Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Father Mayhew has no idea who stole his cross?”

  “Well, he used to think it was me, and I used to think it was Holly, but now I think he thinks it’s Brother Phil.”

  Hudson puts up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a bit, Sammy! Obviously you’re above reproach, but who is Holly, and why did you think she took it?”

  So I wound up telling him all about Holly coming through the soup kitchen and how we followed her to the riverbank and found out about her cardboard house and all of that. And the more I tell him about Holly, the higher his eyebrows creep up, and when I’m all done, he lets out a long, low whistle and says, “That’s some story!” Then he nods. “Asking Meg and Vera was a stroke of genius. Obviously, they’re a godsend for her, but she’ll also be good for the two of them. As much as I enjoy Rommel, dogs do not a family make.”

  I think about Holly being part of the Pup Parlor family and laugh. “As long as they don’t start doing her hair!”

  He laughs, too, then smooths down an eyebrow and says, “So how’d Holly do at school today? That had to be quite an adjustment for her.”

  Now, to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about Holly after my mitt got stolen. I’d spent all my time thinking about Heather and the game and how mad I was at myself. So all of a sudden I felt terrible. I mean, it isn’t easy being in school even when you have friends. Starting seventh grade when you don’t has got to be like walking through the mall in your underwear.

  I put my hand in front of my mouth. “Oh, no! I should’ve waited for her after school!”

  Hudson studies me. “Why don’t you go over and see her now? I’ll call your grandmother and tell her where you are.”

  “Well … um … maybe I should call Grams.”

  His eyebrows creep toward each other like albino caterpillars. “She does know about all this, doesn’t she?”

  I give him a guilty grin. “Not exactly …”

  He shakes his head. “She needs to know what’s going on with you. Otherwise she worries.”

  “She worries either way. I just think she worries less not knowing.”

  Hudson’s caterpillars are practically smooching. “She needs to know, Sammy. It’s all over now, so you don’t mind if I tell her, do you?”

  I shrug, “Go ahead, I guess. Just tell her not to tell anyone else. I don’t want people to get all nosy and then have Meg and Vera decide she can’t stay with them anymore. Holly’d just run away again.”

  Hudson nods, and while I’m strapping on my backpack, he gives me a little smile. “It’s coming back already.”

  “What’s coming back?”

  “Your aura. It’s already brighter.”

  I laugh and say, “Oh, my aura,” and wave good-bye.

  And as I’m walking to the Pup Parlor, I tell myself that Hudson’s right about me being lucky. At least I know which one of the glasses on my table has poison in it. Poor Father Mayhew has to go thirsty because it could be in any one of the glasses on his.

  Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a little poison in all of them.

  The sign said CLOSED, but I could see Meg and Holly through the window, sweeping up. And I was just about to lean on the buzzer when I noticed that they weren’t just sweeping. They were also laughing and singing along with the radio.

  Now, even though the only times I’d been with Holly she’d been either about to kill me or scared to death, it didn’t seem strange seeing her laughing and singing. It just seemed like Holly doing something she should be doing.

  Meg, on the other hand, I’ve known for a long time, and even though she’s usually friendly, she always seems sort of tired. You know, beat down. So seeing her be-bopping around with her little bows and broom, well, it seemed kind of strange. Like she was a different person. A happy person.

  Holly notices me gawking at them through the window and lets me in. “Hi, Sammy!”

  I smile and say, “Hi, Holly … Hi, Meg.”

  Meg dumps the last of the dog hair in the garbage, then smiles at me and says, “Nice of you to stop by. Vera’s up fixing lasagna. Can you stay?”

  Lasagna sounds great, but I know I should be getting home to Grams. “Thanks, but no. I just came over to ask Holly if she wants me to come by on my way to school tomorrow.” I look at Holly. “We could walk over together if you want.”

  Holly says, “That’d be great!”

  “So how’d it go today? I’m sorry I didn’t look for you after school. I was, uh … well, I was kind of preoccupied.”

  Holly puts away her broom. “What happened, anyway? Everyone was saying you really trounced them the first game.”

  The last thing I want is to start talking about the game again, so I just shake my head and say, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it on the way to school tomorrow if you really want to know.” Then I wave and say, “Bye! See you in the morning,” and head out the door.

  Grams was still on the phone to Hudson when I got home. And when she got off, she sat down and just looked at me. I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Holly earlier,” but she just kind of waved it off and said, “No, no, that’s okay.” And for the rest of the night she was really quiet—like she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts.

  We both wound up going to bed early, and when I fell asleep, I had another softball dream, only this time when I got up to bat the Sisters of Mercy weren’t in the outfield. Bernice was catching, Abby was on second, and Clarice was on the mound. Clarice kept pulling balls out of her habit, only they weren’t really softballs—they were giant marshmallows. And when I’d swing the bat and connect, the marshmallow wouldn’t go anywhere. It would just stick to the end of my bat like a giant wad of glue.

  And while Abby jumped up and down on second yelling, “Cut some mids! Cut some mids! We need more balls out here!” Bernice held out this way oversized catcher’s mitt, calling, “Ball!” for every pitch so I wouldn’t swing and she could catch the ball and eat it.

  * * *

  The next morning when I showed up at the Pup Parlor, there’s Holly, all ready to go. And at first I thought it was going to be really fun, having someone to walk to school with. She tells me all about Vera and Meg and how nice they’re being to her, and then she asks me about the game. So I tell her about Heather and my mitt, and she seems really interested, asking me all sorts of questions. But when we turn off Broadway, she quits looking at me and starts eyeing trash cans instead.

  That’s right. Trash cans. All the way down the street there are trash cans on the curb, waiting to be collected. And every time we walk by one, Holly kind of looks inside and checks out what’s there.

  At first I’d kind of slow down and wait for her, but after a while I just kept on walking, hoping that she’d keep up with me and quit checking out everyone’s garbage.

  It didn’t work. She’d snoop through a trash can and call out, “So why do you think she’s the one that took your mitt?” or “Why does she hate you so much?” which are kind of hard questions to answer anyway, even when you’re not watching someone snoop through garbage.

  Then she stops in front of this one house and starts digging through the trash. She’s up to her elbows in dump filler and I just can’t take it anymore. I throw my hands in the air and say, “What are you doing?”

  She pops up with this old plastic sea-foam green purse and says, “Check it out!” like she’s just reeled in a ten-pound trout.

  “Holly, what are you doing? That’s someone’s garbage!”

  By now she’s snapped the purse open and is checking out the sea-foam lining and all the little sea-foam compartments. And when she finds a pair of matching gloves in one of the pouches she squeals, “Wow! Look at these! I don’t think they were ever even worn!”

  Now, I’m standing there, thinking, Gee, I wonder why, when she snaps it all back together and says, “CeCe’ll buy this off me. No doubt about it.” She holds it up in front of me. “What do you think? Three bucks?”

  I haven’t got a c
lue how much CeCe would give her for a sea-foam purse with matching gloves, and I’m looking around because we’re pretty close to school and the last thing I want is for someone like Heather to see me inspecting thrift-shop gems from a garbage can. So when Holly says, “Four bucks?” I practically yell at her, “I don’t know! Why are you doing this? You’re not homeless anymore—you don’t have to dig through garbage anymore! Why are you doing this?”

  Now, it sounded really mean, and right after I said it I was sorry. She gets real quiet and says, “It’s not garbage. It’s just stuff people don’t want anymore.” So we walk past a few more houses and I’m trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry when she stops at another trash can and says, “You’d be amazed at what people throw away … Here, look at this,” and pulls up a Teddy bear with an amputated leg.

  I whisper, “Holly!” like I’m afraid someone’s going to hear me talking to this trash hound.

  She dives right back in and comes out with the leg. She pieces them together, then looks at me and says, “See? He’s a fine bear. Someone was just too lazy to sew him back together.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “Holly, it’s garbage. Put it back!”

  She goes back into the trash can, saying, “Wait! Wait! I know I saw some.… Here it is!” and pops back out with a red-and-green plaid ribbon. She whips it around little Teddy’s neck and ties it in a bow. “There. Now he’s a Christmas bear!”

  I have to admit, there’s nothing about the bear that a needle and thread won’t fix, and he actually is looking pretty cute, but I’m still checking over my shoulder for Heather Acosta and I can’t quite get into it, if you know what I mean.

  Holly gathers her bear and her bag and off we go. And as we’re getting closer to school, I’m starting to wonder how she’s going to survive being the new kid at school with a sea-foam purse and a broken bear, when all of a sudden she ditches them both behind a bush and says, “They’ll be safe there ’til after school, don’t you think?”

  I let out a big sigh of relief. “They’ll be fine.”

  She laughs at me. “You didn’t think I was going to take them into school, did you?”

  I shrug and say, “I didn’t know!”

  “What do you think I am … crazy?”

  We both laugh, and just as I’m feeling a little better, it hits me where I am. I’m at the place where I’d completely embarrassed myself the day before. The place where a wicked beast with red hair stalked me and thirsted for my blood. I’m at school.

  You may think I’m exaggerating, but as I’m walking up the steps I hear, “Oh, look! It’s the poor little kitten!”

  I turn, and there’s Heather and all her little friends, pointing and laughing.

  Heather sings, “Poor little kitten has lost her mitten and she can only cry, ‘Ms. Rothy-dear, see here, see here, my mitten I have lost!’ ‘What? Lost your mitten? You loser kitten! Guess you shall have no pie!’ Meow, meow, meow-meow-meow!” And while she’s doing the meow part, all her little wannabe friends join in and sing, “Meow-meow-meow!” which just makes Heather sing the whole thing again, only this time louder.

  Holly tugs on my sleeve and whispers, “Let’s get out of here!”

  We go through the administration building because I know Heather won’t follow me in there, and as we make it out the other side, Holly shakes her head and says, “That girl is vicious. What’s her deal?”

  I shrug and say, “I don’t know. I guess she really wants to win.” But as we cut over to homeroom I get a little revelation: Winning’s important to Heather, all right.

  But it’s not nearly as important as seeing me lose.

  Marissa came into homeroom right as the tardy bell rang. I could see her across the room, all flustered and out of breath, but when she looked over at me, she was smiling. Happy smiling. I mouthed, “What’s going on?” as we saluted the flag, but she just winked and patted her backpack.

  When Mrs. Ambler finished reading the announcements, she started pleading with us to bring more cans for the Thanksgiving food drive.

  I looked over at Marissa and mouthed, “What’s in there?”

  Trouble is, before Marissa could mouth back an answer, I hear, “Meeeeow!”

  Mrs. Ambler stops talking a moment, then shakes her head and says, “Anyway,” and goes back to explaining the importance of the Thanksgiving food drive.

  Heather does it again—“Meeeeow!”—and this time everyone laughs.

  Mrs. Ambler looks around. “There’s nothing humorous about hunger, people. I’m sure you can do better than this.” She toes the cardboard box with all of four cans in it and says, “Everybody, and I mean everybody, is to bring in a can of food tomorrow or there’ll be detention to serve!” Then she goes back to her desk to sort through papers.

  So while the rest of us are getting books out of our desks for our morning classes, Marissa zips open her bag and pulls out a mitt. Not my mitt, but a really good-looking catcher’s mitt.

  Mrs. Ambler would kill her if she tossed it across the room to me, so I decide to sneak over and get it myself. But right as I’m coming up Marissa’s aisle, Mrs. Ambler spots me. “Sammy! You know the rules. In your seat until the bell rings.”

  “Can I just—”

  “Now, Samantha. Move it!”

  So I turn around, and as I’m heading back to my seat, who do I see half out of her desk, looking like a tabby with her tail caught in the door? Heather. She’s seen the mitt, too, only she doesn’t know it’s not mine. And she’s busy thinking, How can that be? when the bell rings and everyone goes stampeding to their first-period class.

  When I meet up with Marissa and Holly outside of homeroom, Marissa hands me the mitt and says, “Take good care of this. It’s Brandon’s.”

  I whisper, “Brandon’s?”

  “Yeah. He used to play youth league before he started swimming.”

  I slip my hand into it and say, “Wow! It fits great!” But it feels strange to be wearing Brandon’s mitt. I mean, a mitt’s not like shoes or shirts. Most people have lots of shoes and shirts, but if they have a mitt at all, they’re only going to have the one. It’s personal.

  And standing there with my hand inside Brandon’s glove, all of a sudden my arm prickles with goose bumps because it almost feels like Brandon’s holding my hand.

  I take the glove off real fast, zip it into my backpack, and say, “Thanks, Marissa. I won’t let it out of my sight.”

  She says, “And I’ve got a great idea for the game. I want to go over it at lunch with you and Dot, okay?”

  I say, “Great!” and then off we run to class before we get nailed with a tardy.

  When lunchtime rolls around, Dot’s already at the table sipping her root beer when Holly and I show up. And when Marissa comes scooting down the bench, she doesn’t have her usual hamburger and fries—she’s got a notebook and pencils. She sits down and says, “Have you been getting the feel of Brandon’s mitt? Does it fit okay?”

  Now, I’m trying to figure out a way to get around telling her that the feel of Brandon’s mitt is too scary to even put on, let alone play a game with, when I notice that Monet Jarlsberg is sitting right behind me. I put a finger up to my lips, and as I’m writing, Monet’s here—let’s go over the wrong signals, I’m saying, “So what signals are we using tomorrow? Same as last game?”

  Marissa bites her lip a second, then says, “No. I think we should redo all of them. Let’s go alphabetical for the first signal—one finger for a change-up, two for a curve, three for a drop, and four for a fastball.”

  “That’s easy,”

  Dot says, “Got it!”

  “Then for the second signal—one for inside, two for down the middle, and three for outside.”

  “Alphabetical again.”

  Marissa says, “Right. And Sammy, if you think there’s going to be a steal, windmill your arm like you’re loosening it up.”

  So far we’re all doing a real good job keeping straight faces, but when Mariss
a says, “That’s it for now. Just remember not to tell anyone about my arm. I kind of threw it out yesterday and I don’t think I’ll be able to throw any curves at all,” we all have the hardest time not cracking up.

  After that we get real busy talking about nothing, and the minute Monet sneaks off, Marissa starts laughing so hard she has to wipe the tears away. When she finally catches her breath, she says, “What a great idea—what a great idea!”

  Holly whispers, “What is going on?”

  So I explain to her about Monet Jarlsberg, Spy for Hire, and when I’m done, she says, “I feel like I’m in the middle of a war zone. This is crazy!”

  I laugh, “Welcome to junior high.”

  It doesn’t take long for Marissa to get serious again, only this time we get down the real signals and then we all huddle in to hear her big idea for the game. And when we’ve hashed it through, she says, “I’ll talk to Ms. Rothhammer after school today and see if she thinks it’s legal.”

  By the time lunch was over, I was actually feeling pretty good. I had a decent mitt to play with, we had a great secret weapon worked out, and Monet Jarlsberg was out there spreading the wrong information.

  My good mood did a U-turn when I walked into science. Heather was cocked and waiting, and when I came through the door she let fire with, “Meeeeeeeow!” And she must’ve been warming up the class before I walked in, because they didn’t just cover their mouths and snicker, they completely busted up.

  So while my rosy little cheeks are burning a path to my seat, it hits me that the reason Heather’s back to being so cocky is that not only had Monet heard the stuff we’d wanted her to hear, she’d also heard Marissa ask me if I liked Brandon’s mitt.

  Either that, or she’d gone and checked where she’d stashed mine and it was still there.

  And thinking about Heather having my mitt—about Heather putting her sneaky little hand inside my mitt—made me so mad I could hardly breathe, let alone concentrate on Mr. Pence explaining the miracle of mitochondria.

  When class was finally over, I got out of there as fast as I could, but does Heather just let me go? No way. She calls down the hall, “Poor little kitten, can’t find her mitten! Meeeeow!”