Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

patients’ privacy and not disturbing other people in the waiting room) that she’d been allowed to stay.
    So Zelda Quinn was surrounded by lines that could not be crossed, but she was not one to be contained by lines. She’d learned long ago that subject footage coupled with her own voice-overs made for a more efficient use of airtime anyway. She could get to the point succinctly, without the notorious time-chewing
um
’s or
you know
’s typical of interviewees.
    Yes, she knew how to work around the constraints imposed by the hospital, and from the way the oddball adults were now in animated conversation with what were clearly the Hurled Girl’s friends, Zelda Quinn gathered her resolve.
    It was time to mingle!
    “Rolling?” she asked her cameraman under her breath.
    “You said cut,” he said back.
    “Well, roll!” she said through her teeth. “And keep on rolling!” Then she stepped over the line (invisible though it was) and entered the fray. “Excuse me,” she said, and when the oddball adults and six-pack of teens fell silent, she told them, “I want to help.”
    Good newscasters convince you they care. With attentive head bobbing and sympathetic eye contact, they pull a story along, ostensibly siding with their subject until a certain comfort level is reached and they are able to skillfully extract disquieting nuggets of emotion or controversial statements. Ideally, both.
    Novice subjects allow this to happen. (In other words, they get worked.) An experienced subject, on the other hand (like, say, a politician), is always on point, rarely derailed, and gives (in the eyes of journalists and viewers alike) miserable interviews.
    Of all the people in the conglomeration of oddball adults and teens, the only one not at least somewhat mesmerized by Zelda Quinn and her conjured sincerity was Holly. And after a minute or so of feigned tolerance, she slipped away, unnoticed, and made her way to Room 411.
    Holly was relieved to get to Sammy’s room undeterred, but as she went inside, she was practically knocked over by an orderly on his way out.
    “Oh, excuse me!” Holly gasped.
    “That’s okay!” the orderly said as he maneuvered around her.
    “How is she?” Holly called after him, but he was already gone.
    And then she saw Sammy’s bed and panic engulfed her.
    Two nuns and a priest were standing over the bed, praying.
    “No!” Holly cried, sure that they were giving last rites.
    “Don’t be alarmed,” one of the nuns said. And that’s when Holly noticed that the other nun had a big black cane and that this threesome was none other than Sisters Mary Margaret and Josephine and the bumbling Brother Phil. She hadn’t seen them in over a year, but they’d served her many times at the soup kitchen. Back when she’d been living on the streets.
    “Come, child,” Sister Mary Margaret said (addressing her in the way nuns do when they don’t recall a person’s name). “Father Mayhew told us about Samantha. We thought prayer was in order.”
    “Oh,” Holly said, greatly relieved.
    “We’ve also been reminiscing with Samantha,” Sister Josephine added, and now Holly noticed that each sister was holding one of Sammy’s hands.
    “About the Sisters of Mercy,” Brother Phil said from the foot of the bed. “We were just getting to the part where Sammy crashed their motor home.”
    “Into a police car!” Mary Margaret exclaimed.
    The cluster of clergy laughed at this memory. Not in a dignified manner, as you might expect from people of the cloth, but in a chortling, sniggering, tittering way.
    Sister Mary Margaret, especially, seemed to relish the memory. “You did good, sweetheart,” she said to Sammy, then kissed her on the forehead.
    “God has a plan for you, Samantha,” Sister Josephine said, and she, too, kissed her on the forehead.
    “Let’s hope that plan includes her wakin’ up,” Brother Phil said, and although he said it under his breath, the nuns heard him.
    “When are you