Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (21 page)

The chairs on Hudson's porch didn't push together to make a very comfortable bed, and the afghan wasn't exactly a down comforter, but I fell asleep anyway. Well, sort of. It was one of those sleeps where it feels like you never quite go out all the way, but you're not awake, either. Where you could easily believe that the fog is a blanket, and the breeze is a current of words whispering in your ear.

“Samantha Jo
…
I thought I could trust you
…
trust you, trust you, trust you …”

“It's not always painless to do the right thing
…
do the right thing
…
do the right thing
…
”

“It's the fact that you're hiding things from me at all
…
hiding things
…
hiding things
…
hiding things
…
”

And suddenly Officer Borsch was there, too; I could hear him. But it wasn't words coming out of him. No, it was more just a long, low hum. The kind of sound you make when you plug your ears and try to stop someone's voice from coming into your brain.

And then Mr. Caan appeared, doing a plug-and-hum. And then Marissa. And Dot. And Ms. Rothhammer, too. All with their fingers in their ears, humming! Then all of a sudden Grams wasn't talking anymore, either.
Now she had her fingers in her ears and was humming louder than anybody!

I woke up with my heart pounding and Hudson, real live Hudson, standing over me, saying, “Sammy! Child, you must be freezing! Come in, come in!”

I dragged in behind him, shivering. The clock in the kitchen said it was five forty-five, but it felt like two in the morning to me.

Hudson clanked around, pulling down a mug, filling it with milk, and slapping it in the microwave. “What on earth happened, Samantha? And why didn't you wake me?”

“It was way after midnight.” “Does Rita know you're here?”

I nodded. “It's in a letter I left her.” “A letter? But why? What happened?”

So I told him. And when I was all through, I said, “I just couldn't stand being there anymore, knowing she was in the other room hating me.”

He put a few drops of vanilla in the milk and added a couple spoonfuls of sugar. “She does not hate you, Sammy. She was just distraught.” He handed the mug to me, saying, “This'll warm you right up.”

“Hudson,” I said, but then stopped.

“What is it, Sammy?”

My chin wouldn't stop quivering, but I managed to say, “I … I'm really glad I know you.”

He sat down beside me. “Your grandmother loves you dearly. That's what this is all about! You must tell her the things you told me yesterday.”

“I tried to, but she wouldn't listen. So I wrote her a big
letter and put it under her bedroom door.” I shook my head and sighed, “She's going to be mad at me all over again.”

“But at least it'll be honest anger. That's the kind that blows over.”

I nodded. “I still feel like I've let her down. Again.”

“We all make mistakes, Sammy. The key is learning from them.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “Do you want me to call her?”

I shook my head. “Can I go lie down, Hudson? My head hurts.”

“Sure. Let me get you set up in the study.”

I crashed the minute my head hit the pillow. And two seconds later the phone woke me up and the clock said it was 9:30.

Grams! I thought, my heart jumping like a puppy. She wants to talk to me!

The call
was
for me, but it wasn't Grams. It was Marissa. “Did Grams tell you where I was?”

“Yeah, and guess what? My mom says I can go.”

“Go?” My mouth felt like I'd been chomping sawdust. “Go where?”

“To the tournament!”

“The
tournament
? Why do you want to go there?” “Don't you want to see them lose?” “No! I just want them to leave me alone.” “Sammy! What if something happens and they let us play?”

“Don't you think we would've heard by now? Besides,” I grumbled, “I don't even think I'd want to play.”

“Sure you would. Now come on. I'm getting ready to leave the house. Dot's going to go. So's Holly.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I'll pick you up in about ten minutes, okay?”

“I can't believe you really want to go.”

“I'm bringing my cleats and glove, just in case.” “You're deluded.” “Do you have yours?”

Unfortunately, my mitt was still in my backpack. That's where I kept it. “Seriously, Marissa. You're deluded.”

“Bring them! Just in case.” Then she said, “See you in ten,” and hung up.

Hudson handed me a plate of scrambled eggs and steaming tortillas, saying, “I think you should go. Show them you have nothing to feel remorseful over.” He sat down at the kitchen table and started rolling up an eggorito. “A guilty person would avoid the event. You, on the other hand, should go there with your head held high.”

I rolled my own, saying, “Marissa's hoping that by some miracle she'll get to play.”

“Stranger things have happened. But I think you should go regardless.”

I scarfed down some eggorito, thinking. Finally, I said, “I was hoping that was Grams calling. I really want to stay here until she does.”

“If she calls, I'll handle it. Besides, I was thinking of paying her a visit this morning.”

“You're going over to the apartment?”

“Why not?”

“Well… you've never been. It's going to make her pretty nervous, I think.”

“Hmm. Maybe I'll invite her to meet me someplace, then. Either way, I'll handle your grandmother. You go with Marissa to the tournament.”

We finished breakfast, and then all of a sudden there's Marissa, banging on the door. She comes in all out of breath, saying, “Come on, let's go! It's already started, can you hear?”

With the door open, I could. It was like an ocean of sound, rising and falling, crashing and rolling—the roar of Santa Martina softball off in the distance.

“Oh, man!” Marissa cried, stomping her foot. And at that moment I knew I had to go. I had to go for Marissa.

“I'm sorry,” I told her.

“It's not your fault,” she said, but there were tears welling in her eyes. And when she added, “I mean it, it's not,” well, suddenly there were tears stinging mine, too.

Marissa McKenze is my idea of a real friend.

“Thanks,” I told her. “C'mon, let's go.”

I must've been feeling really warm and fuzzy about Marissa because I actually agreed to take a ride on her handlebars. I knew I was risking life and limb, but she was dying to get to the high school and there was no way I could run as fast as she could ride—especially not saddled with a backpack.

She pedaled hard and fast, too, and for once she didn't catapult me or skid me across asphalt. Don't get me wrong—my nerves were shot by the time we got there, but other than that, I was completely intact.

“Oh, look!” she cried, pointing to the lower field. “Bruster's got runners on second and third!” She pumped her arm. “Yes!”

It was a perfect day for softball, too. The sun was hot, the fields were dry, and the place was packed with people. I'm talking the bleachers and every inch of grass where you were allowed to sit. Covered. People had huge ice chests and lawn chairs, blankets and beach umbrellas. Some people were already drinking beer and scarfing hot dogs. It was take-me-out-to-the-ballgame, Santa Martina style.

I weaved in and out of the crowd behind Marissa, saying, “I don't get it, Marissa. If you're hoping to play, why are you wanting us to lose?”

“It's not us' unless we play, get it?”

“Well, if we're losing —”

“Then maybe they'll sub us in! Do you think they're going to do that if we're winning?”

I muttered, “I don't think they're going to do it at all.”

“Well, then we deserve to lose,” she said with a huff. “We deserve to go down in flames! What a sorry excuse for a school we go to, anyway.”

“Ribbit-ribbit.”

She busted up. “Our school is the lamest.” “Unless we're playing,” I laughed. “Yeah. And then we're the best!”

She put her hand up, so I slapped it and followed behind her, saying, “We're not really Bullfrogs like the rest of them, you know. We're just caught in an evil spell.”

“Ooo,” she called over her shoulder. “Waiting for love's first kiss?”

“No! Don't be stupid. The spell breaks itself automatically after two years.”

“And then what? You turn into a Saint?” She eyes me over her shoulder.
“You?”

It was true. In a year and a half we'd be attending Santa Martina High School—home of the Saints. I shook my head and said, “You're right. I make a better bullfrog.”

“Ribbit-ribbit.”

The lower field didn't have much in the way of bleachers, but what there was, was packed. I scoured the Bullfrog side for Dot and Holly, but Marissa spotted them first. “Over there!” she cried. “And Ms. Rothhammer's with them! See her? She's wearing dark glasses and a Yankees hat.”

We wedged in around them as Ms. Rothhammer filled us in on the game. “Top of the third, no outs, full count, Bruster's winning three to nothing.”

Marissa sat beside her, whispering, “Do you think they'll sub us in?”

“Because we're losing?” She pulls her sunglasses down her nose and gives Marissa a pitiful look. “Oh, McKenze, you've got a lot to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “He'd rather die than give in now.”

“Who? Mr. Vince?”

“
Coach
Vince.”

Marissa says, “Right,” because that's the way Mr. Vince is—always making you call him Coach or Coach Vince. It's a major ego thing with him.

Anyway, we settle in and watch the game. Emiko Lee's on the mound working a toehold before she delivers the batter's last pitch. Babs is behind the plate, and I know what she's busy doing because she's done it to me a hundred times—she's harassing the batter into swinging when she shouldn't.

Heather's out at shortstop, looking completely intense, and Gisa Kranz is at third, where Dot ought to be.

We all hold our breath as Emiko winds up and delivers the pitch. It slams into Babs' hand, a puff of dust rising from her glove. The ump calls, “Striiike three!” and yanks his thumb in the air.

The batter goes down and everyone around us cheers, but Marissa looks at me and mutters, “Rats.”

“She's a good pitcher,” Ms. Rothhammer tells her. “And
she's
not your problem.”

“I know,” Marissa says. “I actually like her.”

The next batter looked way more like a bullfrog than a rooster. She was short and at least two hundred pounds, with a huge double chin. She started out saying something back to Babs, and just when I thought the pitch was going to buzz past her, she cracked it wide open, sending it by Cindy in right field. Cindy caught up to it and hurled it in, but the toady rooster managed to hop-a-doodle all the way to third, driving in the other two runners.

Shooting ahead to a 5–0 lead, the Roosters went wild, crowing and flapping like you've never seen. And Marissa had the hardest time not cheering, too. Things were not looking good for the Unenchanted.

Mr. Vince was up to his usual gross ways, spitting and yelling and spraying his verbal sewage everywhere—at the umps, at the team, at the Roosters' coach—everywhere.

I saw Ms. Rothhammer catch Mr. Caan's eye, and let me tell you, he looked pretty miserable. Ms. Rothhammer didn't let him off the hook, though. She just shook her head and basically gave him a visual tisk. Like, You poor fool.

Later, during the fifth inning, I was in the middle of choking down part of my peanut butter sandwich when Marissa grabbed my arm and pointed across the diamond. “Look!” she said. “Is that Casey?”

It was him all right, wearing a ball cap and carrying a black sports bag over his shoulder. “Knock it off, Marissa,” I tell her. “Watch the game.”

And that's exactly what I get back to doing. There are two outs, Kris Zilli's made it to first, and Mr. Vince is spraying her with instructions from the coach's box.

But then all of a sudden, Casey's over there, trying to get Mr. Vince's attention. Mr. Vince waves him off, but Casey's not backing away—instead, he moves in closer.

This time Casey gets the full spray of Mr. Vince's fountain of foulness, which does make him back off a few steps, but the minute Babs Filarski strikes out, he moves back in, talking a hundred miles an hour as he follows Mr. Vince back to the dugout.

Heather comes flying out of the dugout, and two seconds into a huddle with her brother and Mr. Vince, she attacks Casey. Just
pounds
on him with both fists.

“Hopping herring!” Dot says. “Will you look at that!”

“Yeah,” Holly says to me. “I've only ever seen her that mad at
you
.”

Mr. Vince pulls Heather off of Casey and points at her like, Stay! Then he puts his arm around Casey's shoulders and nods and talks to him like they're the best of chums as he takes the sports bag from him and heads over to the dugout. And Heather's trying hard to get in on the conversation, but basically, Mr. Vince just holds her back.

The four of us and Ms. Rothhammer had craned around the Bullfrog fans to see as much as we could, but when Heather and Mr. Vince disappear into the dugout and Casey takes off through the crowd, Ms. Rothhammer sits back down and mutters, “I wonder what the devil that was about.”

“You want to go snoop?” Holly asks me. “We could hang behind the dugout. Maybe we'll hear something.”

I look at Marissa and Dot, and then at Ms. Rothhammer. Ms. Rothhammer shrugs and says, “Don't see what it could hurt. Just the two of you, though.” Then she asks, “Did you bring a cap?”

“No.”

She takes off her Yankees cap and hands it to me. “Here. Wear this. And Holly, pull yours down.”

I grin at her. “Yes, ma'am,” and tuck my hair up in her cap.

“Even better,” she says, then hands over her sunglasses.

“Cool!”

Marissa kind of eyes her and says, “You scare me sometimes, Coach.”

Ms. Rothhammer smiles at her. “Me? I'm harmless.”

We reached the dugout in time to watch the team pile out. Through the chain-link, we could see Mr. Vince pull Heather aside so she was the last one to leave. He still had the sports bag and sort of shook it at her. And even though we couldn't make out what he was saying, it was obvious he was talking about something more intense than fielding grounders. Finally, he let her go. And when she was gone, he looked around, over both shoulders.