Luckily, Marissa had her mind more on Danny and Heather than on what I was hauling around on my back, so she didn’t even notice.
Now, I was actually pretty familiar with Heather’s house. Not because I’d ever been invited there. No, because I’d crashed a party there once. A costume party where Heather had no idea I was me.
Until later.
But anyway, Mrs. Acosta’s little red sports car was not in the driveway, which was a good thing. A run-in with Candi Acosta is like facing off with a chainsaw killer in high heels—you’re not sure whether you should run or laugh.
But since she wasn’t home, we didn’t have to worry about her, so we just snuck across the yard and peeked through the kitchen window.
Didn’t see a soul.
The kitchen looked pretty tidy, too—nowhere near disastrous.
We eased over to the family room.
Not a soul.
We spied over the back fence.
No one there, either.
So we crept along from one window to the next, looking inside, seeing a whole lot of nothing. And when we got to the end of the house, we turned the corner and made our way along a small aisle of dirt between a row of oleander bushes and the house, over to where we knew Heather’s bedroom was.
The oleander was great cover because it ran from the back of the house clear out to the sidewalk, but still, I was feeling really, I don’t know…voyeurish.
“Maybe we shouldn’t look,” I whispered.
“Maybe we should,” Marissa whispered back, and she sounded very ticked off.
But as she moved in closer and inched up to the window, I decided to just hang back. The last thing I wanted was to be caught spying through Heather Acosta’s bedroom window!
So while I knelt in the dirt, Marissa eeeeased up to the wall.
Her eyeball inched up over the windowsill.
And all of a sudden she choked back a gasp.
“What?” I whispered.
Her eyes were enormous as she waved me over.
And really, how could I not?
I went over and looked!
SIXTEEN
It was Danny and Heather, all right.
Kissing.
I turned around and slumped down the wall, saying, “Oh boy,” then dragged Marissa away from the window.
Tears were rolling from her eyes. “Ohmygod. Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod!”
“He’s a jerk, Marissa. There’s your proof.”
“She’s the jerk!” She flung back her tears. “I officially hate her more than you do!”
I let out a puffy-cheeked sigh. “Let’s get out of here, all right?”
“Where’s her mother?!” she asked, creeping along behind me. “Where’s Casey?”
I’d been wondering the “where’s Casey” part myself, but as we got to the corner of the house, it was the “where’s her mother” part that got answered.
A little red sports car was now parked in the driveway.
I grabbed Marissa’s arm and pointed. “Heather is so busted!” But all of a sudden Heather’s bedroom window scrapes open and we realize that we’re the ones about to be busted!
We dive into the bushes as Danny comes tumbling out the window headfirst. He lands on his hands and thumps to the ground, then just stays there a minute, cursing as he shakes out a wrist.
Now, Marissa and I are both holding our breath and trying to stay stock-still, but then there’s this sound. A sputtering, hissing, crackling sound.
Our eyes peel back as we look at each other like, What’s that? and all of a sudden water comes shooting out of little pipes sticking up from the ground. I get hit from the side, but Marissa’s practically sitting on one of the pipes and gets sprayed right across her butt.
She chokes back a scream and sort of penguins to the side as I try to cap the sprinkler with my hand. We’re not the only ones getting doused, though. Danny’s acting like a wet firecracker, sputtering curses as he shoots past us and escapes to the sidewalk.
I just want to bolt out of there, but Marissa’s scared to death of being seen by Danny. So we have to wait in the spurting sprinklers and mounting mud until she’s sure the coast must be clear. And then, when I go to make a break for it, she yanks me back and says, “What if Heather’s looking out a window?”
So instead of cutting across the yard, we stay behind the bushes and go over the sprinklers and through the dirt. By the time we’re on the sidewalk, we’re soaked, and caked with mud.
Marissa’s so upset about Danny, though, that she doesn’t even seem to care. She just marches along, her shoes squooshing like mad. “I can’t believe it! How can he possibly like her? Doesn’t he know how manipulative and conniving and evil she is? She spins a sticky little lemonade web and he jumps right in!”
Sometimes when you’re upset, you just need to get it out of your system. People giving you reasons why you shouldn’t be feeling the way you do won’t actually change the way you feel. It just makes you feel like people don’t really understand the way you feel.
So even though I thought Heather snagging Danny might be a good thing in the long run, in the short run Marissa needed to vent, and as a friend it was my job to help her. So I nod and say, “Heather’s like one of those brown recluse spiders.”
“She is,” Marissa says, looking at me with big eyes. “Small, sneaky, deadly…. Only she’s a red recluse!” But then her eyes suddenly brim with tears. “He kissed her! He seriously kissed her!”
I shake my head. “How could anyone even think about kissing a red recluse?”
“Exactly!”
“And then she dumped him out the window!”
“Well,” Marissa says, taking a deep, stuttery breath, “maybe this is all good.”
I suddenly felt very clever. By letting her vent, she’d figured it out on her own! She was finally getting over Danny Urbanski. “Exactly,” I said, trying not to sound like I was gloating.
She nodded. “It was probably going to take something like this for him to see her for what she is.”
I stopped short. “What? No! No, no, no! Danny is not that…mature. Danny is…an opportunist.”
“An opportunist?”
I shrugged and started walking again. “That’s what Grams calls people like him. They look for opportunities without really caring.”
She fell in step beside me. “Danny is not an opportunist. Heather’s the opportunist!”
I groaned. “Marissa, wake up. He was kissing Heather! What more proof do you need? He’s either an opportunist or an idiot!”
“He is not! He’s…he’s…” She started crying again. “I thought he liked me. I really did.”
I stopped her and let out a puffy-cheeked sigh as I gave her a hug. “I think part of him does, okay? But he would make a lousy boyfriend, and there’s no way he’s good enough for you.”
She shook her head. “My life’s a disaster. Everything is going wrong all at once. Danny, my family, no money, no phone…” She looked down at her shorts. “And I look like I peed my pants!”
I laughed because that’s exactly what it looked like.
“It’s not funny!”
“Yes, it is!”
She laughed a little. “No, it’s not!” Then she took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to go home.”
“Me too,” I said, ’cause even though my jeans didn’t look nearly as bad as her shorts, they were sticking to my legs and were all dirty from playing softball and I just wanted out of them.
When we got to Hudson’s, Marissa’s mom was on the porch with Hudson, deep in conversation. So rather than getting tangled up in any of that, I decided to be smart—I just waved hello, grabbed my board, and headed home.
On the way up the fire escape, I tried the door on the Landing of Death. It was still locked up tight, which actually made me feel relieved. Safer. The thought of people going up and down the fire escape, going in and out without being seen…it gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Especially s
ince the fifth-floor door is always “un-locked.”
Anyway, I got in fine, survived Grams’ “Good heavens, what happened to you?” fine, and was going into the bathroom to take a shower when all of a sudden an earthquake hits the building.
The walls shake.
The floor ripples.
The windows practically bust out of their frames.
I look over at Grams, and she just calmly shakes her head and says, “It must’ve been a doozy this time,” because it wasn’t actually an earthquake. That’s just what it feels like when Mrs. Wedgewood falls off the toilet.
Like an aftershock, the Wedge starts sledging the wall.
“This cannot go on,” Grams mutters as she checks the hallway. And when she sees that the coast is clear, she waves me along. “Come on.”
Now, really. I didn’t think anything could top the sight of Mrs. Wedgewood in all her bald, blubbery glory on the shower floor.
Boy, was I wrong.
We found her stuck between the toilet and the wall like we usually do, but this time she was facedown instead of facing us. A corner of her muumuu was dipping in the toilet bowl, but the rest of it was flipped up over her body. You couldn’t see much of the top half of her—just a puff of her big black wig and her hand clutching a toilet plunger.
But the bottom half of her was sticking straight up in the air, and her underwear had somehow snagged on the toilet paper roller, twisted, and stretched way up her crack.
It was, without a doubt, the biggest wedgie the world had ever seen.
“Don’t just stare!” Mrs. Wedgewood cries from behind the toilet. “Help me!”
Grams gasps, “How on earth…?” Then we sort of flutter around, trying to figure out how to tackle the problem. I mean, normally, we grab Mrs. Wedgewood under her armpits and heave-ho, but this time she’s facing the wrong way and we can’t even reach her armpits. All we’ve got to work with is a big ol’ butt.
“This is going to take a licensed engineer and a crane,” Grams mutters.
Apparently, Grams forgot that Mrs. Wedgewood has supersonic hearing. “That was not nice!” Wedgie Woman snaps.
“I’m sorry, Rose, but honestly—I don’t see a way to help you. We’re going to have to call the fire department.”
“No!” she cries. “Please. Think of something!”
Grams studies her a minute, then asks, “Do you have any rope?”
“Rope?” the Wedginator cries from behind the toilet. “What would you do with rope?!”
“Perhaps we could loop it around you and pull.”
Mrs. Wedgewood’s back end starts quivering in fear. It’s like big rolling hills of lard about to avalanche. “No! No rope!”
But talking about rope gives me an idea. “How about a sheet?”
Grams looks at me and nods. “That might work.”
So I jet off to Mrs. Wedgewood’s bedroom and rip the top sheet off her mattress, but on my way back I hear, “Knock-knock! Hello? Rose?”
I dive for cover inside the kitchen and hold my breath, thinking, This is not good.
Not good at all.
SEVENTEEN
In our hurry, we hadn’t closed Mrs. Wedgewood’s door all the way, and now we had company.
And it’s not someone who’s come to help.
Oh no. This someone has a phony sophisticated accent.
“Knock-knock!” the voice calls again. “Hello? Rose?” So I get down on my stomach and peek around the kick space of the cupboard, and sure enough, it’s Rex-the-Jackal-Randolf and he’s now standing inside. He’s wearing the exact same getup as before, only this time he’s holding a large box of chocolates instead of a bouquet of flowers.
“May I help you?” Grams asks, and she’s sounding pretty flustered.
“Why, hello there,” the Jackal says, cranking up the charm. “I’m Rex Randolf. And you are…?”
My brain’s shouting, Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it! But my grams believes in good manners and all that stuff, so she says, “Rita Keyes,” and shakes his hand. Then she starts easing him toward the door. “But I’m afraid you’ve come at a very bad time. Rose is…uh…not available.”
“I see,” he says. “Well, perhaps you can give her these and a message?”
Grams tells him, “Certainly,” then takes the box of chocolates and steers him toward the door.
“Tell her that I feel awful about last night. I was taken ill and just couldn’t make it.” He turns and sort of looks around when he reaches the door. “I hope she isn’t suffering the same misfortune!”
Grams eases him out without letting on about anything. “I’ll be sure to give her the message. And the chocolates.”
“Would it be all right to come back later today? I really should apologize in person.”
Grams starts to close the door. “I’m sure it would be.” Then she adds, “But I would suggest calling first.”
He steps back in. “Exactly what I would have done, but I didn’t have her number.”
Grams hesitates, then says, “Wait right here,” and practically trips on me as she comes into the kitchen. She catches herself, then scribbles down Mrs. Wedgewood’s number on a scrap of paper and goes back to where the Jackal’s waiting. “Here you are, Mr. Randolf.”
“It was very nice to make your acquaintance,” he says, tossing her a final smile as he leaves.
“Likewise,” she tells him, then shuts the door tight and locks it.
Now, this whole time Wedgie Woman hasn’t made a peep. And that would have been amazing except for the fact that she’s got bionic hearing, which is what was keeping her quiet. But the minute the door’s shut and locked, she cries, “He walked right in? I am mortified! Which one of you left the door open?” Then she wails, “Help me! I’m in pain!”
I could feel Grams thinking, You are a pain! but she just led the way to the bathroom, saying, “Rose, if this doesn’t work, I’m calling the fire department.”
“No!” the Wedge cries. “It’ll work, it’ll work!”
But as I stand there looking at those two big bumpy moons, I don’t know how in the world I’m ever going to get the sheet around her. I’m dealing with a complete roadblock of blubber on one side and a gaping toilet bowl with part of a muumuu soaking in it on the other.
“We’ve got to close the toilet,” Grams says, shaking her head. “Then you can stand on the lid and work the sheet around her.”
The first step in doing that was to take the muumuu out of the toilet. I tried not to think about what I was touching as I squeezed it dry with a towel.
“Maybe you could cover her up?” Grams whispers.
So I start to drape the muumuu over her behind, only just as I’m reaching over, she cuts the cheese.
I’m not talking a silent stink bomb, either.
This thing goes ptttttttttuuuuuuuuuppppppp, pttttttttup, blasting past her wedgie like a hurricane.
“Aaaaaah!” I cry as I get blown back.
“Sorry!” the Wedge-o-Matic says. “I couldn’t help it!”
After I recover from the shock of the blast, Grams and I try to wave the air clear, but really, it’s hopeless. And since the key to us getting out of there is getting the Big Wedge unwedged, I lower the toilet lid, climb aboard, and get to work.
It took about five minutes, but I did finally get the sheet around her. And when Grams had one end and I had the other, I said, “Okay, Mrs. Wedgewood. We’re going to try to pull you up. Help us any way you can.”
“Okay!” she cries.
So we grunt and groan, and just when I’m starting to think it’s hopeless, she suddenly pops free.
Grams collapses on the floor, panting for breath, and Mrs. Wedgewood leans on the toilet for a minute before untangling her undies. When she turns to face us, her wig’s half off, her face is practically purple, and her whole body’s shaking. So I grab her walker and hand it to her. “Oh, thank you, sugar,” she pants. “Thank you so much!”
She leans heavily on h
er walker, and when she’s caught her breath a little, she says, “I’ll have you know, that was no ordinary fall!” She turns to Grams, who is washing her hands at the sink. “This building still has mice, Rita! I almost cornered one, but he got away!”
“That’s how you wound up in that position?” Grams asks, looking over her shoulder. “Chasing a mouse?”
“I was chasing it down with the plunger when…when I stumbled and twisted wrong and lost my balance.” She pulls her wig into place. “Mice are dreadful creatures! Full of disease! And so destructive!”
I washed up, too, but Mrs. Wedgewood clickity-clacked straight out the door with her walker, saying, “I’m going to call Vince Garnucci right now! That little monster’s still on the loose in here, and I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight!”
But as Grams and I leave the bathroom and Mrs. Wedgewood clacks toward the kitchen, I hear something. Something that I’d never heard before at the Wedge’s apartment.
A phone ringing.
Our phone ringing.
Right through the wall.
It didn’t matter who was calling or why. What mattered was I could hear it, because if I could hear it now, the Jackal had heard it the night before.
Suddenly it felt like all the blood in my head just whooshed away.
Escaped.
Went somewhere safer.
The Domino’s Pizza bit was a big mistake.
What was I going to do?
The biggest messes I’ve gotten into seem to happen because of the little things I do wrong. Actually, they seem to happen because of the things I do to cover up the little things I do wrong.
Somehow the covering up becomes its own, even bigger mistake.
Which then needs covering up.
Anyway, I really do try to learn from my mistakes. I try not to make the same one twice. But mistakes are tricky. They’re sneaky little masters of disguise. They dress up in so many different ways that you don’t recognize them, and then all of a sudden they pull off their mask and say, Ha-ha, and there you are, face to face with a mistake you swore you’d never make again.
But as Mrs. Wedgewood called Mr. Garnucci and Grams peeked down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear for us to go back home, my brain was still trying to remember who knew what and who didn’t know what. I needed to remember so I could figure out what to do about Rex Randolf. The Sandman had seen Grams with Mrs. Wedgewood at Monte Carlo night, but did Rex-the-Jackal-Randolf know that Grams was Grams? I mean, had he seen them together on their way down or something?
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Page 10
