Holly shakes her head. “Me neither. I think they were up all night plotting their strategy.”
“But you like it there okay?”
She shrugs and says, “We’ll see how long it lasts. French toast for breakfast, though, and Lucy gets to sleep with me.” She looks down and toes the ground. “Uh, Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
I smile. “Sure. I hope it works out.” I look at her schedule and say, “Classes today are really short ’cause of the softball game.”
“What softball game?”
“The last hour and a half of school everyone goes out to the field to watch the playoffs. You’ll see.” I hand her schedule back and say, “We’ve got three classes together, so don’t worry about getting confused. I’ll help you. Right now we’d better get over to English and listen to Miss Pilson read to us in a foreign language.”
She gives me kind of a puzzled look, but after we’re in English listening to Miss Pilson read Shakespeare, she grins at me because she knows exactly what I’m talking about.
At lunch Holly sat out at the patio tables with us and pretty much just listened to us talk about the game and what the field was going to be like after all that rain. When the bell rings, she says, “Good luck today, you guys,” and you can tell that she really is excited for us to win.
When game time finally rolls around, Dot, Marissa, and I zip off to our own little corner of the locker room, and we’re pretty happy, whispering and giggling about how we’re going to win. Then, while Marissa and Dot fix their hair, I run off to the bathroom. And I’m not gone for more than two minutes, but when I get back my mitt is not where I left it.
At first I think they’re playing a joke on me. I mean, they’re right there, you know? Who’s going to run up and steal my mitt with them standing there? So I say, “All right, you guys, give it back.”
Marissa looks at me through the mirror. “Give what back?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Now, give it back.”
They both turn around. “Give what back?”
Well, looking at their faces, I can see they don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. So I look under the bench and inside my locker, and then I run back to the bathroom and check, even though I know I didn’t take it with me.
When I come back, I say, “It was right here on the bench with yours. What could’ve …?” Then I see Tenille and Heather huddled up in a corner, looking like they’ve just snuck in the EXIT doors at the movies.
I go up to Heather and say, “Hey, that’s really not cool—give it back.”
She snickers and says, “Since when do you know anything about being cool?” She tightens the laces of her cleats. “Besides, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
My heart’s beating pretty fast, and I’m dying to throw her against the lockers, but I just stand there and try one more time. “Heather, you’re not going to win the game by stealing my mitt. Now, c’mon. I know you’ve got it, just give it back and let’s play each other fair and square.”
She gives me a sour little smile. “ ‘Play each other fair and square, play each other fair and square.’ Isn’t that just like you, you little cheater.” She puts on her glove, punches it with her fist, and says, “Good luck, Sammy. You’re gonna need it,” then turns her back on me.
I march straight up to the phys. ed. office. And when I tell Ms. Rothhammer what’s happened, she says, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She grabs her keys and comes flying down the steps into the locker room, then corners Heather and says, “I’d like you to open your locker for me. Right now.”
By now all the eighth graders have figured out that something’s going on and they’re all huddled up in pockets, whispering to each other. But since they can’t figure out exactly what’s happened until they break down and ask a seventh grader, they just watch while Heather goes over to her locker and pops it open.
Heather says, “See? I don’t have it. She’s just trying to get me in trouble again.”
Ms. Rothhammer mutters, “Yeah, like the way she forced you to spit on her after the last game.” Then, without missing a beat, she turns to Tenille and says, “Open your locker.”
Panic whitewashes Tenille’s face. She stutters, “Ms. Rothhammer, I … I don’t have it—really!”
Ms. Rothhammer puts her hands on her hips. “Open it. Now!”
So we go over to Tenille’s locker, and while she’s flipping the combination around, I see the eighth graders on our team break down and wave Marissa and Dot over so they can find out what’s going on. So the rest of my team’s in one corner of the locker room and I’m with Ms. Rothhammer in another, and when Tenille finally gets her locker open, all Ms. Rothhammer finds is some dirty socks and a pack of cigarettes.
She takes the cigarettes and says to Tenille, “I’ll deal with you about these later.” She turns to the rest of the players and says, “I want this locker room turned upside down. You know what Sammy’s mitt looks like. Find it!”
My team does just that, but Heather’s team only pretends to look. And after ten minutes of us finding nothing, Ms. Rothhammer comes back with one of the school’s gloves. “This is the best I can do, Sammy. I’m sorry. We’ve got to get out there—we’re already late.”
Now, the glove isn’t a catcher’s mitt. It isn’t even a first-baseman’s mitt. It’s a glove that barely covers my fingers. And running out to the field with the rest of the team, I’m thinking that I’d be better off bare-handed.
Miss Pitt tries to fire us up during warm-ups, but Marissa’s pretty worried and I’m really upset, and I guess it’s kind of contagious, because we can hear Mr. Vince’s team count off better than we can hear ourselves.
We’re up first, and while Dot’s getting in some warm-up swings, I try getting used to the glove I’ve got to use. But the more I work it, the more it feels like I’ve got a porcupine stuck in my throat, and hard as I try, I can’t keep my eyes from dripping.
Then the strangest thing happens. It’s like a flash going through my brain. I see Father Mayhew staring out the window of his office, crying. And all at once I know, way down inside, how he feels about his cross being stolen.
I stay there for a few more minutes, sniffing and dripping, but pretty soon Dot’s in the batter’s box and I’ve got to get on deck, so I swallow the porcupine, hurl the mitt under the bench, and head out.
The crowd’s sounding like a giant Morse code machine, chanting, “Dot-Dot-Dot!” and even though she swings at the first pitch and misses, she practically cracks the bat slamming out a line drive on the second one. But it’s a line drive straight to Gisa Kranz, and even though Dot flies over to first, she’s out.
When I get up to bat, I eye Babs Filarski’s mitt and I guess she knows I’m thinking maybe I can borrow it, because she snorts, “Dream on!”
I didn’t even connect. When Babs called, “Swing!” I swung, and before I knew it, it was Xandi’s turn to bat and I was back riding pine.
And after Xandi struck out, well, it was basically all over. No one seemed to be able to hit, and when we were in the field, I couldn’t catch, I couldn’t throw—I could barely remember the signals. In the last inning Heather drove in the final run and we got shut out, 5–0.
Afterward, Mr. Vince’s team was more than happy to shake our hands, and Heather was more than happy to sneer at me and say, “Good game!”
I didn’t spit on her, but let me tell you, I wasn’t standing there feeling sorry for her, either. I was mad. Mad at her for taking the one thing that made me feel like somewhere I really did have a dad, and mad at myself for not being able to play without it. And standing there watching her sneer at me, I knew—she and Tenille had ditched a whole day of school so they could figure out a way to get me to blow the game.
I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Maybe you won the game, Heather, but anyone who’d steal someone else’s mitt is a loser. A big loser.”
On the walk home Marissa’s going on and on about how embarrassing the game was, and when she says, “Did you hear him out there? ‘Go, Marissa! C’mon, Marissa!’—Danny was actually cheering for me and I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn!” I yell, “Stop it! Just stop it! The whole thing’s my fault. You know it, I know it, the whole team knows it! I’m sorry, okay?”
Marissa shuts up for a second and Dot says, “C’mon, Sammy. It wasn’t your fault. Everybody made mistakes.”
I look at her and just shake my head because no matter what she said, no matter what anybody said, it wasn’t going to change the fact that I’d let Heather get to me.
Get to me big time.
Marissa turned off to play video games at the mall, and Dot decided she had to go straight home, so I just rested on the curb outside St. Mary’s for a few minutes before going inside.
St. Mary’s is a big church. A really big church. If you count the parish hall and the priest’s quarters, it takes up a whole square block. The church has a tower that goes up about six stories, and on the very tippy-top, looking like it’s trying to snag the clouds, is a big brass cross.
And sitting on the curb looking up, I see a big purple and white banner flapping against the tower that reads HAVE MERCY! Then the KSMY Roving Reporter Newsvan comes whipping past me and I can see Zelda Quinn scribbling like crazy on a notepad.
If you’ve ever been to Santa Martina and turned on the news, you know who Zelda Quinn is. She’s the only newscaster on the planet with a skunk-do. It’s puffy and black—all except for this white streak that goes from above her right eye clear over the top of her head and down the back of her neck.
So when I saw the skunk-do streaking down Church Street, I knew that Zelda Quinn had been to St. Mary’s to get the scoop on the Sisters of Mercy. And when I turned up the church walkway, instead of the usual list of Mass times, the marquee read:
Experience the World-Famous
SISTERS of MERCY
in a
GOSPEL CONCERT
THU, FRI & SAT—7 PM
$15 Cash Donation
Taped to the front door of the church are posters of the Sisters of Mercy singing and dancing, in their habits and in costumes, and on a table right inside the church is a stack of fliers like the ones Dot, Marissa, and I plastered all over the neighborhood.
So between the banner flapping on the tower, the marquee, the posters, and the fliers, there’s no way you could be anywhere near St. Mary’s and not know something big was going on.
And I was just wondering how I could get my hands on a ticket when I hear music blasting out of the church. I’m not talking organ music, or even piano. I’m talking drums and electric guitar—loud music.
I go through the foyer and there’s Sister Bernice up at the altar with two giant speakers and the biggest boom box I’ve ever seen, saying, “Check! Check!” into a microphone.
Sister Abigail is on the far end of the church and she waves at Bernice to shut off the music. “Boost the lows, cut the mids, and roll off a bit of the high end. And try angling the speakers out some. The slap-back’s awful back here!”
Bernice plays with the boom box and speakers for a minute and then calls, “Ready?”
Abigail nods and up comes the music again. She moves from one end of the church to the other, then up close and far away. After a minute Bernice starts singing into one mike and Clarice goes back and forth between two other mikes, singing a harmony part, and wow—they were good!
When they were all done with their sound check, Bernice waves to me and calls, “Sammy, angel! Am I glad to see you!” She hurries down the aisle and says, “Are you handy with an iron?”
Before I can answer, she whisks me down a hall to a room at the back of the church, and there, hanging from cabinet knobs and closet doors are costumes. Bright, wild costumes.
And as I’m standing there with my mouth gaping open, trying to picture the Sisters of Mercy rocking out in feathers and sequins and purple satin, Bernice grabs the skirt of a gown and says, “Most of these are all right, but some of them need a touch-up.” One side of her mouth tries to smile, but the other just stays put. “At most parishes the other Sisters help us out, but here—well, God’s given us a real challenge. Would you mind, lamb?”
Just then Father Mayhew walks in, looking a little flustered. He smiles and says, “Samantha! Oh, good. Will you be helping the Sisters out?”
I say, “Sure,” even though the last time I tried ironing something it was for my mother, and as far I know, some of Lady Lana’s blouse is still on her iron.
But I set up and get to work. At first I’m pretty slow. Instead of steam, the water’s coming out in little puddles, and all I’m doing is making the clothes look wet and blotchy. But after a couple of skirts I start to get the hang of it, and pretty soon I’m slapping that iron around like I’ve been doing it all my life.
While I’m working I’m not thinking about fabric. I’m thinking about the game. And the more thinking I do about the game, the faster I iron, and pretty soon I’m in my own little cloud of steam, not noticing I’ve got company.
I don’t know how long she’d been watching me, but when I looked up and saw Josephine standing in the doorway I about branded the ceiling.
“I figured they’d shanghaied you into doing their dirty work,” she says. Then she thumps her cane on the floor. “Sister Mary Margaret’s come down with the flu. We really need you over at the kitchen … if you don’t mind.”
Now I’m not about to argue with her—not with the way her cane’s starting to wobble and all. I just unplug the iron and follow her over to the soup kitchen.
Right after we get there, Brother Phil blows in all out of breath. And while his stomach’s pumping in and out like a giant bellows, he plasters his hair back in place and says, “I walked in on him going through my room at the seminary! Can you believe that?”
Sister Josephine whips around and says, “Mayhew? You caught Father Mayhew going through your room?”
Phil says, “The Holy Highness himself. I walked in on him tearing apart my closet. Can he just do that? Isn’t there a law or something?”
Sister Josephine thinks about this a minute, then scowls and says, “Probably not. The seminary is church property.” She looks at him sideways, “Well? Did he find anything?”
“I tell you, I didn’t take it! Any of it!”
Sister Josephine just shrugs like, If you say so…
Phil turns pink as a petunia. “What—what are you saying?”
Just then someone rattles the door really loud. Sister Josephine and Brother Phil keep right on staring each other down, but I look up at the clock and see that we’re late. So while Phil and Josephine are busy spitting insults at each other, I go over to the refrigerator and pull food and drinks out until all that’s left is the lightbulb. Then I set everything up and prop open the door, and when I look back across the room, Phil is going off in a huff out one door, and Josephine’s going off in a huff out another.
I wound up running the whole show by myself, and actually, it was easy. No one tried to steal extra food, and the one thing I was kind of worried about—Mr. Tattoo coming through—never happened. I just passed out food until all the people were gone, then I popped the leftovers back in the refrigerator, punched the knob lock, and closed the door.
On the way home, I stopped by Hudson’s. I went up on the porch and could see him through the living room window, watching TV. He waves me inside and who’s he checking out on the TV? The Sisters of Mercy, rockin’ and rollin’ at St. Mary’s altar.
And it’s kind of strange, seeing them on television. It’s almost like watching some crazy rock video instead of the news. Then the came
ra turns away from the altar and focuses on Santa Martina’s very own Skunk Reporter.
Zelda shouts over the music, “It promises to be some show, and for a good cause. Performances are at 7:00 P.M. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday at St. Mary’s Church.” She smiles and says, “Zelda Quinn, KSMY News.”
Hudson shuts off the TV. “Aren’t those nuns dynamic? St. Mary’s has needed something like this for years.” He tugs one of his bushy eyebrows and says, “Well, I’m convinced. I’m going.” Then he winks at me and says, “And I’m taking your grandmother with me, whether she wants to go or not.”
I’m busy picturing Grams at the show with her chin down to her chest and her hands over her ears, when Hudson says, “What’s troubling you?”
I blink at him. “Um, I was just thinking that maybe Grams wouldn’t be the best company at the show because …”
He shakes his head and says, “Out with it. Your aura’s dim, and if I know you, it’s got to be something big to have you this down.”
“My aura? What are you talking about?”
He frowns. “Your energy glow. It’s almost completely gone. Now, out with it, Sammy.”
So I sigh and sit down. And once I start, I can’t seem to stop. I tell him about the softball tournament and my mitt and Heather, and how empty I feel inside. And then I tell him about Father Mayhew and his cross, and how upset I’d been that he’d accused me, but that now I understand a lot better why he did it.
Hudson nods, but he looks very serious and he doesn’t say a word.
Finally, I ask, “Hudson?”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
He eyes me and says, “That you’re the lucky one.”
“Lucky? Me?”
He nods again. “At least you know whom to distrust. Not knowing your enemy makes you jump at the sight of your own shadow. It makes for a very unnerving existence.”
Well, if there was one thing I hadn’t thought of myself as being, it was lucky. But I sat there imagining not having a clue who had taken my mitt, and he was right—that would be worse.
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy Page 11
