Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen (12 page)

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.”

When I sat down, Grams said, “There you are!” Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small rectangular box. It was white with a gold ribbon, and she slid it across the table to me, saying, “This is from your mother and me. We really hope you like it… and will
wear
it.”

I looked from Grams to my mother and back again. Then I checked across the dining room to the Acosta table. Heather was up to her ears in tissue paper, but I didn't care. I liked my little box with the gold ribbon. And I liked that Heather wouldn't know I was opening a gift—there was no way I wanted her to know we shared a birthday.

I rattled the box a little, trying to figure out what it was. If my mom was involved, it was probably some sort of dainty jewelry. But if Grams was behind it, it was probably something more practical.

“Just open it!” my mom said with a laugh.

So I did. And what was inside was the most amazing thing—a softball watch. The minute hand was a bat, the hour hand was a ball, and a baseball diamond connected the 12, 3, 6, and 9.

“This is so cool!” I said, strapping it on. “I love this!”

Grams clapped her hands and said, “I knew you would!” and since I could tell it was her idea, I gave her the biggest smooch ever on her cheek. She kissed me back and said, “I'm hoping it'll help get you home on time.”

I laughed. “It's gotta help.”

I showed it off to Hudson, who said, “A home-run watch—very nice!”

Then I noticed that my mother was looking kind of hurt. And since the watch was supposedly from her, too, I said, “Thank you, too, Mom.” I held my wrist out to her. “Isn't it cool?”

She smiled and sort of shook her head. “I don't know how you can tell time with that, but I'm glad you like it.”

So for a moment there, I was just actually
liking
my birthday. But then a bunch of waiters and waitresses marched through the tables singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…,” and I froze. Could they know it was my birthday? Yes! Hudson had mentioned it when we were seated. But… maybe not. The waiter had barely paid attention.

I let out a huge sigh of relief when I saw that they weren't headed for our table—they were going to Heather's. And when they put the piece of cake in front of her, she looked my way to make sure I'd noticed that
she was queen for the day. And—this is how relieved I was—I actually acknowledged by giving her a little smile and a wave.

But all of a sudden the waiters start singing again, and that's when I see that they've got
another
piece of cake.

Everything warps into slow motion. Their bodies moving toward me, their voices distorted and stretched out as they sing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

My heart starts racing, and I want to charge out of there, but it's too late—the waiters are already at our table.

I check the Acostas, and sure enough, they're looking at us. And although Casey seems puzzled in an amused sort of way, Heather's chin has dropped to her chest and her eyes are as big as baseballs. And then, when the waiters put the cake down in front of me, she actually shoots out of her seat and screams, “No!”

Her mother yanks her down and has some frantic conversation with her that spreads to Mr. Acosta and then to Casey. And even though Mr. Acosta's shrugging like, What's the big deal? and Casey's grinning like the pages of
Mad
magazine are coming to life in front of him, Heather and her mother are looking downright savage.

I wanted to shout at Heather, Hey! I don't like this any better than you! But inside I knew—no matter what I said, no matter what I did—in the end, there'd be no escaping her.

Heather didn't come after me right then. But I knew
there'd be fallout, probably at school. Not that it was
my
fault that we had the same birthday. Actually, I was having trouble believing we were born on the same day, too, but when I said so in the car, Hudson told me, “It's not as strange a coincidence as you might think. It takes only twenty-three people in a room to create a fifty-fifty chance of two sharing the same birthday.”

“No way!” I said.

“But it's true,” he said. “And considering the number of people having brunch there today, plus the fact that a lot of people go to the Santa Martina Inn to celebrate special occasions, I'm surprised there weren't more.”

“I wouldn't care about sharing my birthday with anyone else … but Heather?”

He shook his head. “I'll admit, that's one unlucky coincidence.”

When we got to the Highrise we all thanked him high and low for taking us out, and he was real polite to everyone, but as my mom and Grams went up the walkway to the front door, he pulled me aside and said, “I am sorry, Sammy. I thought the Santa Martina Inn would be a special treat. But I'm afraid it—”

“Hudson, no! It was great. And I'm sorry I got so spastic about Heather.” I toed the ground. “And so riled about my mother…”

“Your mother is trying to be nice, Sammy.”

“I know. I know.” I looked up at him. “And you should have seen me last night. I was so mature you'd have been puffing with pride.”

“It felt good, didn't it?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it's hard work.”

He laughed and said, “So true,” then told me to come visit him sometime soon.

“Will do!” I said, and headed around the building to the fire escape.

Now, by the time I got to the fifth-floor landing, I'd actually convinced myself that even though she's lied to me and deceived me and hidden things from me, I
could
be nice to my mother. For my own sake, if not for hers. Only then, just as I'm opening the fire-escape door, I hear her
scream
, and Grams shout, “Lana, close the door!” And suddenly Dorito is streaking my way.