Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary (19 page)

And being around him hadn't felt weird or awkward. I hadn't worried about what to say or do. I'd just been me, and he'd
liked
me.

I don't know how I wound up with the picture back in my hands. Everyone else had turned to look at the blueprints, but there I was, hypnotized by a picture of an old truck.

Marissa whispers, “Sammy? Sammy, are you all right?”

I wasn't. I was feeling very strange. Almost dizzy. And my heart was doing weird things, skipping around, like it wasn't really sure where it should go.

“Sammy?”

It barely came out a whisper. “He trusted me. And now he believes Heather.
Heather
.”

“What are you talking about?”

I look up at her. “I've got to straighten things out with Casey.”

“What?”

I put down the picture and said it louder. “I've got to go straighten things out with Casey.”

Marissa's eyebrows went way up. “Seriously?”

Holly turns to us and says, “What are you guys talking about?”

Marissa smiles and says, “She wants to go straighten things out with Casey.”

Holly looks at me and then at Lucinda poring over the blueprints.
“Now?”

I'd never felt like this before. Murdocks and Huntleys, developers and real-estate snakes—they could wait. But somehow, straightening things out with Casey couldn't.

Lucinda takes one look at me and says, “You go on. I need some time to think this through on my own, anyway.”

At least Holly's still got her wits about her. She asks Lucinda, “What are you going to do when Kevin comes back?”

“I don't know. Kevin's thumbprint may be on this, but he's still my kin. Nothing can ever change that.”

We left her to study the Gold Hills Country Club blueprints, and as we made our way out to the road, Marissa starts right in quizzing me about Casey: What am I going to
say
to him? Does this mean I
like
him? Do I want her to come
with
me…?

Then Holly cuts in with stuff like: You don't even know where he
lives,
and, How are you going to
get
there? and, Why don't you just find out his number and
call
him?

And it's funny—normally I would've told them to be quiet so I could figure it all out—
plan
it all out—but for some reason I just kept on walking, saying stuff like, I don't know, and, I'll see.

Finally, I ask Dot, “Have you heard of Golden Oak Circle?”

“No…why? Is that the street he lives on?”

A grin escapes as I say, “Yup. 782,” but I catch it right away and lock it back up. “Golden Oak sounds like it would be around here somewhere.”

Marissa eyes me. “How do you know he lives there?”

I shrug and say, “He told me.”

“And you
remembered
.”

Marissa's switching over to the Love Channel fast, but Dot's got a different frequency in mind: the Food Channel. She says, “Why are we walking so slow? Isn't anyone but me starving?”

So we speed it up, and when we get to the DeVrieses', the rest of the family has already eaten, so we chow down on leftover pumpernickel and cheese sandwiches. And while Nibbles is vacuuming up leftovers, Mrs. DeVries digs up a map so I can figure out where Golden Oak Circle is.

It turned out to be right in Pioneer Village, four streets down from Wagonwheel Road. And even though I felt kind of queasy, heading off on my own, I knew I couldn't arrive at Casey's house with an entourage of friends. It'd be too…you know, fourth grade.

But by the time I got to the main road, I was asking myself some of the same things Marissa had asked me: What was I going to say? What if he didn't listen? Why was I doing this, anyway? And the more my brain bombarded me with questions, the more I knew I had to shut them off or I'd turn around. So I cranked the bike pedals as hard as I could and hauled my way up to Pioneer Village.

By the time I'd passed by Wagonwheel Road, I was so out of breath my brain couldn't think about anything but oxygen. Then I spotted Golden Oak Circle, and there came those questions again. And at the top of the list, repeating itself again and again, was, What am I
doing
here?

But there I was. And after hanging across the street from 782 for a few minutes, I crossed over, parked Hudson's bike on the grass, and went up to the front door.

And when I punched the button and heard the doorbell ringing inside, well, I almost turned around and ran. Why did I care what Casey thought? So he thought I called the cops. So what?

Then the door swings open, and there he is, right in front of me.

I look down and blurt out, “I had nothing to do with calling the police. Maybe I
should've,
but I didn't. And the reason there was a policeman over at Dot's when you came by was because somebody burned down this old pioneer cabin up the road from Dot's, and we happened to find the gas can.”

For a minute, he doesn't say anything. Then he asks,

“Are you talking about the Huntley cabin?”

“That's right.”

“My dad was talking about that this morning.” He came out onto the porch and closed the door. “But you're saying someone
lit
it?”

“Uh-huh.” So I told him all about the cabin and Lucinda and the Murdocks hating the Huntleys, and how we'd figured out that there were developers dying to turn that whole area of land into some ritzy country club estates. And I don't even remember doing it, but somewhere in the middle of me talking, we wind up sitting down on the porch steps, right next to each other.

Now while I'm talking, I'm looking at my high-tops or the grass in the yard, or the phone lines stretching across the street. I'm sure not looking at him. Oh, I glance at him every now and then, but right away I go back to looking at something else.

Trouble is,
he's
looking at
me
. And I keep forgetting parts of the story and having to put them in later because I'm distracted by the fact that my cheeks are on fire and I have no idea what in the world he's
thinking
.

Finally, I say, “So there. That's the story. And you probably don't even care, but I don't like it when people accuse me of things I didn't do. And really, this whole thing is my fault because I shouldn't have been at the party in the first place.”

“It was fine that you were there.”

“No, no it wasn't. Those people may be your friends— or friends of your friend's brother—but they're not my friends, and they're not people I want to know or hang around.”

“Oh come on, they're not that bad. I've been friends with Taylor since we were six. Jake, too. They can both get kind of crazed, but you just flow with them and say no thanks when you want to say no thanks.”

“So what if where they're flowing is not where you want to go? What if where they're flowing's going to pull you down and drown you?”

He shrugs. “Then you just bail.”

“What if you can't? What if you don't even see where you're going until it's too late? What if—”

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me a little. “Hey, take it easy! Everyone's fine. Why are you being so intense?”

Now I couldn't answer that. But something about the whole situation bothered me. Really bothered me. I mean, if Casey treated me like Taylor did—or even Jake,
or Heather or Tenille for that matter—I probably wouldn't give it another thought. But he didn't treat me like his friends did. And he didn't act like them, either. So what was he doing, being part of the pack?

And I was about to ask him if he was friends with Taylor and Jake because he'd been friends with them for so long, or because he still really liked them, but before I could he gives me a little smile and says, “And thanks for the story, but I already knew you didn't call the cops.”

“You…you did?”

He nods. “Taylor called about an hour ago and said they found out that their neighbors complained. Disturbance of the peace. And everything would've been cool, except Karl got mouthy and pretty soon the whole party got busted. The real problem is, the cops found Karl's stash of meth.”

“Meth? What's that?”

“Oh, you know. Speed. Crank.”

I stared at him. “No, I
don't
know.”

“Oh. Well, you know what cocaine is, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, meth—methamphetamine—is kind of a cheap cocaine.”

“Have…have you ever tried it?”

He laughs, “No!”

“So how do you know all this stuff?”

He kind of shrugs and says, “I don't know. You pick it up. Ben used to be seriously into meth, and Karl started pinching from him. Now Ben's like born again and thinks meth's a tool of the devil. The point is Karl tried meth in
the first place because he saw Ben doing it.” He eyes me and says, “All this is according to Taylor and Karl—I never actually witnessed any of this myself, so don't go spouting it as gospel.”

I nod, but don't say a word.

“Anyway, after you guys left, Ben came back and caught
Taylor
snorting meth and he lost it. Absolutely raged. And the shouting's what set the neighbors off.”

I sat there, stunned. I mean, sure, I know there are kids at school who smoke and drink beer, and I've heard rumors about ones who smoke more than cigarettes, but I don't actually
know
them. They're always people that
other
people know.

Finally, I whisper, “Doesn't it bother you that Taylor did that?”

He nods and looks down. “Yeah, actually it does. But it's not like he's a drug addict or something. I mean, it was his first time—he just
tried
it.”

“But according to you, Ben used to be seriously into the stuff. Like, he was addicted, right?”

Casey shrugs. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“So he would know. Better than you, better than me, better than his parents or Taylor or even the
police,
why his little brother shouldn't even
try
it, right?”

“Yeah. But Sammy, c'mon. He didn't have to lose it like that. Karl and Taylor think he's a total hypocrite and they're blaming everything on him. And now Karl, at least, is going to have some kind of a police record.”

He stands and puts a hand out to help me up. “I also can't see bailing on Taylor and Jake as friends—I've
known them too long. Besides, it would be weird not hanging with them. We're like, tight.” He's still got my hand as he says, “You want to come in for something to drink?”

“I um…I really should get back to Dot's.”

“How long's it take to get something to drink? Besides, you have to come in for a minute. I've got your skateboard to give you.”

So I let him guide me inside. Through a foyer, past the living room and its half-brown Christmas tree, into the dining room. And I'd barely sat down on one of the breakfast bar stools when the refrigerator closes and my heart stops mid-beat because standing there with a jug of orange juice in her hand is Heather Acosta.

I felt like I was hallucinating. But even in mangled hair and an oversize T-shirt, even with puffy eyes and saggy socks, there was no mistaking the Rabid Redhead.

My mind just exploded with explanations—It was a trap. A cruel joke. Heather was his girlfriend. Heather had gotten so drunk she'd lost her way home…You name it, I thought it.

The only thing I
didn't
think—because I couldn't even imagine it—was the truth.

Heather stands there with her fist wrapped around the orange juice jug, looking back and forth between Casey and me. Finally, she says, “My brother and the Narc. How sweet.”

I felt like she'd slugged me in the stomach. Her
brother?
And as I'm gasping for air, I'm telling myself that it
can't
be. I mean, I'd been to Heather's house before. I knew where she lived, and it sure wasn't here!

I looked at Casey and then back at Heather, and all of a sudden I could see a family resemblance; all of a sudden the explanation clicked. He lived with their father; she lived with their mother. Separate, but tied by blood. Forever.

And watching Casey argue with his sister, I felt nauseous. Here he was, the only guy to ever hold my hand,
the only guy I'd ever been able to just talk to and laugh with and be comfortable being
me
around, and he was Heather Acosta's brother.

Her
brother
.

I couldn't deal. I just slid off the stool and headed for the door.

Casey chases after me, calling, “Wait! Sammy, wait!” and comes down the porch steps, saying, “I'm sorry! I haven't seen her all day. I thought she was gone.”

I pick up my bike and choke out, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what? That she's staying here?”

“No! That you were her brother!”

“But…how could you
not
know that?”

I whip around and say, “All I know about you, Casey, is that you live at 782 Golden Oak Circle, you like skateboarding, mountain biking, skiing, and baseball, and you eat salsa with your macaroni and cheese. You never said your name was Casey
Acosta,
or I might have had a clue. You never called Heather ‘my sister,’ or hey, I might've known.”

“But…”