Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (22 page)

For a second there, I thought he'd seen me. We ducked out of view, and when I finally dared to look again, well, Mr. Vince was on his way out of the dugout, and the sports bag was nowhere to be seen.

“Darn! Where'd he put it?”

Holly whispers, “Maybe he stuffed it in one of the bat bags.”

“Only one way to find out,” I said. “But Mr. Vince is right there!”

We could see him pacing back and forth in front of the dugout.

“As soon as he leaves, I'll go in the back way—through the warm-up cage.”

“It connects?”

“Jogs around.”

But Mr. Vince stayed right there in front of the dugout, pacing back and forth the whole time. And since Emiko pitched a dynamite inning, striking out three Roosters in a row, the team was charging the dugout before I had the chance to do a thing.

Babs flips her mask up and starts to come in with everyone else, but at the last minute she turns and calls, “I'm
gonna take a potty break, Coach!” and shuffles off in all her gear.

So Holly and I hang back and watch the game the best we can. Heather's at bat first and winds up making a good, solid hit, which is bad enough. But then she manages to stretch it into a double. I would have held at first, but Heather charges second and dives for the bag. It was, you know, a real crowd-pleaser.

Boy, did it tick me off.

Then Emiko gets on first, and next in line is Becky Bork. Or Becky-bot, as we've started calling her. When she's up to bat, she's stiff like a robot, and either she'll just stand frozen while strikes fly across the plate, or once in a blue moon she'll send the ball sailing out of the park. There's no in between with her.

Well, somewhere in the sky the moon was blue, because on the third pitch, there went the ball—out of the park.

“Man,” Holly grumbled as Bullfrogs everywhere hopped up and down, slapping five all around.
“Man.”

After that, you could feel the momentum build. You could feel the roar of the crowd begin to power right through you. And by the end of the inning, our side was back in the game. I couldn't believe it. They'd scored four runs in one inning and were feeding on the unstoppable power that only a comeback can give you. And as they piled out of the dugout to start the last inning, I could feel it.

They were going to win.

I had nothing left to lose. Heather and her cronies would be heroes; Marissa and I would be branded losers for the eternity of junior high.

Maybe beyond.

And I didn't know what was in that sports bag, but I did know that Heather was in some kind of hot water with Mr. Vince about it.

And it had come from Casey.

Casey.

I had to find out what was in it. So the minute the team was out of the dugout, I looked at Holly and said, “I'm going in.”

She hung back, and in I went, through the pitching cage and around the barrier like a hamster to pellets. Trouble is, I'd barely gotten inside when the home-plate ump calls, “Coach, where's your catcher?”

All of a sudden there's Mr. Vince, looking in the dugout, right at me.

Well, forget it. I was going to find that sports bag if it killed me. I started scrambling through the gear like crazy, but in a flash it was all over. Mr. Vince's hand clamped around my arm, and the next thing you know
he's yanking on me, growling, “Where's Babs?” like he's going to kill me.

“How should I know?”

Then all of a sudden the ump calls, “Well, hey, we got her mask—where's the rest of her?”

Mr. Vince drags me out of the dugout by the arm. “Let me see that,” he says, hauling me over to home plate.

The ump gives it to him, saying, “Someone said they found it by the bathrooms. Says Bullfrogs right here.”

Over my shoulder I can see Heather having a fit out at shortstop because she recognizes me. And pretty soon the other players start saying stuff like “Hey, is that Sammy?” and “Where's Babs?” and “What's going on?”

Mr. Vince checks out the mask, and I tell the ump, “That's ours, all right.”

“Who are you?” he asks, kind of looking at the way Mr. Vince is playing tourniquet with my arm.

“The real catcher,” I tell him.

The ump gets this puzzled look on his face, and Mr. Vince yanks me away from him, yelling, “Filarski! Filarski, you get your butt over here right now!” into the air.

I eye the ump and call, “A fine role model, isn't he?”

Mr. Vince gets back in my face, shaking my arm. “You shut up, you hear me?” Then he calls again, “Filarski, get over here! Now!”

Well, Babs doesn't show, but Ms. Rothhammer does. So does Mr. Caan. And the principal. Ms. Rothhammer goes right up to Mr. Vince and says, “You unhand her. Now!”

Mr. Caan whispers, “You trying to get us sued, Coach?

Calm down and tell me what is going on.”

The ump calls, “We haven't got all day, people. If she's the catcher, suit her up and let's get a move on!”

“Where's Babs?” Mr. Caan asks Mr. Vince.

“I have no idea.”

“Then let's play Sammy.”

“That's right,” says the principal. “Just play Sammy.”

What can Mr. Vince do? His boss is telling him to play me. His boss's
boss
is telling him to play me. His team can't exactly play without a catcher….

And that's when it hits me. There's no way I'm going to play. No way.

By now everyone from the team has moved in, and I can see Dot and Marissa charging across the diamond. And I know Marissa's going to kill me, but getting put in like this is not what I wanted.

I try to sound calm, but I can't keep my voice from shaking. “Mr. Caan, if it was against the rules for me to play before, then it's against the rules for me to play now.”

“What?”
Mr. Vince says to me. Like now all of a sudden he
wants
me to play.

“What's going on?” all the kids on the team are asking as they crowd in. “What happened to Babs? Is Sammy playing?”

I clear my throat and try to firm up my voice. “I said, if it was against the rules for me to play before, then it's still against the rules for me to play.”

“She's right,” Ms. Rothhammer says. “Unless you're willing to admit she should have been playing all along.”

Well, let me tell you, Mr. Caan and the principal are
looking about as comfortable as skewered squirrels. They exchange looks, and finally Mr. Caan says, “I'm willing to admit that there was an element of doubt….”

I stretch out a little taller and say, “Then why didn't you give us the benefit of that doubt? Like Ms. Rothhammer asked you to?”

Now really, I couldn't believe I'd just said that to the vice principal in front of the
principal
, but I guess there's something about being right that makes you sort of gutsy.

“Okaaay…,” Mr. Caan says, “maybe I didn't make the best call. But at this point we'd like you to fill in for Babs.”

“You'd like me to take my rightful spot at catcher, you mean. And if I can catch, then Marissa can pitch, right? And of course Dot belongs on third,
and
,” I say, looking right at Mr. Vince, “you'll let Ms. Rothhammer coach, not him.”

All of a sudden there's chaos. Mr. Vince is blowing a nasty gasket, Gisa's going, “I vill not give up my spot! I play the whole game!” Emiko's saying, “Wait a minute …,” and everyone else is talking a hundred miles an hour while the adults and umps all start to argue. And then people on the Bruster side start chanting, “Bullfrogs croak! Bullfrogs croak!” and our side retaliates with, “Bash those birdbrains, bash 'em!”
Clap-clap
. “Bash those birdbrains, bash 'em!” In no time things got nasty.

Then Holly comes charging out of the dugout with the sports bag. And from the look on her face, I can tell there's something really important in it, but before she
reaches us, out of
nowhere
, Babs Filarski tackles me. I'm talking my hat and glasses go flying, I hit three people on my way down, and all of a sudden I'm lying in the dirt, on my back, with the wind knocked out of me.

Babs gets up. Her gear's all crooked and her face is so red it looks like it's been dipped in a bucket of blood. She comes flying through the air at me
again
, screaming, “You little
sneak
!”

I didn't have time to catch my breath or scramble to the side. Instead, I threw my legs up and pushed, flipping her up and over me so that she was on her back, too, head to head with me.

We both rolled over and got up, facing each other. And right off, Mr. Caan pulls her away from me. But Babs is big, and Babs is strong, and it was like trying to hold back an angry alligator. “You had me
kidnapped
,” she cries. “I had to
run
all the way back here from the mall!”

“The mall? Like I'd have you kidnapped to the
mall
?”

“Calm down, Babs!” Mr. Caan says. “I don't think Samantha had you kidnapped.”

“Oh yeah? Then why'd they keep saying her name?” “Babs,” I tell her. “I did not have you kidnapped!” “Oh, shut up. You'd do anything to play!”

Then Heather chimes in with, “Yeah, and isn't kidnapping a federal offense or something?”

Babs says, “It
should
be a federal offense. That guy was scary, man! I thought he was going to kill me!”

“What guy?” I ask her, and in the back of my brain I can feel an icicle forming.

“The guy who kidnapped me, you moron!”

“Girls, girls!” Mr. Caan cries.

“What did he
look
like?” I ask her. “Like you don't know!” She turns to Mr. Caan. “There were these girls with him and they pinned me facedown on the floor of his car until —”

“Babs! Did he have a snake tattoo on his arm? Black hair, slicked forward. Hatred for eyes, steel for a mouth?”

“See!” she cries. “She does know him!”

Heather snorts, “ ‘Hatred for eyes’? ‘Steel for a mouth’?” and everyone sort of snickers.

“He did!” Babs cries. “Majorly! And it proves she knows him!”

“He was after
me
, Babs. He knows I play catcher.”

She's about to yell at me some more, but stops herself. “What?”

“I was supposed to be playing catcher? He got you by mistake.”

“But —”

“What did they say to you?” “They were mostly talking in Spanish, but they said your name, all right? And something about someone dying. I thought you were having me killed!”

“Babs …!”

“Then when we got to the mall, they let me up and kicked me out. Way in the back corner of the parking garage.”

“What did the car look like? Was it a —”

“It was a blue low-rider with a big gold chariot thing on the hood.”

“A chariot?”

“Yeah, like a gladiator or something.”

The ump says to Mr. Vince, “Look, I don't know what this is all about, but obviously she's fine. And I'm gonna call this thing for Bruster if you don't get her in position.
Now
.”

“One minute more,” Ms. Rothhammer says, and that's when I notice Holly's beside her and the sports bag is wide open. Ms. Rothhammer pulls out a brown wig, a number-nine jersey, and some high-tops. “Heather,” she says, “I'm going to push for an expulsion.”

“They're not mine!” she screams. “My brother's trying to frame me 'cause he's all in love with that …that…
kidnapper
.”

I tell her, “You're sick, Heather,” and then the ump cuts us short with, “I'm giving you thirty seconds!”

Mr. Caan says, “Wait a minute. Where'd those things come from?”

“Why don't you ask Mr. Vince?” Ms. Rothhammer says. “He's had them since the top of the fifth.”

Mr. Vince starts babbling about not understanding what was going on and how he told Casey to find me so we could clear things up, only all of a sudden I'm not hearing his lame excuses anymore. I'm not hearing the crowd jeering or the team whispering. It all just sounds like words in a giant blender whirring off in the distance. And the reason I'm not hearing anything is because all of a sudden I'm
seeing
something. Something out on Morrison Street.

It's sleek.

Midnight blue.

With wheels like the chamber of a gun.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Caan calls as I take off running.

“Let Babs play,” I yell back.

“But I thought this was important to you!”

“It's a
game
, Mr. Caan!” I call over my shoulder.

I was way more worried about a matter of life and death.