Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  So now I'm face to face with Heather. I don't want to fight her, but I can't exactly run—they've got me surrounded. So I keep my eyes locked on Heather, turning as she circles me. “Heather, you're making a huge deal out of nothing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Look. You can't really believe the horseshoe's lucky…”

  “I said shut up!”

  “And it doesn't mean Casey and I are going out—”

  “I said shut up!”

  “Why are you so bent out of shape over this?”

  “Why am I so… “ She snorts. Then her neck vultures forward and she spits out, “As if you weren't a big enough pain already, you had to go and steal my birthday—”

  “Wait! I didn't—”

  “Then you steal my brother—”

  “I didn't steal your brother, either!”

  “And then your mother steals my father—”

  “My mother barely talked to your father!”

  She looks vicious. Crazy. Like a caged animal starved for blood. Or freedom.

  Or both.

  Then, one syllable at a time, she spits out, “He said she was enchanting!”

  “But—”

  “She ruined my birthday! You ruined my birthday! It was my day! My day! You stole it from me!”

  “Hey, hold on! You think I like sharing my birthday with you?”

  “Grab her!” she shouts at Monet and Tenille. “Grab her now.” And before I can think of what to do, Monet and Tenille each grab an arm and Heather dives for my feet, pinning them down with her knees. And in the middle of all that, the school buses go by with kids hanging out of the windows, shouting, “Cat fight! Cat fight!”

  I don't know how to explain the way that made me feel. Worse than suffocated. Suffocated and angry. It was a fierce, burning kind of angry, too. Like they were holding a branding iron to my soul.

  In a flash my right elbow shoots backward into Tenille's stomach, which caves in like a giant marshmallow, gooey and soft. And as she groans and begins to double over, whack—my fist flies back and cracks into her face.

  Tenille screams, then cries, “She broke my nose!” and when I glance over, sure enough, blood is gushing everywhere.

  Now, I can tell Monet's freaked out, but she's not letting go. And Heather's got my feet pinned with her knees while she's frantically untying my high-top. And let me tell you—someone's knees drilling into your toes hurts! So I try to squirm free, but she shouts, “Hold her! Just hold her!” and drills down even harder.

  I suppose I could've bent over and started flailing on Heather with one hand, but at this point, Monet's easy picking and I want her off of me so I can really deal with Heather.

  So I twist around and crack—I catch Monet in the jaw with a solid right hook.

  “Aaarrh!” she cries, and lets go.

  “She broke my nose!” Tenille wails again.

  My toes are screaming in pain, and Heather's actually whipping my laces out really fast, so I shove her off of me and say, “Forget your scissors?”

  For a split second I'm free. But then Heather lunges for my ankle, crying, “Help me!” at Monet and Tenille.

  I try to bash her in the head with my other foot. But before I can, Monet comes flying at me, gouging my neck with her fingernails as she pulls me over. And then, as I'm trying to wrestle away from her, Heather lets go of my foot and shouts, “I've got it! I've got it!”

  She takes off running, just abandoning Monet and Tenille. And I'm sorry, but I don't have time to pussyfoot around with Monet. I twist free and crunch her one good in the eye. And even though my toes are aching, I make myself run through the pain, charging after Heather.

  Heather's not slow, but she's not as fast as me. Even with a half-tied shoe. So I close in on her, and then she starts zigzagging around the grassy knolls, trying to avoid me. “Help!” she screams, like I'm a mugger. “Somebody! Help me!”

  I lunge and manage to grab ahold of her arm, and somewhere in the middle of her kicking and flailing and trying to get away from me, I remember another move I'd seen at Slammin' Dave's—the one Holly and I had actually practiced. So I apply the twisteroo-hammer-hold-make-'em-bite-the-grass move on Heather, and faster than you can say Screamin' Evil Ninny, Heather's on the ground.

  I pry open her hand and take out my horseshoe, saying, “Fat lotta luck that brought you, huh, Heather?” Then I give her arm a final tweak and tell her, “You come near me again and I'll break something. You got it?”

  “Let me go!” she screams into the grass.

  “You got it?”

  “I hate you!”

  “Whatever,” I said, and let go.

  So I stuffed the horseshoe in my jeans pocket, then moved a few yards away from her before bending over to tie my shoe. I didn't thread the lace through the grom-mets or anything—I just wrapped it around my ankle and tied it off quick. And I was getting up to go collect my stuff when—and you're not going to believe this— Heather charges me.

  She was spitting mad, too, screaming, “If you think I'm going to let you get away with this… if you think you can just walk off without paying for what you've done…”

  When she reaches me I sidestep away and warn her, “Heather…”

  “You think you're so hot—” She lunges at me again.

  I sidestep her again and start running toward my stuff.

  But Heather's not giving up. She yells, “Get over here and help me!” to Monet and Tenille.

  And I can't believe it—Monet and Tenille actually start hobbling over to help her. So since I don't want to have to deal with all three of them all over again, I turn around and hold my ground against Heather.

  So there we are, face to face. And for a second she just stares. But then she charges, screeching, “I hate you, you stupid, ugly loser! I hate you for ruining my life!”

  She starts flailing on me, but Heather doesn't punch with her knuckles. She uses the meaty part of her fist and hammers. So I manage to grab her wrist and get her in another twisteroo hold, only this time she starts twisting with it, running around me to avoid going down.

  So I turn, too. And pretty soon I'm holding her wrist with both hands, going in a circle, faster and faster. It's like I'm the axle and she's the wheel. And the faster she runs to avoid the twist, the faster I move, until I realize that there's enough momentum going to actually yank her off the ground.

  So that's what I do. I pull her up and fly her around and around in circles. And of course she's screaming her bratty banshee head off, but is that stopping me?

  No way!

  I speed up and keep her flying like a big ol' ball and chain while she's screaming, “Let me go! HEEELP! Let me go! POLIIICE! HEEELP! Let me goooo-oooo-oooo-o!”

  So okay. I can't keep this up forever. She's heavy, I'm tired, and pretty soon I'm going to have to let go. So I finally do what she's been screaming for me to do.

  I let go.

  Now, I didn't plan this or anything, but I flew her right into Monet and Tenille. Even I said, “Whoa!” because Heather knocked them flat.

  And I would have taken a minute to chuckle over the moaning, groaning mound of morons, only right then I heard something that let me know it was time to hightail it out of there.

  Sirens.

  Great. Now the police show up. Not that I could see them yet, but I recognize police sirens when I hear them.

  Let's just say, I have experience.

  So I'm trucking over to my stuff when I see someone charging toward me across the grass. His hair is wild, and believe me, he's not wearing a uniform.

  “Sammy!” he calls.

  “Hey, Casey,” I say, picking up my backpack. “What's up?”

  “What's up?” He looks over at the shrieking pileup of pinheads across the lawn. “Did you…?”

  I shrug. “You obviously didn't beat up on her enough when you were kids. She's a terrible fighter. Dirty, but terrible.” I keep on trucking. “So where'd you run from?”

  He keep
s looking over his shoulder as he tags along. “Uh, from the first bus stop. I saw what was going on when we drove by, but the stupid bus driver wouldn't pull over.”

  “I told you I could handle Heather.” I smile at him. “But thanks, anyway.”

  Then he notices my shoe. “She got it?”

  I nod, then grin and pull the horseshoe out of my pocket. “But I got it back.”

  He breaks into a smile, but then from across the lawn, Heather shouts, “Casey! Oh thank God. Casey! Grab her! She tried to kill us! I think my arm's broken!”

  Casey shouts back, “You're an embarrassment, Heather.”

  “Caseeeey!”

  Then I saw that the police car had parked illegally on Cook, and that the driver was getting out. “Uh-oh,” I said, hurrying to collect my skateboard and CD player.

  “What?”

  “It's Officer Borsch.”

  “You know him?”

  “Well enough to want to get out of here.”

  Now, call me dense, okay? But I figured Casey would check on his sister or talk to her or something. Instead, he kept walking with me. And the trouble with that was, where was I going? I couldn't go home. And I didn't have any reason to go to the mall. Besides, I didn't have any money, and there's nothing stupider than being a girl without money at a mall with a boy.

  “Uh…” I looked over my shoulder. “If you want to stay and make sure—”

  “No way. She's fine. And she got what she deserved.”

  So I decided to go where I always go when I need help—Hudson's.

  I couldn't ride my skateboard because Casey was on foot, but I did want to put some distance between me and the Borschman, so I started walking really fast.

  Casey kept up, asking, “How'd you learn to fight, anyway? Do you have brothers?”

  “Nah.”

  “So?”

  I shrugged. “I don't know.” Then I laughed and said, “Holly and I have been spending a little too much time spying through the back door of Slammin' Dave's.”

  “That pro wrestling place?”

  “Yeah. You should see some of the freaks who go there. It's very entertaining.”

  “Like, what do they do?”

  So I told him about Ronnie Reaper and The Blitz and El Gato, and about how the wrestling ring is springier than it looks and all of that. And I was careful not to let out how I got caught under the ring, or took a bump, or any of the stuff that's too hard to explain in a way that makes sense. Unless you go back and tell the whole story, that is, and believe me, I wasn't up for that.

  So instead I talked about how the wrestlers really do work out and really do have moves, but how they exaggerate everything to make it a better show. And he laughed and asked questions, trying to figure out if I was really into it or just entertained by it. And then, before I knew it, we were turning up Hudson's walkway.

  “This is where you live?” he asks, taking the place in.

  “Actually, it's my friend's house.”

  “Marissa's?”

  “No. Hudson's.”

  “Hudson? Is that a guy?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, he's a guy. A really smart one, too.”

  He stops walking. “So … maybe I should take off?”

  I laugh again. “Actually, I'm thinking maybe he'll give you a ride home.”

  He follows me up the walkway. “Uh, that'd be cool…”

  Lucky for me, Hudson was home. He opened the door and said, “Sammy!” then noticed Casey. Now, he tried to hold it back, but he was still a little too pleased for my comfort. “Well, hello, young man,” he said, then they recognized each other. Casey said, “Hey, you were at the birthday bash,” and Hudson nodded and said, “And you're Heather's brother, am I right?”

  He laughed. “A fact I've been known to deny.”

  They shook hands, and Hudson asked, “Can I get you something to eat? Something to drink?”

  “Sure!” Casey and I said together.

  “Inside or out?”

  “Out,” I said, then looked at Casey. “This porch is my favorite place in the whole wide world.”

  Casey looked around. “Here?” Then he said to Hudson, “No offense, sir.”

  Hudson laughed. “Give it some time—it'll start to grow on you.”

  So while Hudson dug up snacks, I got comfy in my favorite chair and kicked my high-tops up on the railing.

  Casey took a seat beside me. “Your favorite place, huh?”

  I nodded. “This porch is magic.”

  He didn't get it, and that's okay. I've found that there's really no explaining a feeling you get from a place. You can put it into words, and people can actually understand it, but the feeling itself is still only felt by you. So I didn't even try to explain it. I just took in deep breaths and let them out, happy and slow. And somewhere in my deep breathing, Casey noticed my neck. “Wow. You got gouged.”

  I felt it and said, “Monet's stupid fingernails.” Then I asked, “Is that why girl fights are called cat fights? ‘Cause they hiss and scratch and pull hair and stuff?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. And because a lot of girls are catty.”

  Hudson pushed through the screen door with a tray of drinks and brownies. “Wow,” I told him, “that looks great!”

  Trouble is, just as I'm reaching for a brownie, a car eases to an idle across the street. It's not just any car, either. And it's not just any driver.

  It's the Man o' La Macho.

  The Bruiser in a Cruiser.

  “Oh rats,” I mutter.

  “What's wrong?” Hudson asks.

  I tisk and sigh and pout, and finally just put down my brownie. “It's Officer Borsch.”

  “Ah,” he says. Then as he watches Officer Borsch get out of his car and cross the street, he asks, “And this would have to do with…?”

  “Heather,” I grumble.

  Hudson's eyebrows go up as he looks from me to Casey, but he doesn't ask any questions.

  Officer Borsch takes his ol' sweet time coming up the walkway. He hikes up his gun belt. He fiddles with his baton. And yeah, he's looking at me the whole time.

  When he finally gets to the porch, he stops and puts one foot on the bottom step, then leans against his knee with both arms. “So,” he says, still looking right at me. “We've got a girl with a bloody nose, another with a black eye, and a third with a possibly fractured arm. They all have multiple contusions, and they all claim you caused the damage. Got anything to say about this?”

  I shrug. “What are the odds of me wiping out three girls all by myself?”

  He pushes his lips forward and nods. Then he eyes Casey and says, “I'm thinking maybe you had some help.”

  “No sir,” Casey says, shaking his head. “I ran to help her, but I was too late.” He looks at me. “She defended herself just fine.”

  “So,” Officer Borsch says, sucking on a tooth, “is it your claim that they started it?”

  Casey nods, and I jump in with, “Officer Borsch, don't tell me you didn't recognize Heather Acosta?” because the Borschman suffered some pretty embarrassing consequences from Heather's pranks back at Christmastime.

  He lets a little grin slip through his grumpy façade. “Yeah, I recognized her.” He stands straight and says, “But we can't have brawling in the streets, Sammy.”

  “But I didn't start it! And I swear, I tried not to fight them.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, and sort of waves it off.

  “Are you saying you believe me?”

  He nods. “You think I've forgotten the Christmas parade?”

  “Thank you!” I could barely believe my ears—it all seemed too … easy

  Then he says, “Could I have a word with you? Alone?”

  So I hop off the porch and have a little powwow with ol' Borschie right there in the middle of Hudson's walkway. And to my surprise he doesn't lecture me about leaving bruised and bloodied bodies on the lovely town-center lawn. What he says is, “I don't want you to worry about El Gato.”


  “Dave talked to you about him? Did he show you the picture?”

  “Yes,” he says, but it's a kind of hesitant yes. “And tomorrow will be El Gato's last day at Slammin' Dave's.”

  “Great! So who is he? Some parolee or something?”

  He starts to say something but stops himself. “Sammy, it's police business and I can't really discuss it with you, but I want you to know that things are being taken care of and you have no reason to be worried.”

  “So he is a criminal! We knew it! The guy is so creepy. Have you talked to him? Well, you must have, right? If you're investigating him?”

  “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…just do me a favor— please, please stay out of it. And make sure Holly does the same. I haven't been able to talk to her in person, but give her the message, would you?”

  “Sure. Oh, she'll be so happy to know El Gato's gonna be out of there. He must've pooped his pants when he saw the picture. He did see the picture, right?”

  Officer Borsch puts his finger in front of his mouth like, Shhh, then gives me a closed smile and says, “Police business, right?”

  “Right.”

  He says, “Okay then,” and starts to walk away, but then stops and turns. “What was the brawl with Heather about, anyway?”

  I shrug. “She tried to steal my lucky horseshoe.”

  “Your lucky horseshoe,” he says like, Uh-huh. Then he does the most surprising thing I've ever known Officer Borsch to do. He winks and says, “Well, unlucky her, huh?” then turns and walks away.

  When I got back to the porch, Casey said, “He seemed pretty cool.”

  My jaw was still dangling. “You don't understand! Officer Borsch is… unreasonable! Grumpy! Bullheaded!”

  Casey shrugged. “Didn't seem that way to me.”

  “Wow,” I mumbled, taking the horseshoe out of my pocket. “First school, then Heather, now Officer Borsch?” I looked at Casey. “I'm beginning to think this thing is lucky.”

  “What is that?” Hudson asked, and when I showed it to him, he said, “Ah. A horseshoe amulet.”