Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher (11 page)

She tries to open the door, but I’m still holding on.
“
You’re
what’s unacceptable!” I yell at her. “Just go away and stay away! You have totally ruined my life!”

“Samantha,” she says with that oh-you-are-
so
-trying-my-patience tone that she loves, “you are thirteen years old—”

“Nice of you to admit it!” I shout, because there was a time when she lied about my age to the rest of the world and to
me
.

And, really, I didn’t care that I was running our little through-the-door conversation into the mud. I didn’t care that I was acting immature. I just wanted her to disappear, because the bottom line is, things were going great with Casey and me until she stepped into the picture and messed it all up.

“What I’m
trying
to say,” she calls through the door, “is that everyone has crushes at thirteen. They don’t last. You get over them.”

I open the door and shout, “Oh, so it’s okay to go around
destroying
them because, what? They’re not going to last, anyway?” Then I yank the door closed and hold it hard.

I can feel her trying to open it and then give up. “Samantha, you get out here this instant! My dating Warren should have no effect on your little crush on his son!”

I open the door again. “But it does! We’re totally messed up because of you!”

This time I’m too slow closing the door. She wedges herself in the opening with all her movie-star might and says, “Well! Blame me if you like, but you’re obviously not
mature enough to be in a relationship, anyway!” She turns to Grams. “
Now
do you see why I don’t tell her things?”

This makes me furious. She’d pulled so many stupid stunts on me, and I’d
never
had a meltdown like this. Not when she’d left me with Grams so she could run off to Hollywood. Not the gazillion times she’d refused to tell me who my father is. Not when she’d let Dorito get out and he almost got killed and she “didn’t have the time” to help me find him. Not even when she broke it to me that I was turning thirteen, not fourteen like I’d thought, because she’d wanted me to start kindergarten a year early so she could have free day care. And I’d flunked kindergarten!

So, yeah, I’d been really mad at her before, but I’d never acted like this. And now that I had, I knew she would use it against me for
years
. Anything she wasn’t comfortable explaining,
this
would be the reason she’d give for not telling me. And she’d make it all my fault.

“Please,” I said, sobbing into Dorito’s fur, “just leave.”

“Samantha, really. You should be happy for me. It’s not like my life’s been easy, you know. And how could I have predicted I’d fall in love with Warren? It just happened.”

So there.

She said it.

She was in love.

“Please,” I beg her, gulping for air, “just leave.”

Grams is pulling her away now, and she’s keeping her voice low, but I can hear her tell my mother, “Why are
your
feelings the only ones that matter? Don’t you remember what it was like to be thirteen?”

“Having a crush on a boy is
not
the same as mature
love!” my mother hisses. “And I shouldn’t have to give up true love for the capricious crushes of a teenager!”

“That teenager happens to be your daughter!” Grams snaps. “And the capricious one in this family is
you
.”

“Fine,” my mother says with a huff. “Take her side. You always do.”

A door slam later, she’s gone.

When I finally got tired of crying in the closet, I went into the kitchen and found Grams stirring a kettle of soup. Without a word, she put down the wooden spoon and wrapped her arms around me.

She didn’t try telling me that everything would be okay, or that there were lots of fish in the sea, or that tomorrow would be a better day.

She just hugged me.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” I sniffed. “I’m sorry I was such a baby. It’s been a really, really bad day.”

She walks me over to our little kitchen table and sits me down, then brings me a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and saltines.

I look at her, wondering why she made me chicken noodle soup, and how come it feels like the only thing in the whole wide world that I would eat right now.

“Thanks,” I tell her, and it comes out all choked up.

She sits across from me and fidgets with a napkin as she watches me sip down some broth. I peek up at her, and finally I sigh and say, “Casey told me to quit calling him.”

She nods and says, “I’m so sorry,” and I can tell from the tears welling in her eyes that she really is.

Then slowly it all comes out. I just give her little bits between sips of soup, and by the time the bowl is empty, I’ve told her way more than I had intended.

“Well, I completely understand why you couldn’t handle finding your mother here.”

I pinch my eyes closed. “If she marries Casey’s dad, I’m just going to
die
. What if they expected us all to live together? What if Warren wants us to be one big, happy family? Them and Casey and Heather and me?”

Grams laughs. “Your mother as a stepmother? She can’t even handle being a mother!” She shakes her head. “Can you imagine her in the same house as that wicked Heather? There’d be no survivors!” She reaches over and holds my hand. “I can’t see that scenario ever coming true, Samantha. Besides, your mother is not about to give up her television career, and it sounds like Warren is just starting his.” She lets go of my hand and adds, “I sure don’t see them wanting to be the Brady Bunch, now or ever.”

“The Brady Bunch?”

She shakes her head and chuckles. “Never mind. It was an old TV show. It used to be synonymous with a happy melded family, but I guess time marches on.”

We’re quiet for a minute, and then I ask, “What was she even doing here today? It’s
Tuesday
. Isn’t she supposed to be on the set or whatever?”

“Well,” Grams says, taking off her glasses and inspecting them for spots, “if you’d keep up with the story, you’d know that Jewel has gone missing and Sir Melville is frantically searching for her because he knows she’s found the ruby amulet and he’s afraid she’ll—”

“Wait—what’s the ruby amulet?”

She huffs on a lens and buffs it with the hem of her blouse for the longest time. Finally she says, “Your mother has a point, you know.”

“About
what
?”

“That you don’t bother to watch her show.”

“Grams! It’s a
soap
. It’s overdone and embarrassing.”

“But it’s your mother’s work, and even if you don’t appreciate the art form, you could show more interest than you do. Besides, she’s quite good at it.”

“At being overdone and embarrassing? Yeah, I agree.”

Grams eyes me as she cleans the other lens of her glasses.

“Sorry,” I grumble. “That was mean.”

She nods, then pops her glasses back on her nose and says, “Have you ever considered that if you showed more interest in your mother’s life, she might do the same with yours?”

I just stare at her as she gives me a minute to let that sink in.

Then very gently she adds, “You know I’ve recorded all her episodes for you. You had time this summer, but you wouldn’t even consider it.” She leans forward a little. “Samantha, think about what a nice gesture it would have been. Plus, it would have given you something to talk to her about.” She sits back again. “You might even have gotten hooked.”

“Oh, so you want me hooked on a soap?”

She gives a little shrug and says, “I want you to know what the ruby amulet contains and why Sir Melville is desperate to save Jewel from herself.”

“So tell me.”

She gives me a sly smile. “Oh no. You need to watch the show.” She gets serious and adds, “You understand I was using the ruby amulet as a metaphor, right? I really want you to know what’s going on with
her
. And, yes, your mother should take some initiative, too, but you both need to show more interest in each other.”

I was quiet a minute, trying hard to battle against the feeling in my gut that she was right. And because I wasn’t about to admit it—at least not while I was still so ticked off at my stupid mother—what popped out of my mouth was, “Are you sure that wasn’t an analogy? Or maybe a simile?”

She thought about it a second, then grinned. “No, I’m not.”

I don’t know why the conversation made me feel better, but it did. So after I finished my soup, I took a shower and got on my homework. And after we had some real dinner, I actually read ahead on my assigned book until bedtime.

I tried not to think about Casey.

Tried not to think about my mother.

Tried not to think about being the Brady Bunch.

And when Grams caught me dozing off on the couch, she pulled the book out of my hands and kissed me on the forehead. “Tomorrow’s another day,” she whispered.

And oh boy, was it ever.

The next morning Bad Mood Bob was back. And although he’s never Mr. Chatty, he actually didn’t say one word to us in homeroom. Oh, he grunted at Cole Glenns, which translated to Get up here and read the announcements, and he snorted and rolled his eyes at Crystal Agnew when she asked if he was doing okay, but that was it.

Well, except for a disgusting belch after he downed half a can of Coke, but what else is new?

And I guess his bad mood didn’t get any better during first or second periods, because at break Marissa and I saw him ripping into Cisco outside his classroom. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was definitely red in the face and jabbing his finger at Cisco.

“Wow,” Marissa whispered when the Vincenator had finished his tirade and was storming into his classroom. “I wonder what that was about.”

We waited for Cisco to move away from the classroom, then ran up to him.

“What bee flew up his butt?” I asked.

Cisco just kept on walking.

“Hey!” I called, hurrying to keep up with him. “What happened?”

He shakes his head. “A window in his room was left open last night.”

We wait for more, but no more comes. “Was something stolen?” I finally ask, ’cause the windows in Mr. Vince’s room are low enough for someone to climb through.

He shakes his head.

“So that’s it? He was all bent out of shape over an open window?”

Cisco snorts. “Nothing new. He finds something to explode over a couple of times every year.” Then he mumbles, “I’m just tired of him calling me Nacho.”

“He calls you
Nacho
?”

“Like I said, nothing new.”

“But … have you reported him?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not interested in another one of his fake apologies, man.”

The tardy bell’s about to ring, so we tell him to hang in there, and then Marissa runs off one way and I do a U-turn back to Vince’s classroom.

Now, the stuff with Cisco made me plenty mad, but it was during third period that things got
really
interesting, and that started with Billy Pratt.

He came in wearing a chicken hat on his head.

You know, the kind with the wings over the ears and the neck sticking out over the forehead?

Anyway, Billy comes clucking into class, jutting his chicken head forward like he’s pecking at air, then sits
down at the tardy bell and clasps his hands on top of his desk like he’s a good little boy.

Now, I’d had Ms. Needer’s class right before break, so I might have tried to figure out if there was any symbolism to the chicken hat. After all, Billy had basically said that anyone who wouldn’t say that Mr. Vince’s class needed guest speakers was a chicken.

But Billy isn’t into symbolism.

He’s into fun.

And he was obviously back to being the Billy we all knew and loved.

“Mr. Pratt,” Mr. Vince sighed after a long eye pinch. “The hat.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir; you like it, sir? It’s my thinking cap.”

Mr. Vince gives him a hard look. “Obviously, it’s not working.” He jabs a finger against the top of his desk. “Up here with it. Now.”

So Billy delivers the hat. And the funny thing is, he doesn’t make any goofy faces or cute remarks, he just puts the hat on Mr. Vince’s desk and goes back to his seat.

Mr. Vince studies him for a moment. “Mr. Foxmore briefed me on your infraction yesterday. Where’s your cell phone?”

Billy hoists his backpack and pats the front pocket. “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah’d away, sir!” he says with a salute.

Mr. Vince scratches an elbow and says, “Well, I think it’d be a good idea if it was up here, too.”

Billy blinks at him. “But—”

“
Now
, Mr. Pratt,” the Nasty Scratcher demands.

So Billy shuffles up to his desk again and puts his cell phone next to his chicken hat.

Mr. Vince snorts at him, then says, “Now maybe we can get some work done in here,” as he hands out a crossword puzzle. “This is due by the end of class. No talking.”

When our stack gets passed down our row, Sasha immediately raises her hand. And when Mr. Vince finally gives her the go-ahead grunt, she says, “This says chapter two, and we’ve already been tested on chapter two.”

“It’s good review for the final exam.”

She turns to me and whispers, “Final exam? That’s not until December!”

“Can you say busywork?” I whisper back.

She blinks at me and shakes her head. “Why do we have to put up with this?”

“Because he’s the teacher … ?”

“This is so stupid. Someone should
do
something about him. There’s no way he should be getting
paid
for this!” Then she faces forward with a huff.

And she’s right—the assignment’s a colossal waste of time. Still, I get to work on it, because what choice do I have? But after a few minutes Sasha slips me a note.

It’s actually a very tempting idea, especially since the assignment is so ridiculous and the clues are really vague.
But it’s definitely cheating, and if we get caught, Mr. Vince will nail me.

Maybe even find a way to suspend me.

Plus, a pinky swear with Sasha was weird enough. I sure didn’t want to start
cheating
with her. So when she gives me a quick you-in? look, I just shake my head.