I find myself wandering through the casino as I try to get out of the hotel and onto the Strip, and let me tell you, it feels pretty dicey. I mean, I’ve got a backpack and a skateboard and I’m wearing ragged jeans and trashed high-tops, and there’s no way anyone’s going to mistake me for an adult. Plus it’s not like there are other teenagers in the casino. Everyone else is way older, and even the ones who aren’t dressed up are dressed way better than I am.
But there I am, walking between banks of slot machines, past big green gambling tables with dealers and cocktail waitresses and people just hanging around, and nobody says, Hey! What’s that kid doing in here?
It’s like I’m invisible.
Which I guess is a good thing, but still. Something about it makes me feel … strange. Like I could get into serious trouble and no one would care.
Or know.
Or even notice.
Anyway, I don’t actually know where I’m going and I’m afraid to ask. So the whole time I’m walking, I’m nervous, but in a sort of conflicted way. Part of me’s afraid that someone’s going to kidnap me and no one will care, and part of me’s afraid that a casino guard will grab me and lock me up until they track down some adult who’s willing to claim me.
Good luck there.
Anyway, with my eyes darting around for kidnappers and casino guards, it takes me a while to notice that there are signs with arrows hanging from the ceiling that tell you which way to go for what. And when I spot one that says Las Vegas Blvd. thataway, I go thataway until I find the next sign and the next, and finally I see big glass doors that lead outside.
So just getting out of the MGM is like escaping a little city. And then after asking somebody which direction the Bellagio is, I’m still not able to get moving, because I’m stuck in a herd of humans. Seriously, it’s like a cattle drive on the sidewalk. It’s a wide sidewalk, too, but there’s no way I can ride my skateboard. Besides all the pedestrians moseying along, the flow’s being plugged up by people handing out brochures or hawking helicopter rides over Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.
Now, the Hoover Dam and Grand Canyon people just holler at you, trying to get you to sign up for a ride. It’s the people handing out pamphlets that are like annoying gnats, buzzing around everywhere. They all do this same slapping thing with their little pamphlets. Slap-slap-slap, they flick their stack against their hand, then step in your way and shove one at you.
The first time one got forced on me and I saw that it had pictures of mostly naked women, I dropped it like a nuked potato.
The next time, I shoved it back and snapped, “I’m thirteen, you idiot! You think I’m going to call your stupid Hot Women hotline?”
He either didn’t hear me through his earbuds or didn’t speak English, because he just went back to slap-slap-slapping his stack and turned to the next person coming his way.
Anyway, the farther I walk, the more it seems like the Strip doesn’t know what it wants to be. For example, there’s a store that has fifty-foot M&M’s characters looming above the sidewalk. They’re like Godzilla M&M’s ready to jump down and crush everyone on the sidewalk.
But still.
They’re M&M’s.
Sweet, innocent, yummy candy.
There are also costumed characters like SpongeBob and Patrick who wave at people going by. And people with jewelry carts or in little tiki huts selling sunglasses. And all the lights everywhere are amazing and make you feel like you’re in some fantasy kingdom.
But in between the M&M’s and SpongeBobs and sunglasses are rowdy bars and Pamphlet People and bums with signs that say WHY LIE? I NEED A BEER. Plus wasted musicians with open instrument cases begging for change. And delivery trucks rolling by with skanky pictures of women painted on them. Stuff that makes you remember, Oh yeah, I’m in Sin City. Still. It may be getting close to midnight in Sin City, but there are so many people and so many lights that the seedy things aren’t making me scared, just cautious.
Now, the lady I’d asked for directions had told me that the giant lit-up O down the Strip was the Bellagio, and since I can now see that, plus a big sign for Caesars Palace, I’m definitely going the right way. But what’s weird is that I keep walking and walking and walking … and walking and walking and walking … but I don’t seem to be getting any closer to the big O or the Caesars Palace sign. It’s like I’m walking on a giant cement treadmill going past the same Pamphlet People over and over, getting nowhere.
Which I guess is because everything is so oversized that even though it looks like it’s right there, it’s not. And when someone tells you that something’s on the next block, what that really means is that it’s a mile away, because the blocks go on forever.
Anyway, I finally make it to a fake Eiffel Tower and a big lit-up hot air balloon that has PARIS written in the middle of it, so I know I’m getting close. And then, as the sidewalk sort of swoops to the right, I spot Elvis.
My heart does a little Wa-hoo! But then I see that there are actually three Elvises.
Whoa, wait—and a Mini-Elvis.
Mini-Elvis is definitely not a kid, but he is … little. I stand off to the side and watch for a while as people go up and have their picture taken with an Elvis, then slip him some money and continue on down the Strip. The Elvises are all wearing some variation on the same white-and-gold Elvis costume, with bell-bottom pants and a wide gold belt, and they’ve all got the black Elvis hair and muttonchops and sunglasses. The Mini-Elvis isn’t getting any takers, and the other three seem to be annoyed that he’s there and keep their distance from him. But I guess no one owns the corner, because Mini-E stays in the game, calling out, “Come on, baby! Let me be your teddy bear!” to women as they walk by.
Anyway, at first I’m not sure which one of the Elvises is Pete. I know it’s not Mini-Elvis, and I know it’s not the luxury-sized Elvis, but either of the other two could be him.
Or neither could be.
So I just stand there watching, until finally one of the midsized Elvises does a double take at me, then tosses me a grin and a wink. “Hey, little mama!”
I nod at him, but I’m still not a hundred percent sure it’s Pete until he comes across the walkway and says, “You’re not here alone, are you?”
Now, what’s sort of weird for me about all this is that when Pete worked nights at Maynard’s Market, he was always Elvis. Everything he said was an Elvis phrase or song title. Half the time I couldn’t figure out the meaning of what he was saying, because pretty much the only thing I know about Elvis Presley is from Pete working the counter at Maynard’s.
Anyway, him talking to me now in his regular voice is not something I’m used to. And I’m actually thinking, Are you my Elvis? when he says, “Sammy, you should probably not be cruising the Strip alone on a Friday night. I wouldn’t even suggest it on a Sunday morning, ’cause some of these cats prowl clear through to dawn.” He lifts one of his Elvis eyebrows. “I don’t care how tough you think you are, nobody your size is tough enough.”
“I’m only here because …” And all of a sudden I feel really stupid.
Why did I think an Elvis impersonator could help me?
“Because …?” he asks.
I shake my head and look down. “It’s a long story.”
“Sammy, I don’t have time for a long story. But … tell me you’re not in Vegas alone. How’d you get here?”
I give a little shrug. “Part of the long story.”
“But … why are you here? Can’t you give me the CliffsNotes?”
I take a deep breath and say, “My mom’s getting married to my boyfriend’s father in Vegas this weekend.”
“Ouch,” he says, pulling a face. Then he raises that Elvis eyebrow again and says, “Who knew who first?”
“I knew my boyfriend way first.”
“Dirty pool,” he says with a tisk.
“And she won’t tell me who my dad is.”
This sinks in a minute, then he says, “You have no idea? Why won’t she tell you?”
I shake my head. “She won’t tell me that, either.” Then I add, “She’s a diva.” I swing off my pack and pull out the big card with her pictures on it. “Her name’s Lana Keyes, and she plays Jewel in The Lords of Willow Heights.”
“That’s your mama?” he gasps, taking the card.
“Yeah,” I grumble. “A little-known fact that she’s mostly embarrassed about.”
“Whoa,” he says, and now both his Elvis eyebrows are reaching for his big black pouf of hair.
“Please don’t tell me you watch Lords.”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone I do!” he says with a laugh.
I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
“But addicting!” Now I see a little mental shift happen under his pouffy ’do as he checks out both sides of the photo card. “If ambition’s a dream with a V-8 engine, she sure is revvin’ hers.”
“Huh?”
He zooms in on me. “She has you sneakin’ in and out of the Highrise while she’s livin’ large as Jewel?” He snorts. “That’s just wrong.”
And now I’m seeing that this was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
“Uh … who told you that?”
“Nobody. I just pieced it together.” He eyes me through his shades. “And don’t worry. Elvis always plays it close to the vest.”
That didn’t make me feel a whole lot better.
Actually, I felt worse.
All this time I thought I’d been so stealthy, and Elvis had figured it out?
“Look, Sammy,” he says. “Don’t worry about that. The more I think about this, the more I don’t like your situation. Or that you’re here. Especially that you’re here alone.” He studies me. “So how can I help you?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, taking the card back. “It was probably stupid. I thought maybe you had some kind of connection with the wedding chapels. You know—since Elvises marry people around here? And I thought you might be able to contact them for me to see if my mom’s getting married at any of them. There’s a hundred chapels in this stupid city, and I called, like, a third of them tonight and got nowhere.”
“So the mission is to stop the wedding?”
I nod, then kind of take it back. “Mostly I’m here to find out who my dad is. And if she won’t tell me, then, yeah, I’m gonna be a major monkey wrench in her wedding party.”
He thinks a minute, then says, “Her name’s Lana Keyes and his is …?”
“Warren Acosta.”
“Acosta?”
“Right.”
He takes a picture of the picture of my mom with his phone and says, “Since she’s a diva, she won’t be tyin’ the knot in some second-class chapel, right?”
I nod ’cause that sure seems right to me. “But I couldn’t really tell the difference from the phone book. Some have big ads but—”
He shakes his head like, No-no-no, then says, “I got this. What’s your cell number?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I know. Stupid.”
“Well, how am I supposed to reach you?”
“Can I call you?”
“Sure.” He frowns. “But not every ten minutes! And what if we have a sighting?”
“A sighting?”
“Oh.”
He shakes his head. “This is no good. I need a number.”
“I’m at the MGM. In room fourteen eighty.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So you’re gonna be hangin’ around a hotel room waitin’ on a call? I think I know you better’n that.”
“Well … can I get back to you with a number? I’ll figure something out.”
“Sure, sure, no problem,” he says, stepping away. “I’ll do what I can, but right now I’ve got to get back to work if I’m gonna make rent.” He gives me one last eyebrow lift as he goes back to full-on Elvis. “Take good care and be safe, little mama.”
“Thanks,” I call, then head up the Strip.
It was after midnight when I got back to the hotel room, and the minute I came through the door, Marissa pounced. “Where have you been?”
“Getting food!” I said, showing her what was left of the pizza slice that I’d bought on the way back. “Didn’t you get my note?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “I’m not your grandmother, you know. Why’d you take all your stuff?” Then her eyes pop. “Don’t tell me you rode your skateboard around the hotel!”
I grin at her and say, “Much quicker than walking,” but now I’m closer and can tell she’s been crying. So I put down my stuff and ask, “Was it awful?”
She nods and flops into one of the cushy chairs. “A nightmare. We only got back ten minutes ago.”
I can hear the shower start up in the bathroom, but I still drop my voice because if I know Mrs. McKenze, she does not want Marissa talking about it. “You couldn’t get him out?”
She sits up a little. “The jail is huge. They kept sending us around to different places, and we had to go through tons of security and lock up our stuff ’cause you’re not allowed to bring in a cell phone or food or water or anything. And we couldn’t just go in and see him. First we had to register, then we had to schedule a ‘visit,’ then we paid his bail and waited around for the ‘visit’—”
“Why are you saying it like that?”
“I thought a visit would be like in the movies. You know, where the sheriff takes you back and you can talk to people through metal bars? But it wasn’t anything like that. We went into this big room with a bunch of open booths where we finally got to do a virtual visit.”
“You mean like on a computer?”
“Yes! He could see us and we could see him—Sammy, he looked terrible.”
“Could you talk to him, or did you have to type, or what?”
“No, you talk over a phone while you look at a computer screen. But everyone can hear what you’re saying! And Mom and Dad got in a big fight over the fact that Mom brought me and … and”—her face crinkles up—“it was awful!”
I shake my head. “Maybe your mom didn’t know what she was getting you into?”
“She didn’t. She said if she had known, she would never have brought me.”
“So … now what? When does he get out?”
“Sometime after ten tomorrow morning.” She sits up a little and says, “Sammy, once he’s out, we’re leaving. And Mom says there’s no way she’s letting you stay here alone.”
“Like in this room? Or in Las Vegas.”
“Either.” She gives me a pinchy little look. “I take it you didn’t get anywhere?”
“Actually, I might have a lead,” I tell her, racking my brains about what in the world I’m going to do.
Her eyebrows go flying. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “Elvis is helping out.”
“Wait, Elvis is? You mean the Elvis who used to work at Maynard’s? You actually found him?”
“Mm-hmm. And guess what? He’s got connections all over town and thinks he’ll be able to track her down.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup!”
To me I sound way too enthused, but Marissa’s so wiped out she doesn’t notice. “Wow. So … how long will that take?”
“He’s on it now. I’m supposed to check in in a few hours.”
She squints at me. “Like, at three in the morning?”
“Uh-huh. He’s doing his Elvis thing down on the Strip. Said he’d be up all night.”
I guess I’d woven in enough truth, because she just says, “Wow.”
“So I should probably set an alarm, huh?” And as I’m checking out the clock next to the couch, I add, “Man, I’m wiped out. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.”
Just then Mrs. McKenze comes into the room with a towel wrapped around her hair. She’s got puffy eyes, too, but tries to smile when she sees me. “Oh, hi, Sammy. You had us worried.”
“I’m sorry. I did leave a note. I just went to get some food.” Then I add, “Thanks again for letting me crash on your couch.”
She looks from me to Marissa and back again. “You being here is actually a blessing.” She comes over and gives Marissa a kiss on the forehead. “I’m so sorry I put you through this. It was a horrible idea.”
“You didn’t know, Mom.”
She stands there a minute, then says, “Well, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night,” we tell her, and after Marissa hangs out for a few more minutes, she finds me a blanket and a pillow and drags herself to bed, too.
Now, the truth is, I am wiped out. And I really don’t know what to do, but I’m sure not ready to leave Las Vegas yet. I mean, I found Elvis, right? He was out there connecting with … connections for me, right? And if Marissa’s mom was going to make me go home with them in the morning, it would be a total waste of everything I’d gone through!
So I pretend to go to bed, but my head’s whirring around for some way to not get dragged home. It crosses my mind to call Casey—more because I want to let him know what’s going on than because I think his mom’s told him anything new—but all of a sudden an idea whacks me upside the head.
I sit there for a minute just stunned because I know it’s crazy.
Scratch that—it’s certifiably insane!
And I know it’s risky.
Make that treacherously dangerous!
It’s also an enormous gamble.
But really, what have I got to lose?
And the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
Besides, I still have Marissa’s room key, and I can always come back.…
So when I’m sure Marissa and her mom are asleep, I write a note that says, Found her! See you back at home! Thanks for everything! Love, Sammy.
Then I slip out the door and head for the elevators.