Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (8 page)

Everyone says, Yeah, they hear her, and piles out of the locker room. Marissa, Dot, and I hang back, though, and when the others are gone, Ms. Rothhammer says, “Sammy, I know how you feel, and I'm sorry.”

Marissa says, “It's not your fault, Coach, but we might as well kiss that cup good-bye.”

I point at myself. “On account of
me
? No way!”

Ms. Rothhammer gives me a little smile. “Now that's
what I like to hear. And who knows, maybe you and Heather will come to some kind of understanding.”

I snicker and mutter, “Yeah. Like what would happen if you and Mr. Vince got put on the same team, huh?”

“Hmmmm,” she says, then changes the subject with, “The good news is, the tournament
is
going to be held at the high school.”

“Seriously?” Marissa asks, her eyes popping open. “Cool!”

“We're on the lower field against Bruster for round one, winner moves to the upper field against either Wesler or El Rancho, and then next week the winner from South County plays our region's winner under the lights.”

“That will be us,” Marissa says, “under the lights!”

I look up at Ms. Rothhammer. “Does she already know?”

“Heather?” she asks me, then checks her watch. “Yes.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Don't worry, Sammy. This is
my
team, and she will play by my rules. Besides, she's an outsider coming in. Maybe she'll… behave.”

I shake my head and say, “Yeah, and maybe there's ice-skating on the Lake of Fire and Brimstone.”

The minute I walked into science, there it was, written all over Heather's snotty little face—IIIIIIII'M SHORTSTOP!

God, I tried to ignore her. And if her snotty little face had said I'M RIGHT FIELD! well, maybe that would
have been easier. But
short
stop? It's one of the most coveted positions. It's
important
.

Not that playing catcher isn't—playing catcher is crucial—but how many people want to be team turtle? It's hard on the legs, it's dusty or muddy, depending on the weather, and you're constantly getting hit with something. Bats. Balls. Cleats. And now, dirty looks. And my strategy of pretending she didn't exist would not cut it on the playing field.

Turns out I couldn't ignore her in class, either. She volunteered to collect homework, and when she got to our table, I pretended to look for mine while everyone else handed theirs over. She just stands there with her hand on her hip and a catty smile on her face, and says, “Too busy playing mommy to do it?”

“Shut up,” I tell her, but it was true. I'd been so wrapped up with Pepe that I hadn't done homework for
any
of my classes.

Then she whispers, “You look even worse than usual, you know that? Ever heard of a hairbrush? And I swear you smell like a toilet.”

I stop rustling through papers and look at the ceiling with my hands up. “
How
am I supposed to play softball with her?”

“You won't have to,” she whispers as she walks to the next table. “They're gonna trade you out with Babs.”

“What!”

She just smiles her evil little smile and walks on.

I tried to tell myself it wasn't true. That it
couldn't
be true. But she'd sure said it like she knew something I
didn't, and it was making my heart pound angry blood through my body and my mind race from one crazy conclusion to the next.

I also tried to beg an extension off Mr. Pence, but he wouldn't listen. Told me to sit down and be quiet. No extensions, period.

After science I ditched Heather by going to my next class a way I'd never gone before. Trouble is, I wound up plowing right into someone I try to avoid even more than Heather.

Her brother.

“Casey,” I gasped.

“Sammy?” he asked.

I don't think I've ever blushed so red in my life.

He just stood there, blinking. “What happened to
you
?”

I just shook my head and tried to scoot around him.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asked, stepping right in front of me.

I kept looking down. “It's a really long story, okay? But in a word, no.” I looked up at him. “
Heather's
taking Dawn's place at shortstop.”

His whole face seemed to fly apart. His eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropped down, his nostrils flared wide, and his voice croaked out, “Seriously?”

“Yeah. And it's just got me, you know, freaked out.”

“No kidding,” he says. “I'd be freaked out, too!”

That made me smile. I said, “Thanks,” but my cheeks were still burning, and I got out of there as fast as I could.

By the time school was over, I was wishing I'd missed the whole day instead of just the morning. I was behind in all my classes,
everyone
said how bad I looked, and now I had to go face Heather at practice.

And then as I'm heading over, I see her cutting across the grass toward the locker room. She isn't alone, either. On one side of her there's Mr. Vince, waving his hands around as he's drilling her with instructions.

And on the other, listening real intently, is Babs Filarski.

Practice was a nightmare. Ms. Rothhammer tried to make Mr. Vince and Babs leave the field, but they wouldn't go. They stayed on the sidelines whispering the whole time.

Heather was the Kiss-up Queen, too. Not to me or Marissa or Dot. Noooo. To the eighth graders. She went around saying stuff like “Hey, Xandi, Jennifer! I am, like, so honored to be on your team.” And “Becky, Kris, Cindy! Wow! I am going to work so hard to be worthy. You guys are awesome!”

Gag me.

She tried it on Ms. Rothhammer, but she got shut down cold. “Don't think for a minute I suffer from selective memory, Heather. You've got a lot to make up for.”

“Aw, Coach … we were rivals before. But now I'm, you know,
with
you.”

“Well then, I expect you to treat
all
of your teammates with respect and kindness.
All
of them.”

Heather gives Ms. Rothhammer one of her better innocent looks. “Of
course
, Coach. C'mon, all that stuff's ancient history as far as I'm concerned.”

Ms. Rothhammer studies her carefully, but doesn't reply. Instead, she calls, “Two laps, everybody!”

And of course as we do our laps, Heather runs beside me for as long as it takes to whisper, “You are on the menu, loser, and there's nothing she can do to stop it!”

Which made me nervous, okay? I mean, there was Babs on the sidelines with Mr. Vince, acting all, you know, conspiratory, and there I am, fumbling balls and missing calls and just
blowing
it while Heather plays smooth and confident.

Afterward, Heather goes off with the eighth graders like she's one of them, while Ms. Rothhammer tries to give me a pep talk.

“Look,” I finally tell her, “Heather's saying that Babs is going to replace me.”

“What?”

“That's what she's saying, okay? And did you see her and Mr. Vince? They looked like they were plotting to take over the world.”

“Listen, Sammy. I don't want you to give that another thought. Heather is trying to psych you out again. You should be used to this tactic. Don't let it get to you! This is
your
team, and Babs Filarski is not in the wings as your replacement.”

“They weren't out there talking about the weather! They were drawing out plays and stuff. Mr. Vince wouldn't do that unless he had something planned. It's like he's horning in on our team.”

“Well,” Ms. Rothhammer says, “I don't like it any better than you do, but Mr. Vince is right in that I have no authority to say he can't watch practice.” She takes a deep breath. “I have to pick my battles with him carefully,
Sammy, and whether or not he sits in on practice is not a battle I think is worth fighting. I prefer to just ignore him, and that's exactly what you should do with Babs.” She eyes me and says, “That
is
a battle worth fighting, and one I'd win. So don't give it another thought, okay?”

That was hopeless, but I said, “Okay,” anyway.

Dot's dad was waiting in his big green DeVries Nursery delivery truck, ready to take Dot home. He offered Marissa and me a lift too, but Marissa had her bike and well, as far as I knew, Mr. DeVries didn't know about me living with Grams. Besides, Marissa and I always walk as far as we can together, and since I hadn't had the chance to tell her about what had happened with Pepe and Officer Borsch and everything, I didn't
want
a ride. I wanted to walk and talk.

So we waved bye to Dot and Mr. DeVries and headed out on foot. And we were trucking along Cook Street, me running a million miles an hour at the mouth about seeing Heather at the mall and how Pepe's mom hadn't shown up, when Marissa says, “Hey! Let's go check out the fields at the high school!”

“What?
Now
?”

“Sure! It won't take that long. Just a quick look? It's been forever since I've been there.”

“But —”

“Come on! I'll give you a ride on my handlebars.”

I took a step back from her. “That's okay. I'll walk. And in case you hadn't noticed, I was in the middle of telling you how I got stuck with that baby. All night.”

“Right, right. So go on. What happened after you
decided to go home? And why didn't you just go to the police?”

“If you would
listen
…”

“Okay!”

So I picked up where I'd left off, only all of a sudden Marissa decides she wants to take a shortcut to the high school.

I used to be big on shortcuts. And maybe it's because I've been down one too many slimy alleys, but a shortcut to the high school seemed unnecessary. I mean, Santa Martina High isn't
that
far from William Rose Junior High. Basically, you go up Cook, hang a right on Broadway, and there it is on the right, taking up an entire city block.

Marissa, though, insisted on taking a right on Thornton. “Why go clear out to Broadway?” she said. “The fields are at the back end of the school—this'll be quicker!”

Now, in the back of my mind, I knew we were walking through a sort of poor part of town—there was barbed wire and beer bottles and graffiti everywhere—but I wasn't really thinking about it. I was more wrapped up in telling Marissa about my endless night with Poopy Pepe.

But then Thornton dead-ended. And my story sort of dead-ended, too. We looked up and down the street that T-ed off of Thornton, trying to decide which way to go. “Right or left?” I asked her.

“Uh, left,” she said. Like the coin had come down tails.

So we took a left and then the first right, and pretty
soon I'm back on track with my story, too. And I'm just getting to the part where Officer Borsch comes up to me in front of the mall when Marissa interrupts me with “Why do people
do
that?”

“Do what?”

She nods at some graffiti on a wall and says, “That. You can't even read it.” She keeps walking, but I slow down, because for the first time in my life, I'm seeing more than the hieroglyphics I usually see when I notice graffiti. I'm seeing letters. Fancy, spiky letters. And in the back of my mind I'm hearing Officer Borsch's voice: “They claim Cook down to Morrison….” Cook down to Morrison … Cook down to Morrison.

“Marissa,” I whisper.

“What? Hey, why are you stopping? Come on!” “Marissa, come here.” “What?” She backtracks to me. “Why are you staring at that?”

“Because—look over there. That's an S and a …W. Marissa! That's an S and a W!”

“So
what
?”

I look around and whisper, “It stands for South West, Marissa.”

“It may
stand
for South West, but it's vandalism, Sammy. Van-da-lis-m. Just like that stupid stuff Bruster sprayed on our school.”

Suddenly I get a very creepy feeling. Like every house on the block is watching us, wondering what we're doing. I check myself and Marissa over real quick, and Marissa says, “
Now
what are you doing?”

“I'm looking for purple,” I whisper. “You're not wearing any, are you?”

She squints at me. “
Purple?
God, Sammy, sometimes I don't know about you.”

“Oh yeah?” I tell her. “Well this little shortcut you've taken us on cuts right through gang territory.”