Free Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

it.”
    She glances at me and says, “She doesn’t scare me.”
    I pull back with a little snort. “She should.”
    This time when Sasha faces forward, she stays that way. So I open my history book and get started on the language worksheet Ms. Needer gave us in second period. Trouble is, the worksheet has us identify metaphors, similes, and analogies, and it makes me think about Marissa, which makes me think about our conversation at break, which makes me think about Holly seeing Casey on the fire escape of the Senior Highrise.
    What was he
doing
there?
    He won’t call me but now he’s going up the fire escape?
    Or maybe he
had
tried to call but the line was busy. Grams had been on the phone a
lot
.
    Anyway, by the time class lets out, I’ve forgotten all about Sasha Stamos and her little evil-eye exchange with Heather, but Sasha sure hasn’t. She’s watching Heather very carefully.
    Heather’s oblivious—mostly because she’s texting as she walks, but also because she’s multitasking, snarling, “Move, loser,” as she elbows past me.
    Sasha’s right behind me and says in my ear, “I can’t believe you put up with that!”
    I shrug. “Every time I snap at her bait,
I’m
the one who gets caught.” Then I add, “She’ll eventually self-destruct. She always does.”
    Sasha just frowns and passes me by.
    So, okay. I have to admit—it made me feel pretty wimpy. I mean, there was a time when I
wouldn’t
have put up with Heather’s catty remarks. And I shouldn’t
have
to put up with them. But after a full year of
trying
to control my fistand
trying
to control my tongue, I’ve actually gotten pretty good at it.
    Well, except for my little relapse at the mall. But I didn’t actually
punch
her, so considering what I’m dealing with, I’ve been a model of self-control.
    But now instead of being proud of myself, I’m feeling embarrassed.
    You know,
weak
.
    Now, there’s always a crowd of people going down the ramp when the dismissal bell rings. And even though it’s a mini-stampede, there’s usually no shoving or jockeying for position. Everyone wants out, and you just make yourself go with the flow.
    So I was walking down the ramp minding my own business when all of a sudden Heather cries, “Heyyyyy!” and crashes to the ground with a
thud
, her hands sprawled out in front of her.
    Everyone behind her comes log-jamming to a halt except Sasha, who tries to dance around her but takes a little tumble, too.
    “You tripped me!” Heather screeches, pointing at me while she peels herself up from her pathetic spot on the ramp. “You hooked your foot around my ankle!”
    “Oh, good grief,” I say to the sky, and step around her.
    Sasha’s already back on her feet and going down the ramp, but Heather stays put. “You can run, but you can’t hide, loser!” she yells after me. “I’m reporting you!”
    But then from behind me I hear, “Sammy wasn’t anywhere near you.”
    It’s a guy’s voice.
    Low, and very calm.
    And when I turn around, who do I see has come to my rescue?
    The Tricky Timer himself—Lars Teppler.
    “Thanks!” I call up the ramp. “But you’ll never convince her of that. She’d blame me for her hair being red if she could!” I keep on walking. “Not that there’s anything wrong with red hair!”
    Lars is helping Heather up, but Heather’s more interested in what’s
down
. “Where’s my phone?” she says, searching around. And after two whole seconds of looking, she says, “Who’s got my phone?”
    I show my hands. “Not me!”
    A lot of people have already stepped around her, but a couple of girls stop and ask, “What’s it look like?”
    Heather’s almost frantic. “It’s got pink crystals. And a butterfly charm. It has to be around here somewhere!”
    And
that’s
when it finally hits me that if I
did
have Heather’s phone, I could erase the picture and save Billy from his blackmail nightmare.
    So I go back and start scouting around, too. I check the side of