tweeter said. “Just sit tight.”

“Can we please go get our lunches?” I asked. “We're starving!”

“I'm sorry, dear. He shouldn't be much longer.” She went back to some papers she was sorting through.

“Mrs. Tweeter?”

“Yes, dear?” She looked at me over her reading glasses.

“We didn't do it.”

She whispered, “Now, now,” then glanced over her shoulder before leaning across the counter. “We used to T.P. our rival's campus. Try that next time. It's much less offensive, if you ask me.”

I wanted to say,
What?
because I couldn't quite believe my ears, only just then Mr. Caan stepped out of his office, followed by Dr. Morlock, the
principal
—whom I've seen like three times the entire year. And then behind them came Ms. Rothhammer and Mr. Vince.

Mr. Vince?

My blood stopped moving the minute I saw him. Something had just gone down. Something big. And from the looks on their faces, I could see that no one was too happy about it.

No one, that is, except Mr. Vince.

It's not that Mr. Vince was grinning from ear to ear or anything. He more looked like Sylvester with Tweety trapped in his mouth.

Marissa spins my way and whispers, “Oh, no!” because we can both tell—we're off the team. And while Dr. Morlock, Ms. Rothhammer, and Mr. Vince file away from the door, Mr. Caan says, “Sammy, Marissa, in my office please.”

As we pass by Ms. Rothhammer, we look at her like, Please,
please
help us.

At first she just shakes her head like she can't. But then she stops, looks over her shoulder at Mr. Caan, and follows us right back into his office.

Mr. Vince tries to come in, too, but Mr. Caan tells him quietly that he thinks it would be best if he stayed out. He starts to argue, but Mr. Caan closes the door on him. Right in his face.

Mr. Caan tucks himself into the roll-around chair behind his desk and tells us to have a seat in the chairs facing him. Ms. Rothhammer doesn't bother sitting. She stands against a bookcase with her arms folded and says, “I'm very disappointed in the two of you.”

Marissa bursts into tears while I jump up, saying, “But Coach, we didn't
do
it!”

Mr. Caan shakes his head and sighs. “Well, we didn't!” I tell him.

Ms. Rothhammer has still got her arms crossed. “There's a lot of evidence against you, Sammy.”

“And you know who put it there, don't you?”

Mr. Caan's still shaking his head. “Sammy, please.”

“I'm serious! I told you, I'm all green because Heather splatted me with paint yesterday. She set this whole thing up!”

Ms. Rothhammer says, “Sammy? What I saw yesterday was the two of you working nicely together. At least
she
was trying to work nicely with
you
.”

“Yeah! And the minute you had your back turned that faker squished my hand full of paint and got it all over my shoe.”

“So why didn't you do something about it? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't
do
something about it because I was trying to have some self-control for once! I thought she was trying to get me to splat her back so I'd get suspended and not be able to play in the tournament, that's why! And I didn't tell you because all I need is to have her add Tattle-tale to the monster list of names she already calls me!”

Ms. Rothhammer looks at Marissa, sobbing in her chair. “Marissa?”

“It's true, Coach.” Marissa flings tears off her cheeks. “Ask Dot!”

“What about the cans of spray paint in your trash?”

“She must've put them there!”

“That's pretty extreme, don't you think?” “No!” I tell her. “Obviously you don't know Heather like we do!”

“But your names are on the wall, and people
saw
you.”

“Do you really think we're dumb enough to sign our names? And wear our jerseys?”

“But,” she says very quietly, “neither of you has an alibi.”

I plop back into my chair and mutter, “Don't we know.”

“Which puts you in a very bad predicament.” She looks from me to Marissa and back again. “Where were you? Isn't there anybody who can vouch for you?”

We're both just quiet, staring at the floor, so Ms. Roth-hammer says to Mr. Caan, “Could we have a minute?”

Mr. Caan hesitates, then gets up and leaves the office. When he's gone, Ms. Rothhammer drops her arms and says, “Girls, I want to believe you, but you're not giving me much to work with.”

Marissa sits up a little and says, “Coach, there's some personal stuff that we can't discuss. You understand that, right?”

Ms. Rothhammer chews the inside of her cheek a minute, then says, “Sure.”

“But just because we can't tell you everything, and just because we don't have alibis, that doesn't mean we did it.” She leans toward Ms. Rothhammer and squints, saying, “I would never write some of the stuff that was on that wall. Never!”

Ms. Rothhammer sighs. “Which, by the way, turns out to be the sticking point. According to the handbook, that sort of language is suspendable.”

“Let me guess,” I grumble. “Mr. Vince pointed that out.”

Ms. Rothhammer didn't comment, but it was written all over her frown.

“So now what?” Marissa asks. “Are we really not going to be allowed to play tomorrow?”

“Why don't the two of you wait outside. I'll discuss it with Mr. Caan, okay?”

We both give her a real grateful, “Okay,” and swap places with Mr. Caan. And while we're waiting, I whisper, “Look, Officer Borsch isn't here anymore, so why don't you just tell them the truth about you? No sense in us both getting kicked off the team.”

“But Sammy, I don't
have
an alibi!”

“Maybe somebody who works at the arcade could —” “Are you kidding? We all look alike to them.”

“But you go in there so much…. It's worth a try, isn't it?”

She sighs and says, “Maybe,” then adds, “But I don't want to play without you. How am I supposed to play with Babs catching? I hate Babs!”

So we're just sitting there, racking our brains about what to do, when Mr. Caan's door flings open and Ms. Rothhammer comes steaming out with our illustrious vice principal chasing behind her. “Sarah, please. You're being unreasonable —”

“No, Joseph!” she snaps. “
You
are! Have you heard of
innocent until proven guilty? Have you heard of reasonable doubt?”

“They don't have a collective leg to stand on!”

“It wouldn't be the first time Heather's pulled a prank like this. Have you even questioned her?”

“Okay! I'll do that.” He drops his voice. “But please, Sarah. Don't blow this out of proportion. There's no need for you to resign.”

Resign? Marissa and I look at each other, eyes bulging like
real
bullfrogs.

She points at us, sitting there with our jaws dangling. “Reinstate them and I won't.”

“I can't just —”

“Then don't expect me to coach. I will not be a party to this.” She spins on her heel, then turns back and looks Mr. Caan square in the eye. “I believe them, Joseph. And I think it's unconscionable that you're not giving them some benefit of doubt. Especially in light of who's propelling this.”

His head bobs; then he looks down and says, “I'll call Heather in. Right now.”

Heather, it turns out, had an alibi. Her mother. In no time Mrs. Acosta comes cracking through the office like a bolt of angry lightning, wearing spiky gold shoes, a highly ratted red flip, and a low-cut green minidress. She spits some nasty comments in my direction, pushes past Mrs. Tweeter, barges into Mr. Caan's office, and slams the door.

It's not long before we can see Mr. Caan's sweat vaporizing through the cracks around his door. And
when Heather and her mother finally emerged, we knew the score.

We'd been skunked by a couple of redheads.

The Acostas dispersed, but their vile fumes seemed to hang in the air. And then Mr. Caan decided to send us back to class, which was weird, if you ask me. I mean, if we're bad enough to kick off the team, we ought to be kicked out of school, too, right? But he made us finish off the day with some lame comment about not falling behind in our studies. Studies. Like either of us was going to be able to concentrate on anything after what we'd been through.

The news had spread through the school like a bad case of lice. Everyone was itching to pass along the gossip, and of course they all tried to look real inconspicuous as they pointed Marissa and me out. I finally took a Magic Marker, went into the bathroom, and wrote WE DIDN'T DO IT across the back of my shirt. It didn't do any good, but at least I could quit saying it every two seconds.

The minute Dot heard what had happened, she cornered Ms. Rothhammer and said, “Coach, I hope you don't mind, but I quit.”

I hope you don't mind. That is
so
Dot.

Anyway, then she adds, “If Sammy and Marissa can't play, I
won't
play.”

“Tell it to Mr. Vince,” Ms. Rothhammer grumbles. “He has, of course, agreed to take my place.”

Marissa says, “You're not really resigning, are you?”

“From the tournament? Yes.” She studies us. “Look at me and tell me you didn't do it.”

“We didn't do it, Coach.”

She holds our gazes for a minute, then nods. “Good enough.”

By the end of the day, rumor was that not only had Ms. Rothhammer been replaced by Mr. Vince, but Emiko Lee would be pitching, Gisa Kranz would be taking over for Dot on third, and Big-Mouth Filarski would be squatting behind home plate.

They'd gotten exactly what they wanted.

And maybe I should've told Ms. Rothhammer not to quit. Maybe I should've told Dot to stick it out. I mean, the Junior Sluggers' Cup is a big,
big
deal. But what had happened to Marissa and me was so
wrong
, and it seemed that the only people doing the right thing were Dot and Coach Rothhammer. I just felt lucky to have them on my side.

That doesn't mean I wasn't ticked off, let me tell you! And Marissa, boy, she was beyond ticked. She was falling apart. At the bike racks after school, she was going on and on about how she should never have gotten so mad at Mikey over toilet paper and how if only this or if only that when this voice behind me says, “You didn't do it, huh?”

My head whips around, and there's Casey, grinning at my shirt. I turn completely around and take a step back. “No, as a matter of fact, we didn't!”