Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise (26 page)

How can we ever become the female version of Darren and Marko from across the country?

Marissa snaps me back into the here and now, saying, “You don’t know what to say to him? What do you mean? You and Casey are
always
talking.”

I look away. “You know how when someone asks how you are and you’re miserable and a ton of stuff has happened and you don’t know how to start, so you just say, ‘I’m fine’?”

“Are you saying you’re miserable?”

“No! I’m saying …”

And that’s when it really sinks in that Darren’s right—being there’s important. There’s no, you know,
substitute
for being there. You can tell a person all about where you’ve been and what you’ve done, but it’s not the same thing as them being there during it. How could I explain about flip-flops and Fruity Island and
“¡Ándale!”
and snorkeling and dolphins and the symphony of nature? Or how I’d come to lock the cruise director and his mother out on a balcony? How could I explain about the fjishing I’d done while fjeasting with the captain? Or about finding forged notes in Bradley’s pocket?

The whole day had been like looking for trolls in Norway.

You just had to be there.

“Sammy? Are you okay?”

I look at her, and I just feel like crying. “It’s only been four days, and it already seems like there’s this big … gap.”

She leans in a little. “Between you and Casey?”

I nod.

“That’s crazy!” She points to the keyboard. “Just start. Tell him about snorkeling. Tell him what Marko and Darren said about the shoes.”

“But so much else happened today! And I have no idea what
he
did today.”

“Yeah, and none of it really matters. What matters is you tell him that you miss him, stupid.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You have such a kind and gentle way with words.”

“Start typing. I want to go to bed.”

So I do and I wind up putting in plenty of mush ’cause, I don’t know—I’m feeling plenty mushy. And when I’m all done and logged off, I look around for Marissa and see her over by one of the walls of books, her head cocked sideways as she reads the titles.

“You ready?” I ask her.

“You need to leave her a note,” she says, not looking away from the books.

“Leave who a note?”

“The Puzzle Lady.” She says it all matter-of-factly, then adds, “And none of this non-apology stuff. It needs to say
I’m
and
sorry
.”

I let out a big ol’ sigh, but I know she’s right—a note is a good idea. Trouble is, when I go over to the printer station to get a piece of paper to write it on, the wastepaper basket catches my eye, and the next thing you know, I’m going through it.

“What
are
you doing?” Marissa asks when she figures out that I’m not doing any writing.

I keep looking through the pages from the top down. “I thought maybe there’d be a rough draft. Or maybe some evidence that Kip’s been here today.”

“A rough draft of what?”

“Of that
I’m OK
note.”

She sits down nearby. “You really don’t think Kip wrote it?”

“He’s handwritten everything else, why would he suddenly type a note?” I get back to the papers, and I’m about to pass by one that looks like a whole lot of nothing—just a bunch of blue links and ads—but then the word
adoption
catches my eye.

“What’s that?” Marissa asks, because I’ve taken it out to look over.

I check the footer. “It’s page four of four.”

“Of what?”

I look at the pages in the trash before and after it and say, “I’m not sure, but it’s the last page of some article, and here under R
ELATED
A
RTICLES
is a whole list of links about adoption.”

“About adoption?”

“Yeah. Like, ‘Costs of Adoption Lawyers,’ ‘Stepparent Adoptions,’ ‘Types of Adoptions’ …”

“You’re thinking Kip was here?”

“I’m thinking we should go to this site,” I tell her, pointing to the tiny print in the footer.

So we go to the nearest computer, log on, and type in the URL of the site. And a split second later we’re looking at a graphic of justice scales next to the name of the site—LegalAsk. And just below it, in bold black letters, is the title of the article that someone had taken the first three pages of: “Reversing an Adoption.”

“Whoa!” Marissa whispers. Then she starts reading
the paragraph titles. “ ‘Birth Parents Reversing an Adoption,’ ‘Adoptive Parents Reversing an Adoption,’ ‘Child/Adoptee Reversing an Adoption.’ ”

“Let’s read that one,” I whisper, pointing to the last one. And even though we’re alone, my heart’s whacking away, and whispering seems like the only way to talk.

So we both read the screen:

“Well, I don’t think Kip would want to get unadopted for financial reasons,” Marissa whispers. “It’s more like he’s hit the jackpot.”

“Unless he hates being in that family so much, he’s willing to give it all up to get out.” I shake my head. “But I don’t think Kip’s the one who went here. I think it was Teresa.”

“But … if she unadopts him, where would he go? Back to Kenya?”

I shake my head again and log off. “I have no idea how any of it works.” Then I go back to the wastepaper basket, dig down to the bottom, and come up with … nothing.

“What
are
you looking for?” Marissa asks.

“At first I thought Teresa might have been here to print
out the
I’m OK
note, but there are no rough drafts in the trash.”

“Sammy, who would need to practice writing
I’m OK
?”

“Well, sometimes you have an idea and then when you look at it, you come up with a better idea … you know.”

She gives a little frown. “You’re chasing wild geese again.”

“The
point
is, there’s nothing in the trash that has anything to do with the note, and there’s also nothing with Kip’s writing on it.”

“So?”

“So I think Teresa was in here looking up information on reversing adoptions and had nothing to do with our note.”

“So … you think it
was
Kip who left the note?”

I shake my head. “I think it was Noah. He has an office backstage, remember? It has to have a computer and printer in it.”

She stares at me a minute, then says, “I don’t like this.”

I nod. “I don’t, either.”

We both sit there a minute until Marissa stands up and says, “Leave a note, and let’s get out of here.”

So I dig the pen out of my purse, rip a scrap from a sheet of mostly blank paper from the wastepaper basket, and write,
I’m sorry I was rude
, and sign it,
Sammy
.

“That’s it?” Marissa says.

“It’s got
I’m
and
sorry
. Meets all the requirements.”

“How about
Dear Sue
? Or
Dear Ms. Taylor
?”

“Because she’s
not
dear.” I squint at her. “I can’t believe you remember her name.”

She gives a little shrug. “And I can’t believe you remembered Kip’s room number or parts of that crazy code.” She gives me an exasperated sigh and says, “Just add it, would you?”

So I pout for a minute, and finally I write,
Hi, Ms. Puzzle Lady
, above what I’ve already written.

“ ‘Ms. Puzzle Lady?’ ” Marissa cries. “You don’t think that’s rude?”

“No! I think it’s … nice.” I frown at her.

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Nice.” I hold out the paper, studying it. “I don’t see the word
crazy
anywhere on it.” Then I add, “And if it’s rude, why do you call her that?”

“Come on,” she grumbles as she grabs me and drags me along. “I want to go to bed.”

So I leave the note anchored under the puzzle, and when we get to our deck, I try to beat Marissa to the draw with the room key. And then remember.

“Rats!”

“What?”

“I forgot to switch keys with Marko!”

She swipes hers and laughs, “Guess you won’t be sneaking out tonight.”

Which should have been funny, but instead was like dropping a ton of bricks on me. “Oh, nooooooo!” I groan.

She turns around and sees that I’m serious. “What now?”

“Ms. Rothhammer’s stupid work sheet.”

Her eyes bug out at me. “No! I can’t believe you’re even thinking about it!”

“Marissa, I—”

“No! Just do it tomorrow. We’re at sea all day. You’ll have plenty of time. There’s no way I’m letting you work on that tonight.”

And then I remember something else—Darren still had my calculator. He’d put it in his coat pocket yesterday, and I’d never gotten it back from him.

But … he was wearing a different coat today.

And I
did
have their room key.

So I
could
go get it.

Marissa zeroes in on me. “What are you thinking?”

So I tell her.

“No!” she cries. “N-O, no!”

I know she’s right. And letting myself into Marko and Darren’s room seems really … wrong. Plus the idea of going back to the library in the middle of the night by myself was scary, so if I did my homework in the cabin, I’d be keeping Marissa awake. And I
was
really tired. I could tell because, homework aside, I didn’t even want to look at Bradley’s code sheet.

“I’m blocking the door,” I tell Marissa, because I’m also remembering that Noah can get into anybody’s room at any time.

“So … you’re not arguing?”

I shake my head. “You’re right—I’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she says, like a major miracle has just occurred.

We don’t waste any time getting into bed. And when
my head hits the pillow, the whole cabin seems to spin a little—I am so,
so
tired.

But as I’m starting to drift off, I remember how the day had started, and a little giggle escapes me.

“What?” Marissa says through the dark.

“Why was six afraid of seven?” And before she can tell me to shut up and go to sleep, I giggle, “Because seven eight nine!”

“Go to sleep, Sammy.”

“Night!”

And then I remember.

It was the
N
that had told the joke in my dream.

Noah.

After years of sleeping on a couch, I’m not used to sleeping in late. There’s just not a whole lot of rolling over and stretching out and getting comfy on a couch. You hit the pillow and get in as many Z’s as possible before you start feeling cramped, or wake up with your cat sleeping on your head because he couldn’t find anyplace better to curl up.

Living at Hudson’s now is better because I’ve got an actual
bed
, but I still wake up with Dorito suffocating me.

I don’t think he quite knows what to do with himself yet.

Anyway, it turned out that having a bed to myself, no cat to suffocate me, and the Great Engine Lullaby humming through the night messed me all up. It probably also didn’t help that the curtains were closed tight, making it pitch-black in the room, because when I woke up and saw the digital clock on the desk glowing 12:30, I thought, Wow, I’ve only been asleep for ten minutes?

And then it hit me that it had been twelve
hours
.

“Holy smokes. Marissa?”

“Hmm?” she groans.

I get up and go open the curtain. “It’s after noon!”

“Close that,” she snaps, then turns over and hikes up her covers. “Yesterday beat me up.”

But it’s really weird to be in the dark in the middle of the day, and it feels like shutting the curtains would be like sitting up in a coffin only to close the lid again.

Instead, I go over to the phone and punch in Darren’s number, but all it does is ring and ring. “Rats,” I grumble, putting down the phone.

Marissa sits up a little and glares at me. “Really?”

“Really, what?”

“The first thing you think about when you wake up is Kensingtons?”

“Who says I’m thinking about Kensingtons?”

“Who’d you just call?”

“Darren! I need my calculator.”

“So the first thing you think about is
homework
?”

“Marissa! It’s twelve-thirty! We have to meet Darren and Marko here at five! After that we’ve got the concerts. If I don’t do my homework now—”

“You have all day tomorrow!”

“No! Stop that! I’m already behind schedule.”

She flops back down and turns away from me. “Any schedule that has you doing homework on a cruise is a stupid schedule.”

“Whatever. I’m going to go see if I can catch them at the buffet.”

“Who?”

“Darren and Marko! They were having a band meeting up there at noon, remember? And if I don’t catch them there, how will I find them? I need my calculator!”

So I get dressed as fast as I can, and I’m about to leave when Marissa groans, “Hang on. I’ll go with you.”

“Marissa, I’m in a hurry.”

“I know, I know,” she says, then pulls on a sweatshirt, shuffles into her flip-flops, and stumbles along after me in her ratty hair and sleep pants.

“You’re going like that?”

She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. “You’re complaining?”

“No. Fine. Come on, let’s go.”

So we hurry upstairs, and while she goes in one side of the Schooner Buffet U, I go in the other, and we meet up with each other in the middle.

“No luck?”

She just shakes her head.

And since I’m not too sure that she didn’t just sleepwalk through her half of the search, I say, “Keep going and meet me at the front.”

“By the elevators?”

“Yeah.”

So I search the other half, but see no sign of troublemakers of any kind, until I meet up with Marissa again and notice who’s coming up the stairs.

“Uh-oh,” I tell Marissa, and nod at JT and his parents.

Now, knowing Marissa, and considering how, uh,
ragged
she looks, I’m expecting her to either run and hide. Or freeze and be mortified. But instead she snarls and says, “Ask them about Kip.”