Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (7 page)

He grins, a boyish, almost mischievous grin. Like he's remembering something from a long time ago. “You made the playoffs? Atta girl.” He clears his throat and says, “Okay, then. Let's call your, uh, folks, and let's call the school.”

Now, his words made me a little nervous. Especially that “uh.” But he was smiling at me almost
kindly
, so I tried not to worry about it. I just used the phone he led me to and called Grams.

She was real relieved to hear that I'd turned Pepe over to the police and wanted to know all about it. But since Officer Borsch was standing right there, I promised I'd fill her in on everything after I got home from practice, and got off the phone.

Then I let Officer Borsch call the school for me so they'd believe it right off instead of after half an hour of me trying to explain things.

And then I went into a back room and started looking through mug books for Snake Eyes. I'd find him, I told myself. His face was branded in my brain.

Hatred for eyes.

Steel for a mouth.

This would be easy.

Two hours later, my eyes were blurry and my brain felt like sawdust. I hadn't found him. Or her. And I was really concentrating, too. But practically every face I looked at had hatred for eyes and steel for a mouth. I guess having your mug shot taken doesn't exactly make you want to sit up straight and say cheese, but still—it was creepy.

Officer Borsch checked in every once in a while to see how I was doing, and finally he comes in, sits down, and watches me as he mixes chunky-looking creamer into his coffee. “Had enough?”

“I can't even tell anymore. It's like all of them are him. Or
none
of them are him.”

Officer Borsch nods and takes a gulp of coffee. “Well, you did your best. And you've been here a long time, so I think I'd better get you off to school.”

“Let me look just a little longer … please?”

He shrugs, “Suit yourself,” and leaves the room.

So for the next fifteen minutes I flip through pages as fast as I can. And I'm just starting to think that finding ol' Snake Eyes is like looking for a repeating pattern in pi when all of a sudden there he is. His hair's not gelled
forward, it's buzzed completely off. But from the chills running down my spine, I know it's him.

Definitely him.

I charge the door and call, “Officer Borsch! I found him!”

Officer Borsch hurries in, and looks at the face under my finger. “Raymond Ramirez,” he says. “I remember him. I thought he was doing time.” He looks at me and says, “Sit tight. I'll call up his rap sheet.”

When he finally comes back, I ask him, “Well?” and he sits down across from me, saying, “He's no Boy Scout. Quite a few drug-related infractions—finally put away for armed robbery about a year ago. He's been out for about three months.” He scowls. “Time off for good behavior and an appeal by his mother.”

“His
mother
?” Somehow I couldn't picture Snake Eyes with a mother. “How old is he?”

“He was just shy of eighteen when he held up Peg's….”

“Peg's?”

“A donut shop on the west end.”

“He held up a
donut
shop?”

“It doesn't matter what you hold up, you stick a gun in someone's face, you go to jail.”

“But a
donut
shop?”

He leans back a little, his face getting red around the edges. “Oh, I get it. You think donut shops are exempt because
cops
hang out there. You think all we do all day long is sit in cars and donut shops, eating sugar and drinking coffee.”

“Officer Borsch! I didn't mean anything
like
that! I meant, how much money can you possibly get holding up a
donut
shop? It seems like the stupidest place in the world to rob!”

“Oh,” he says, and I can see his blood pressure start to drop. “Sorry. I guess you'd say I'm a little sensitized to donut humor.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. That was a year ago.”

“So he's what—nineteen now?”

“That's right. And his parole officer says he's had no problem with him.”

“But that doesn't mean he doesn't know anything about Pepe's mom.”

“Right. I got the address from his parole officer, and after I drop you at school, I think I'll go have a little chat with the boy. And his mom.”

When we pulled up to my school, we were greeted by BRUSTER'S #1, sprayed in red paint across the front steps.

Officer Borsch shakes his head. “Crosstown rivalry at its worst.” He stops for a closer look, saying, “Might be able to steam it off—probably needs methanol, though.” He tisks. “Red's tough.”

Now, seeing this BRUSTER'S #1 stuff is sort of making

me mad. I mean, a) they're not number one, and b) this stuff on our steps looks ugly. And what right do they have doing something like that to our school, anyway?

Actually, it kind of surprised me how mad it made me. I kept looking back at it as we walked into the administration building. What a bunch of jerks!

Officer Borsch made sure I'd be excused for missing so
much of the school day, then took off, saying, “I'll let you know what I find out.”

The minute he's gone, the school's secretary, Mrs. Tweeter, whispers to me, “Are you sure everything's all right, dear? You haven't gotten yourself into trouble again, have you? You look like you've been dragged through a knothole.”

Now, the last time I'd had any kind of conversation with Mrs. Tweeter, I'd lied to her. Tricked her, actually. It had to do with catsup and blood and Heather Acosta. It also had to do with … well, with taking the school's P.A. system hostage. And sure, I served
twenty
hours of detention for what I did, but debt to society aside, I never expected Mrs. Tweeter to talk to me again, let alone be nice to me.

So I stood there blinking at her while she looked at me over the tops of her reading glasses.

“Dear?” she finally asks. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes. I'm … I'm fine. I just thought that you probably, you know,
hated
me.”

She laughs. A tinkly little laugh. Then she leans forward across the counter and says, “You may think I'm old, dear, but I remember the seventh grade.” She laughs again. “Do I ever!” She leans even farther forward and whispers, “The thorn in
my
side was named Paula, and to this day I wish I'd found a way to stand up to her.” She straightens a little and adds, “So no, my dear, I don't hate you. Just next time, try asking.”

Asking? Like she would have just turned over the P.A. system to me?

I was still blinking at her when the passing bell rang. She looks up at the clock and smiles. “Nice timing. That's the lunch bell.” I'm
still
standing there like an idiot, not knowing what to say, so she says, “Go
on
, dear. Go be young. And remember to steer clear of those nasty thorns!”

I laugh and say, “Thanks. And believe me, I will!” then hurry out to the lunch table where Holly, Marissa, Dot, and I always meet.

Holly's already there, digging through her sack lunch. “Hi!” I say as I sit down across from her.

She stops with her hand in her sack and says, “What are you doing here?”

“I just got here. I kinda got stuck with a baby all night and —”

“Well, you better get to the softball meeting.”

“What softball meeting?”

It's like she finally heard what I said. “A
baby
? What baby?”

“I'll tell you about it later. What softball meeting?” “They announced it this morning. All the Junior Slug-gers' Cup players are supposed to meet in the locker room at lunch.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea, but that's where Marissa and Dot are, so you'd better go.”

I grabbed my backpack and said, “Next year you're playing too, okay?”

She laughs, “Okay, okay!”

So I jet over to the locker room, where the team is
already straddling benches. Ms. Rothhammer looks up from her clipboard and says, “And there's Sammy, which makes everybody.”

I scoot in next to Marissa, who whispers, “Where have you
been
? God, look at you. You look like you slept in a Dumpster.”

“Sssh,” I tell her. “I'll explain later.”

Then Becky Bork says, “Hey, Dawn's not here yet.” Ms. Rothhammer nods. “Actually, she's the reason we're having this meeting.”

Cindy Salazar takes a bite out of her apple. “What do you mean?”

“Well…,” Ms. Rothhammer starts, but then she takes a deep breath and looks down at her clipboard.

Now, she's not looking at notes or anything else. It's more like she's looking at
it
because her eyes are too heavy to look at
us
. Everyone's quiet until Xandi Chapan says, “She's all right, isn't she?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I'm sorry.” Ms. Rothhammer straightens a little, then says, “She just can't play in the tournament.”

“Her hand?” Becky asks.

“That's right. We thought she'd recovered from her surgery last November, but she hurt it at practice yesterday and her mother's putting her foot down.”

Xandi says, “But Dawn said it didn't even hurt that bad! She didn't
break
it again, did she?”

“No, it's not broken. And Dawn
wants
to play, but her mother got a scare yesterday and doesn't feel she should take the risk.” Ms. Rothhammer puts a hand up, stopping
our protests. “I understand Mrs. Wilson's concern. If Dawn's hand gets damaged again, it probably means they'll have to put a pin in it, and it
isn't
worth the risk. It just puts us in a very bad spot this late in the game.”

The five eighth-grade players start whispering together, and Marissa, Dot, and I put our heads together and start buzzing, too.

“Girls! Girls! This is not all I have to tell you. Actually, it gets …” Her eyes fall back to the clipboard.

“It gets
what
?” Cindy Salazar asks. “Worse?”

Ms. Rothhammer scratches her head and puts up a smile. “Let's just say it gets … interesting.” She takes another deep breath and says, “We need to replace Dawn. Unless you want to just withdraw from the tournament, that is.”

“No!” we all say together.

“Well then, we need a new shortstop.” “Hey,” Marissa says. “We have a friend that plays pretty well. She's —”

Ms. Rothhammer shakes her head. “The administration has already met, and a decision has been made.”

“What do you mean? Without talking to us?” Cindy asks, then Xandi chimes in with, “Yeah, shouldn't we have some say in this?”

Very slowly Ms. Rothhammer nods. “
But
a decision has been made, and although I don't
agree
with it, there is a definite logic to it that's difficult to argue against.”

We all look at her and say, “Well… tell us!”

She looks back at us. “Heather Acosta will replace Dawn at shortstop.”

I jump up and cry, “You can't be serious! You just
can't
be!”

“She's the number-two shortstop on campus. She might even be better than Dawn, if she'd get out of her own way.”

“But she's … she's like poison! She'll
ruin
our team! I can't play with her. I
won't
play with her!”

Like ice, Ms. Rothhammer says, “I brought that up, and their response was, they'll replace you with Babs Filarski.”

“But I can't play with Babs!” Marissa cries. “I
won't
play with Babs! She is the most obnoxious catcher I've ever known!”

“Then they'll replace you with Emiko Lee.”

“What?”

“I'm serious, Marissa. Emiko's a great pitcher and you know it.” Ms. Rothhammer shakes her head and says, “And they view this as a wonderful opportunity for all of you to bury the hatchet and field the strongest team for the school.”

“Who's
they
?” Xandi asks.

“The administration,” she says, but she says it real hesitantly. And I know, just
know
, that there's more to it than that. Then it hits me. “Mr. Vince!” I cry. “He's pushing for this, isn't he!”

She takes a deep breath, then lets it out and says, “He pushed it until they bought it.”

“But couldn't you have … couldn't you have done
some
thing?”

“No, Sammy, because the truth is, I don't have a better suggestion for shortstop.”

“
Nobody
would be better than Heather! Can't we just play without a shortstop?”

“You know that's not an option. We're just going to have to make the best of it, and this is where all of you come in.” She looks directly at me. “I don't care
how
you feel about her, welcome her. Adopt her into the team
today
. We have three days to make this work, and if we are indeed going to bring home the Cup, you
have
to do it together.”

Cindy Salazar chimes in with, “Hey, if
I
quit, are they going to replace me with Tenille
Toolee
?” which makes everyone bust up, because Tenille was the lamest player on the number-two team. Then she says, “Just kidding, Coach. I'm cool with Heather.”

I grumble, “Yeah, 'cause you're out in right field and don't have to
deal
with her.”

“Enough. We'll all meet right here after school, and I want each of you,
all
of you, to act like the winners that you are. You hear me?”