Free Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

bother. I don’t want to hear it. You realize I’ve been worried sick about you?”
    Now I try to tell her I’m sorry and I try to tell her I’ll be right home to explain everything, but she keeps cutting me off. Finally she says, “Let me talk to Marissa.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œLet me talk to Marissa!”
    Now you have to understand—Grams had never shouted at me before. Never. Not when I left the water running in the sink and it overflowed, not when I burned the potatoes so badly we had to throw the pan away, not when I spilled grape juice on her new couch, or broke her favorite teacup. Grams just doesn’t yell. At least that’s what I’d always thought.
    But there she was, yelling at me. And all of a sudden I’ve got this enormous lump in my throat and there’s no way I can talk. I just hand Marissa the phone.
    Marissa says, “Uh-huh...They’ll be home pretty soon...Uh-huh...That’d be fine...Uh-huh...Okay, sure...’Bye.”
    I grab her arm. “What? What did she say?”
    Marissa smiles. “You get to spend the night!”
    Grams isn’t wild about me spending the night at Marissa’s since her parents go out so much, and with me being suspended and all, well, it just seemed kind of strange. “How’d
that
happen?”
    â€œDon’t worry about it—this is great!”
    Then it hits me. Grams doesn’t want to see me. She’s so mad at me she doesn’t want to see me. So I ask Marissa if that’s why I’m spending the night. She bites a fingernail and tells me no, of course not, but what she’s really saying is yes.
    I try to call Grams back, only she won’t answer the phone. I know she’s there, watching it ring off the hook, but she won’t answer it. And as I’m standing there listening to it ring I’m feeling like the last one picked for teams—like being stuck with me is worse than being one short.
    Pretty soon the lump in my throat is making it so I can’t breathe, let alone think. I hang up, and before Marissa can stop me I lock myself in the bathroom.
    And sitting there in the middle of the bathroom floor, surrounded by turquoise tile and turquoise towels, I bury my face in my hands and cry.

TEN
    Marissa’s parents finally showed up around eight o’clock. They put down their briefcases, gave me big smiles, and said, “Why, hello, Samantha, how are you?”
    I lied and told them I was just fine, and wondered if Mrs. McKenze would be mad if she knew I’d used their shower, eaten two of their Lean Cuisines, and was wearing her daughter’s clothes.
    Mr. McKenze went straight to the phone, to call in about stocks somewhere, I suppose. They’re always on the phone, especially Mr. McKenze. Either on the phone or at the computer. Mrs. McKenze says it’s the only way to stay “on top of the game.” Marissa says they even take a phone to bed and set alarms during the night so they can get up and check on overseas stocks, if you can believe that.
    Mrs. McKenze pours herself some bottled water and says, “Marissa, dear, your father and I are planning to go up to Big Falls this weekend. Can you think of anything you might need while we’re gone?”
    â€œCan I come?”
    Mrs. McKenze flutters around a little. “Well, dear, you know how much your father and I need a break—I was hoping I could count on you to look after Michael?”
    Marissa looks down. “Oh.”
    â€œHow
is
Michael anyway?”
    â€œWell enough to go to school tomorrow.”
    Mrs. McKenze smiles and says, “Excellent! Maybe I should go check on him...” Then off she goes to check on the little faker.
    Marissa whispers, “Let’s go up to my room, okay?” and you can tell—something’s bothering her.
    Marissa’s room is more like a fancy hotel suite than a bedroom. She’s got two beds, a window seat