Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  Grams blinked.

  Mom blinked.

  I smiled and went into the bedroom to change.

  But as I snuck down the fire escape to meet Grams and Mom out front, I couldn't help grumbling to myself that so far the second thirteen was just like the first thirteen, only pinker and itchier.

  Little did I know that it was about to get a whole lot more uncomfortable.

  The Santa Martina Inn has a large circular drive that lets limousines drop prom and wedding people off at the front doors so they don't get their hairdos blown apart by the wonderful Santa Martina winds. My mother, of course, was all for Hudson dropping us off So we females got out and stood around the lobby checking out the scrolled wood and chandeliers and stained-glass partitions until the male showed up.

  How nineteenth century can you get?

  The hostess led us into the dining room and seated us at a square table with thick white linens, an arsenal of utensils, and enough drinking glasses to drown yourself. And then a waiter in a white coat and black bow tie came over and said, “Four buffets?” through his nose. I felt like saying, “Dude, get a grip—this is Santa Martina,” but Hudson just smiled and said, “Yes,” then added, “it's my young friend's birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” the waiter said to me, like he had thorns on his tongue. Then in a flash he started picking up side plates, glasses, and utensils, until all we had left was your basic plate, glass, fork, knife, and spoon. “Enjoy,” he said, and hurried off.

  “Enjoy?” Grams asked, looking around.

  Hudson laughed and pointed to a side room. “The buffet's right back there.” He smiled around the table. “Shall we?”

  Now, as I'm getting up to follow Hudson over to the buffet, I notice who's sitting two tables away from us. And let me tell you, I about fall over.

  Grams grabs me by the fuzzy pink arm. “Are you all right?”

  I look again, and it's no hallucination. It's them, all right. All four of them.

  Together.

  “The Acostas are here,” I whisper through my teeth.

  Casey's straight ahead, with his dad to his right and his mom right across from him, with her back to us. And seated between Casey and his mom is his sinister sister.

  Heather.

  Casey spots me and grins, sending me a “hey” with the twitch of his fork. I turn my back, and believe me, my instinct is to bolt from the building.

  Now, Grams has seen Candi Acosta and her daughter in action before and knows exactly why I'm petrified. But she says through her teeth, “They're in public. They'll be civilized. Just ignore them.” Then, as she works me toward the buffet, she asks, “Is that Casey?”

  “Stop looking over there!”

  “Who's Casey?” my mom asks. “Who are the Acostas?”

  Grams shakes her off and asks me, “Is that the father?”

  “Yes! Now stop staring!”

  “But I thought they were divorced!”

  “They are.”

  “So why are they all having a fancy brunch together?”

  “How should I know?”

  “There are presents on the table!”

  “Grams!”

  “Would somebody please explain to me who these people are?” my mother demands.

  I duck inside the buffet room saying, “My archenemy, her wicked mother, her brother, and her dad.”

  “So what's the big deal?” my mom asks. “What are they going to do to you here?”

  “Nothing,” Grams says firmly. “They're going to do nothing at all.”

  Hudson was already halfway down the buffet table, his plate heaped high. So I walked along the chafing dishes and tried to calm down. I told myself that it didn't matter. That it was a free country and people I hated could eat here if they wanted to. But something about seeing all four Acostas together had totally shot my appetite. I mean, when I first found out Casey was Heather's brother, that was it—I never wanted to talk to him again. I figured if he was an Acosta, he was sure to have venom in his veins.

  But then he'd sort of worked his way back into my life—mostly by sticking up for me around his sister. And it was kinda fun having him as a… well, friend, I guess. I mean, it's not like I have a crush on him or anything, and even though friend is really too strong of a word, I don't know what other word to use.

  But seeing all four of them together at a fancy restaurant as a family, well, it brought back into focus what I'd thought in the first place—he was, and always would be, Heather's brother.

  “Sammy?” Hudson was standing beside me, looking at my plate. “You've barely taken a thing!”

  “I'm sorry. I'm… I'm…”

  Grams whispered, “Heather's here.”

  “Where?” Hudson asked, and it made me laugh. I mean, even though he was carrying a plate of food, he was willing to do battle right then and there.

  All of a sudden I felt better. Hudson Graham was a real friend. Not some part-timer. Not some pretender. He was always there when I needed him. So I said, “Thanks, Hudson,” and decided that there was no way I should let the Acostas ruin my birthday brunch.

  I got busy putting food on my plate. Lots of it. And I was in the middle of dishing up some home-style potatoes when a voice over my shoulder said, “Try that with verde sauce and sour cream—it's god-like.”

  It was Casey's voice, and it tickled my ear. Tingled down my spine. And before I could say, “Go away,” he said, “I never thought I'd see you in pink.”

  “Blame her,” I said, and scowled in my mother's direction.

  “Your mom?” he asked.

  I shrugged and nodded.

  “So where's your dad?”

  I shook my head. “Let's not go there….”

  He was following me along the table, filling up a plate of his own. “Divorce City, huh? Fun place to live, I know.”

  I faced him. “So why are the four of you having a chummy Sunday brunch? Doesn't look like Divorce City to me.”

  He made a friendly smirk and shrugged. “They try to be civilized on our birthdays.”

  “On your… birthdays?”

  “Uh-huh.” He put two pieces of bacon on his plate and two on mine. I just stood there staring. Finally I choked out, “Are you saying it's your birthday?” My heart was pounding, because somehow I knew what he was going to say next.

  And he did.

  “Nah—it's Heather's. Her thirteenth.” He laughed. “Now she's officially bad luck.”

  Normally I would have laughed, but nothing about this was funny “But… but it's not today, is it? I mean, you're just celebrating today, right?”

  “No, it's today.” He cocked his head and asked, “Why? What's the big deal?”

  I just stared at him like a zombie.

  “Sammy?”

  I sort of shook my head, and it barely came out a whisper when I said, “Never mind.”

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah. I just… I need to go sit down….”

  My mother was waiting in the wings and was all aglow as she walked with me back to our table. “He is very cute, Samantha! And the way he put food on your plate and was attending to you… my!”

  I sat down and pretended to eat, but my stomach was all in knots.

  Heather Acosta and I had the same birthday.

  How could this be?

  “Mom?” I whispered. “You know how you keep secrets from me?”

  “Well, I wouldn't exactly say—”

  “Mom!” I snapped, looking at her all intense-like. “If today isn't really my birthday, you have to tell me right now.”

  “Isn't your birthday? Why wouldn't it be your birthday?”

  “Well, it isn't my fourteenth birthday! Maybe you changed the whole thing—you know how you changed your birthday so people in Hollywood would think—”

  “That was a completely different situation!”

  I leaned in and said through my teeth, “But you've been known to change entire birthdays! Not just the year! I need to
know! Was I born today or not!”

  My mother looked from side to side, assessing the amount of social damage I'd caused. “It is your birthday, Samantha. You are now thirteen years old.”

  My face crinkled up. “Please tell me that's a lie!”

  “Why?”

  I looked from her to Grams, then Hudson, and finally I choked out, “Because today is Heather's birthday.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Grams whispered, “You must be joking,” as she turned to look at the Acosta table.

  Mom looked, too, whispering, “She doesn't look like a very pleasant person….”

  “No duh! Which is why I do not want to have the same birthday as her!”

  Mom shrugged. “Well, there's nothing I can do about that.” Then she added, “But the boy is cute, and the father is certainly handsome.”

  “Like that has anything to do with anything?”

  By now Hudson was turned around in his chair, studying the Acosta table, too. And I told them to quit staring, but they all kept looking back, making comments about the Acostas.

  That is, until the Acostas started looking at us.

  It started with Casey's dad catching Casey flash me a peace sign. Pretty soon he's looking over, and then Heather gets in on the action, flashing angry eyes our way. Then Mrs. Acosta turns around in her seat and gets all spun up.

  “Great,” I said. “Just great.”

  I tried to eat, but I just couldn't. And Hudson kept giving me reassuring smiles and winks, but it was hopeless—my stomach was knotted like a hangman's noose, slipping tighter and tighter, until it felt like it was going to kill me.

  Everyone else did okay, and Hudson was great at keeping a conversation going with Grams and Mom. He complimented Mom on her portrayal of Jewel on Lords, and my mom was super sweet to Hudson, saying things like, “This is such a treat!” and “You're delightful!” and “No wonder my mother likes your company!”

  Grams kicked her under the table good for that one.

  And then my mom saw somebody walk by with a strawberry cream-cheese tart and said, “Oh! I haven't had one of those in ages!” She turned to me. “Why don't you come with me?”

  I almost said, Nah, but Hudson caught my eye and gave me a wise nod. So I got up and followed my mom back to the buffet room. And silly me, I thought my mom wanted to be with me, but no—she wanted to gossip about Hudson. “Don't you think he's perfect for her? Don't you think—”

  “God, Mom, where have you been?”

  “What do you mean?”

  But all of a sudden Casey's dad is standing there. He smiles at my mom and says, “Excuse me—I don't mean to intrude …” He looks my way and says, “How are you, Sammy?” But before I can tell him, Totally freaked out, thank you very much, he puts out his hand and says to my mother, “I'm Warren Acosta and I was wondering, well, the resemblance is uncanny and I just have to know… do you play the part of Jewel on The Lords of Willow Heights?”

  My mom shakes his hand, and I can tell she is totally flattered that he's recognized her and is about to say, Why yeeeeees, only what kind of mess would that be? Pretty soon Heather would figure out… everything!

  So real quick I laugh and say, “Why does everybody think that? She doesn't look anything like that airhead.” And before either of them can say a word, I add, “And I can't believe you watch that show, Mr. Acosta. I mean, you're a man… what are you doing watching garbage like that?”

  “Samantha…,” my mother says, and believe me, she is not looking too happy

  In a flash I turn my back on Mr. Acosta and give Mom a look like, Don't be an idiot—he can't know you're Jewel!

  Mr. Acosta laughs and says, “Actually, I got hooked when I was preparing for an audition for a part on Lords. I didn't make it, but at least I got a callback.”

  “You're an actor?” my mom asks, and that's when I notice it—she can't take her eyes off him any more than he can take his off her.

  His shoulder makes an aw-shucks move, and he says, “Mostly just community theater…”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Aye, m'lady,” he says, and makes a grand bow.

  Now believe me, I'm thinking, Oh, brother, but my mom's positively blushing. Then, like an allergic rash, Mrs. Acosta appears and says through a phony smile, “Warren, our daughter would like to open her presents.” She grabs him by the crook of his arm and says to Mom, “If you'll excuse us?”

  Mom says, “Of course,” but she's still smiling at Mr. Acosta, and believe me, he's still smiling at her.

  “Mom!” I say through my teeth as I yank her over to the strawberry tart zone. “What do you think you're doing?”

  “What am I doing?” she asks all innocently. “Why I… I'm not doing anything.”

  “Get him out of your mind! You cannot even be thinking what you're thinking!”

  She laughs, then she smiles at me real sweetly. “And what do you think I'm thinking?”

  I throw my hands around like mad, saying, “That he's dashing and charming and…”

  “Cute?”

  “Yeah, cute! And you cannot be thinking those things!”

  She laughs again. “They're harmless things to think, Samantha.”

  “But they can lead to dangerous consequences!”

  In a flash I knew what she had to do—she had to go back to using the fake name she'd used when she'd landed the part of Jewel. So I step between her and the tarts and say, “Change your name back to Dominique Windsor.”

  “What?”

  “You've got to! He recognized you, Mom! How many other people here might recognize you? And what if they start asking questions? What if he watches Lords and sees your name in the credits?”

  She wasn't hearing me, I could tell. She reached around me for a tart and said, “That was the first time that's happened.”

  Now the way she said it was like she was pleased that it had happened. And all of a sudden it hit me—this was her first celebrity moment.

  I shook my head and said, “Do you have any idea what a mess you've made of my life? First you dump me at Grams', then you pretend to be someone named Dominique Windsor and won't even admit you're my mother just so you can get a part on a smarmy soap. Then you waltz back into town to tell me I'm twelve when I thought I was thirteen, and now you fall in love with my archenemy's father!”

  She laughs again and says, “You do love to exaggerate, don't you?”

  “No!”

  “Oh?” She turns to face me. “Well, I didn't dump you at your grandmother's. And if you recall, I dropped the Dominique Windsor persona to make you happy. The soap is far from smarmy. And I'm certainly not in love with Warren.”

  “With Warren? You remember his name?”

  “Oh please, Samantha. Can you stop with the melo-dramatics?”

  I grab her by the arm. “Mom, listen to me—you have got to go back to using Dominique Windsor for Lords.”

  “Why? I already went through all the trouble of reverting to Lana Keyes. I can't keep bouncing around! Besides, I rarely come to Santa Martina, and nobody reads the credits anyway. They just fly by!”

  “Haven't you ever heard of videotape?” I say through my teeth. “Or freeze-frame?”

  She laughs. “Who's going to do that?”

  “Heather!”

  “Heather? And so what if she does?”

  “Don't you get it? I'll be busted! Grams'll be busted! How can I be living with you when you're on a soap that's taped a million miles away?”

  All of a sudden she starts taking this a lot more seriously. She leans in a little and whispers, “I can't believe anyone would be that… meddlesome. What's it matter to them? It's the people at the Highrise who would care, not anyone else.”

  I snort. “You have no idea what we're dealing with here.”

  “Well, fine. If changing my name in the credits will fix all of this, that's what I'll do.”

  So we're heading back to our table, and I'm trying my best not to look over at
the Acostas, but I slip up, okay? I look, just for a second, and there's Casey, grinning at me, while Heather's unrolling a large scroll.

  Now believe me, she's not unrolling a copy of the Declaration of Independence—Heather could give a rip about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  She's more into inflicting pain.

  But aside from that, I know it's not the Declaration of Independence because the scroll is black. With tattered edges. And even without moving in any closer, I know exactly what's inside it. Silver writing. Silver moons. Stars. Suns. Astroglyphics.

  Heather's got one of Madame Nashira's birth charts.

  All of a sudden things clicked together. Mrs. Acosta going into the House of Astrology… Gina telling me she was doing a rush job for a “classy lady.”

  Candi Acosta classy?

  That's like saying Hannibal Lecter's a gentleman.

  But still. It made me sick to my stomach all over again. I was the one who should have a birth chart, not her.

  Which was stupid, I know. I was always saying I didn't want one, so why did I care that Heather had one?

  Now, thinking all that as I walked back toward our table took no more than three steps. Which is about as long as it took for Heather to put the birth chart aside and start opening the next present. And before I could even figure out why that was bugging me, my mother grabbed my arm and whispered, “They are so cute together!”

  “Who?” I asked, all in a panic.

  She nodded at our table. “Your grandmother and Hudson!”

  Their heads were sort of close together, and they were laughing. And it was really nice to see them like that. I mean, the two of them have had their ups and downs, and it's a lot more fun to be around either of them when they're getting along.

  Mom whispered, “So is there something going on with them?”

  “Nothing official, okay, so don't say anything stupid.” Then I added, “And you know, you'd know a whole lot more about what's going on with her—and me—if you'd ask once in a while.” She looked sort of shocked, so I said, “No offense, Mom, but you're sort of self-absorbed.”

  “I am not!”

  I laughed. “You don't know about Hudson, and you don't know about Heather. I think that says it all.”