Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (21 page)

And while Anita Arellano’s getting ready to bat, Heather’s leaning toward home, pawing the ground like a bull ready to charge a matador.

Now, I’m not waving a cape. I just want a nice, clean double play and be done with it. So when Ms. Rothhammer decides she wants Marissa to walk Anita, I’m all for it.

So Anita’s on first and Heather’s kicking up mud on third, and Gisa’s
ja
ing her way up to bat, when I hear something strange.

And it’s not that hearing my name is so strange. When you’re in the middle of a big game, you hear it all the time and you just kind of tune it out. But this wasn’t “Sammy! Sammy!” like your friends do when you get up to bat—this was
“Sammy! Sammy!”
like “Help me! Help me!”

Marissa’s about to present the ball, so, before it’s too late, I jump out of the catcher’s box and call, “Time!” Then I turn around, and there it is again,
“Sammy! Sammy!”

I throw back my mask and look around, and there, six feet up the backstop getting yanked at by a teacher is Holly. She’s clamped onto the chain link with one hand and in her other hand she’s got a catcher’s mitt.

My
catcher’s mitt.

At first I just stood there with my mouth open. Mr. Caan says, “What’s going on?”

I call, “I’ll be right back!” and run to the backstop.

Holly climbs down and says, “They wanted me to wait until the game was over, but I thought for sure you’d want this. I’m not blowing it, am I?”

I want to plant a great big kiss on her cheek and throw her in the air, but there’s this backstop in my way so all I can do is say, “I can’t believe it! Where did you
find
it?”

She laughs and then whispers, “It was in the Dumpster behind the locker rooms.”

“In the Dumpster?” Right then and there I promise
myself never,
ever
to say another word about Holly digging through garbage.

She laughs. “Yeah.” Then she gives me a real worried look and says, “I know the game’s almost over, but … do you want to play with it?”

I say,
“Yes!”
so she nudges her way around the backstop and passes it to me.

So I’ve got Brandon’s mitt in one hand and my father’s mitt in the other, and that’s when I realize that I don’t
need
my dad’s mitt anymore—I’ve been playing fine without it. It’s still real important to me, and I’m ecstatic to have it back, but I don’t
need
it.

I look over to where I’d seen Brandon before, and he’s still there all right, looking straight at me. I check the field. Everyone’s watching me, waiting. And I figure I’ve got maybe ten seconds before Mr. Caan starts yelling at me to take my position, so I run over to Brandon and say, “Thanks for letting me use your mitt. I … I …” but everything I think of to say doesn’t mean what I feel, and it all sounds so corny, so I just hand it over. “Here.”

He grins. “Anytime.” Then he puts it on his hand and says, “Although I wouldn’t lend it to just anyone, you know.”

I blink at him like a complete dufus, and then Mr. Caan hollers, “Let’s go!” so I hurry back to being the team turtle.

As I’m waiting for Gisa to get back up to the plate, I notice Heather over on third, only she’s not pawing the ground anymore—she’s squinting and bobbing around, trying to get a look at my mitt.

So I show it to her. I stand up and hold it open and wave, and when she realizes what’s just happened, her eyes bug out and her mouth drops and she looks more like a gargoyle than an angry bull.

I get back into position and when the pitch comes in, Gisa hesitates just a bit, then decides to go for it. She hits it, but because she swung late, she practically put herself out, sending the ball straight to Xandi on first.

Mr. Vince is yelling at Heather to stay put, but she’s not listening. She’s going for it. And when I see her barreling toward me, I straddle the plate and wait for the throw. Xandi sends it in nice and strong, and as Heather dives for the plate, I swing my mitt down and tag her out.

Mr. Caan jerks his thumb in the air. “You’re
out!
”

Our whole team starts pogoing around, yelling, “We did it! We did it! We won!” Everyone but me. I’m still straddling the plate with my mitt in Heather’s face, and she’s just lying there, stock-still.

When she finally looks up, there’s mud all over one side of her face. Except for a white streak running down her cheek.

Now, I’d never seen Heather Acosta cry before. I really didn’t think she knew how. And even with everything she’d done to me, I couldn’t just leave her lying there in the mud. So I did something I never thought I’d do. I put out my hand to help her up.

She snorts and shakes her head like I’ve lost my last marble, and the next thing I know she’s walking off, spitting on the ground behind her.

It wasn’t too hard to forget about Heather for the rest
of the afternoon. I got out of my detention for the day so I could be with the rest of the team when Ms. Rothhammer took us out for pizza. Dawn couldn’t make it because her hand was killing her and her mom hauled her off to the doctor, but the rest of us laughed and told jokes and went over the whole game play by play. Then we started planning what kind of party day we’d get Mr. Caan to throw come February when we brought home the Junior Sluggers’ Cup trophy. The thought of Heather spitting on the ground never even crossed my mind.

But that night as I was trying to get to sleep, she kept creeping into my brain. And I lay there in the darkness thinking about things coming back around. About Holly and my mitt. About Heather. And right before I fell asleep I got this funny little thought that, in spite of what she said about me and thought about me, maybe
I
wasn’t Heather’s worst enemy.

Maybe she was.

I didn’t have dreams about the Sisters of Mercy dancing in the outfield or pitching giant marshmallows. I didn’t have
any
dreams. I slept like a sloth.

Until the phone rang. Grams hurried into the kitchen to answer it, and I think she thought I was still asleep because she was keeping her voice down. Even so I could hear her saying things she would normally never say if I was around. Things like, “Your daughter needs to see you, Lana! She’s feeling totally abandoned,” and “On
Thanksgiving?
”

Now, I can just hear my mother on the other end, putting on a big act about why it’s so important for her to be somewhere else on Thanksgiving, and lying there, I start thinking about last Thanksgiving and how it was just Grams and me and a roasting chicken. And even though it
tasted
good, a roasting chicken is not a turkey, and no amount of basting and stuffing is going to turn it into one.

Then I start thinking about Dot with all her brothers and sisters and how she loves Thanksgiving because of all the baking and cooking her mom does and how they load up the table so heavy it looks like it’s going to break.

I also think about Marissa and how, even though her mom and dad don’t do Thanksgiving, they always pick up
a dozen designer pies and head out to some relative’s house that
does
and have a big party with all the cousins and uncles and aunts.

And I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself by the time Grams throws up her hands and says, “Very well, then, we’ll have Thanksgiving without you,” and hangs up on her.

Grams tries sneaking back to her room, but I roll over and say, “ ‘Morning, Grams. Guess it’s just you and me for Thanksgiving again, huh?”

She sits next to me and sighs. “I’m sorry, dear.”

I don’t want her feeling bad so I say, “It’s okay. I like it better that way, anyway,” and before she can tell me all the reasons why I’m lying I say, “Speaking of food … I’m starving!”

Grams pats my hand. “I’ll get going on some oatmeal.”

Now, I don’t feel like having oatmeal. We have oatmeal every day of every week. I want something else—something
real
. “Let’s have eggs and a slab of bacon and maybe some toast and jelly for once.”

She looks at me like I’m an enormous spider. “Eggs?”

“Yeah. When’s the last time you had a couple of eggs and some bacon?” I sniff the air and say, “Wow, maybe Mrs. Graybill’s cooking some up right now.… Can you smell that?”

Grams sniffs like she really believes me. I laugh and say, “Grams!” because the last thing you’re going to smell in the halls of the Senior Highrise is bacon cooking. Eau de vacuum and Lysol, yes. Bacon? Never.

Grams lets out a little sigh and says, “You know it’s terrible for my cholesterol,” but she only says it with half a
heart. The other half’s tired of pumping around soluble fiber and wants some
bacon
.

So while she’s sitting on the couch kind of dazed by the thought of actually eating something that tastes good, I get up and call Hudson. When he answers the phone, I don’t say, Good morning, or even, Hi, this is Sammy, what I say is, “Hudson, you got any bacon in the house?”

He laughs and says, “Sure do, Sammy. You in the mood?”

“Grams is.”

Hudson chuckles. “I’ll get the griddle going. Come on over!”

So the next thing you know we’re over at Hudson’s, having bacon and eggs. And even though Grams starts out like she’s eating raw alligator, she winds up practically licking the crumbs off her plate. When we’re all done, Hudson pours Grams some coffee and says, “That should fortify you for tonight.”

“Tonight? What’s going on tonight?”

Hudson grins. “You and Sammy are accompanying me to the ‘Have Mercy!’ show.”

Grams puts down her coffee. “Oh, Hudson, no. You didn’t. The tickets are expensive and those nuns are so … so
loud.”

Hudson flashes the tickets like Get-out-of-Jail-Free cards. “You can’t get these anymore. It’s closing night of what’s supposed to be the best show to ever hit Santa Martina and you’re going with me if I have to take you kicking and screaming.” He winks at me. “Besides, when’s the last time you’ve done something cultural?”

Grams practically sprays her coffee. “Cultural?”

She’s about to inform Hudson that she doesn’t consider pounding piano and blaring music to be civilized, let alone cultural, but I cut her off. “You got me a ticket?”

“Yup.”

I say, “This is great!” and even
I’m
surprised by how excited I am about getting to see the Sisters of Mercy bust down the walls of St. Mary’s in their sequins and sashes.

For the rest of the day Grams puttered around her room muttering about cultural events for heathens, but by the time she’d figured out what to wear, her closet was pretty much all over her bed and she was too tired to argue with me when I told her I was going in what I had on.

We got there early, but there was still a line halfway down Church Street waiting for the doors to open. And when we finally did get in out of the cold, I was sitting down maybe two minutes when Brother Phil comes thumping down the aisle with his hair all crooked and belly popping buttons, looking completely frazzled.

I lean out and say, “Hey, Brother Phil! What’s going on?”

He looks at me like he can’t quite figure out who I am, and then says, “Oh, Sammy! Hi.” He comes in a step closer and whispers the best he can, “Those Sisters are everywhere. They keep flying in and out, bossing me here and there—no wonder Mary Margaret and Josephine don’t want anything to do with them.” He holds up a spool of white thread. “They asked for thread so I brought them this, but it’s not good enough. They’re demanding purple!”

“What do they need purple thread for?”

He rolls his eyes. “Who knows. Maybe one of ’em busted a zipper. They’re going nuts back there trying to get dressed.”

“Do you think they want me to help them?”

Phil’s eyebrows nearly fly off his head.
“I
do! Go on! Let them boss
you
around for a change. Tell them I’ll be back with the thread as soon as I can. Oh, thank you, Sammy.”

So I say, “I’ll be right back,” to Grams and Hudson, and before they can stop me, I go to find the Sisters of Mercy.

When I turn down the hallway, I practically slam into Sister Josephine. I jump back and say, “Oh, I’m sorry!”

She just holds onto her heart, takes a deep breath, and then moves around me.

I call after her, “Do you know where the Sisters of Mercy are?” but she doesn’t say a word. Not one word. She just points her cane down the hall and does a power hobble out the side door.

I knock on the door and right away Sister Bernice snaps, “Who’s there?” like she’s commanding troops to stand at attention.

I say, “Sammy,” and two seconds later the door flies open and I’m face to face with a great big nun in black tights and purple feathers. She holds both my hands so tight that her ring feels like a little icicle against my fingers. She says, “Child, I am so happy to see you! Would you do us the service of keeping that Brother Phil as far away from us as you possibly can? The man is like a fly in the Lord’s soup!”

I can’t help staring. I mean, I’d only ever seen Sister
Bernice in a habit, and here she is looking like an overgrown peacock ready to do battle. “But
he
just said—I mean, he’s out getting you some purple thread.”

Sister Abigail adjusts her tights, then bats down a few feathers. “I just hope the thread keeps him occupied until showtime.”