Alright, so this is my first ever attempt at Sammy Keyes fanfiction. I'm sure Casey is OOC, but I'm trying to make him sound poetic if only to fit the idea of the story. I like to think of Casey as a poetic soul, so he's not too out of character in my eyes … Anyway, the idea for this came from the song "The Minstrel's Prayer" by Cartel.

I can see him as a minstrel, can't you? A link to the song lyrics is available in my profile. Enjoy!

Sammy Keyes belongs to Wendelin Van Draanen, and the song belongs to Cartel. I do not. Please do not sue – I'm a poor college student.

Minstrel

I held the phone away from my ear slightly as her laughter filled the receiver. I grinned slightly, reveling in the fact I could make her laugh. My father was sitting in the next room, reading. Or so he said. I had caught him glancing over with a knowing smirk on his face more than once.

"Aw, shoot, sorry, Casey, but I've gotta go. Grams is giving me a look, and I have a project due tomorrow. I'll see you later." Her voice was apologetic.

"See ya, Sammy."

After placing the phone back on its base, I went back to his room. I had a bunch of school stuff to work on as well. Though it was only the second week of school, the teachers had slammed us with work. Ah, high school. I'd done most of it earlier, but I still had some reading to do for English plus a paper which the teacher swore would be confidential (i.e., he wasn't having us put names on the sheets provided he gets all 26 papers). The assignment was to write a short narrative on who we are. "Be creative, be unique! Don't worry being formal; there's enough time later in the year to worry about that. Let me get to know the real you. You don't have to use names, but let me know what makes you tick. If its a specific person -- I'm looking at you, young love birds -- write about them. If its a hobby, write about that. Have fun with it!"

In addition to this, I had a whole slew of Algebra problems, and, the most important (at least in my eyes) a script of the newest high school production to memorize. I had landed a part that I was quite pleased with. It wasn't the lead, but it was one of the characters that supports the lead, which is a big part for a freshman to land.

I sat down at my desk, powering up my computer. English? Algebra? I know my dad would have a fit if I didn't start my actual homework before memorizing lines. Might as well start with my paper. I opened a blank document, considering what I could call my place in the world. To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure. Another distraction -- I was a bit preoccupied with the conversation I had with Sammy.

A lazy, contented smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I thought about her. I propped my feet up on my desk as I thought about her, mentally slapping myself only moments later, telling myself to focus. I needed to write, not think about Sammy . . . pretty, funny, sarcastic -- oh, jeez! But what could I write about myself? That I act? Sammy? Since she does seem to be the main focus of my thoughts lately. What I was to her, on the other hand, was up for debate. I knew what I wanted to be to her. Not a knight in shining armor, not a great romancer, but a friend who always knew what to say. What would that be called? I gave it some thought before sighing. I began to write.

"I am an actor. Whether this was a choice I made, or if it was predetermined by my father when I was younger, I will never know, but that is what I am. Even in my everyday life, I end up playing a part. To my parents, I am The Devoted Son. I'm convincing. I attend birthdays; celebrate Mother's Day and Father's Day. They won't ever know that I play favorites. I'd rather never act again than live with my witch of a mother. To my druggie friends, I'm The Hip Kid, the one that always goes with the flow. They will never understand in their drug induced haze that I do disapprove of what they are doing. I have other friends who I'd rather hang out with, but some sort of bond from the years past prevents me from cutting off contact completely.

I have many faces, more than I could count, each as different as the last.

I hate it. I love acting, don't get me wrong, but I hate having to pretend to be someone I'm not in real life. I am aware this is a common thing in the realm of teenagers, if only to preserve some sort of social status. And it's an attempt save yourself from a lifetime of mocking. I do it to protect others, which is a stupid as it sounds. It'll only hurt me or someone else in the long run.

There is one area of my life where I don't play a part, which is my absolute favorite place to be. Instead of an actor, I am a minstrel, singing a song to my lady. Metaphorically. Of course, she is a stubborn lady, very guarded, and for the longest time I couldn't figure out why. She makes me work hard to get close to her. But . . . I like her, really like her. She must know that. If I didn't, I wouldn't be so persistent, doing what I've done to catch her attention. Mostly I am trying to be her friend, everyone can use another good friend, but I want her to know that I care, too.

I am a minstrel.

I play the part of a knight so often, at fairs, in plays. She's seen me as one; I flirted with her as one, but still, the minstrel shines through that façade. A knight plays a protector. A minstrel, on the other hand, is the bearer of joy, good humor, sadness, romance, companionship, and adventure. The knight is always the one that is portrayed as the hero, the sensitive shoulder on which the lady can cry on, but historical facts are often ignored. Knights were the ones on the battle field. They were rough, tough, and often callus. It's not always the knight that is the hero. Minstrels were musicians and poets, artistic souls, many times underappreciated for who they were.

My lady would vehemently deny that she needs a protector. I highly doubt she needs one to begin with. She took on my sister and her friends singlehandedly after all, but everyone needs some form of support system. Everyone needs someone trustworthy, a good listener, and sympathetic so that they can take wing and make their way in life. I've tried my best to do this for her, trying to prove she could trust me despite the relationship she has with my sister. It took me months, but I think I finally convinced her to trust me.

It was an involved process involving Renaissance fairs, phone numbers, a skate board, a middle school dance, and injured condors. I swear, this is the most effort I've ever put into a friendship, but then I've never liked someone as much as I like her. She's something special.

Like all good minstrels, I sing. Not professionally, and not particularly well, but I do sing. She's heard me. Of course the first song that she heard me sing was a stupid drinking song at the Renaissance fair, but it was a song none the less. That was the first time I touched her, kissing her hand. She didn't take it as well as I'd hoped. I'd hoped that the next time we came in contact with each other that she would take it better. Asking her to the dance was the most nerve wracking thing I'd done to date. It was worth it though. We got to dance to my, ours possibly, favorite song. We danced, slowly getting closer, closer, until I could see the flecks of blue in her eyes. I couldn't hear anything, not even the music. She was really calm about it until near the end of the song. She tensed and looked rather anxious, and I was a bit freaked myself. Hoping revert the situation back to its previous state, I spun her and sang the rest of the song. Crisis averted.

I could have sworn we were going to kiss.

I used to think that if I did something spectacular for her, if I could craft a song just for her, or even a simple limerick, that she would understand that I cared for her. Her best friend approached me one day when I was particularly frustrated. She said not to worry about anything. "She's just worried. She has very few people she trusts completely due to, well, things I can't tell you. I know your heart is in the right place, though, so don't give up hope." That girl became one of my favorite people that day – at least now I had some insight into my lady's thoughts. I may not be a poet, but I doubt she would want one of those anyway. She doesn't seem to be the type of lady to be impressed by romantic sonnets.

Over the summer, I finally won her trust, which is not something I will ever take lightly . . . her friends would murder me without mercy if I ever hurt her. But beyond the threat of bodily harm, I wouldn't want to hurt her. I broke down a wall that was between us, and I know if I betray her trust, I'll never get to know her--"

I stopped typing, stretching my back and rubbing my aching eyes. Acting and Sammy. That paper was inexcusably sappy. But, hey, I was a minstrel. I crafted words, even if they were only part of a paper. Like all minstrels' words, they were all meant to catch my lady.

Not that I would ever let her read this sap. It would be horribly embarrassing.

Out in the living room, I heard the phone ring. Dad picked it up, pausing as he listened to the caller.

"Casey! It's for you!"

"Coming, Dad!"

I hurried out into the living room, grabbing the phone from my dad. "Hullo?"

"Casey? Good, I've got some news about that old guy! Marissa and I did some digging and found out that he'd been investigated in the past, something about a counterfeiting ring. Nothing was ever found out, but we had an idea – could you meet us before school?"

"Sure, it shouldn't be a problem." I frowned slightly, unsure whether I should be concerned or amused. She was probably getting in over her head again, but I was willingly going along for the ride. I just hoped I could keep her from doing anything too life threatening.

"Thanks, Casey. You're amazing!" she exclaimed cheerfully, probably unaware of what she had said. Still, I smiled. Amazing.

I am Casey Acosta – not a knight, but a minstrel, and I will be with my lady every step of the way.