Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

addition of 70.9 and 24.31 and say, “I get 95.21.”
    “Right. And that’s the
molecular
weight, because we’redealing with a molecule now.” He writes down
95.21
and asks, “What are the units?”
    I stare at the paper. “I have no idea.”
    “It’s grams per mole.”
    I mutter, “Grams per mole,” but it doesn’t seem to faze him. He writes down a calculation with
75 g
in the numerator and
95.21 g/mol
in the denominator while he’s saying, “It’s important, because the grams in the equation are going to cancel out and leave you with”—he slashes a line through each
g
—“moles!”
    Whoopee.
    He ignores my frown and punches the division problem into my calculator, going, “So 75 divided by 95.21 equals … 0.788 moles!” He looks at me, totally excited, then writes it all down on the paper. “Now just divide moles by liters.…” He writes down what he’s doing so I can follow it, then punches the division into the calculator. “And there’s your answer!”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it.”
    I take the paper and study the steps, which is really easy to do because, just like in the non-apology note, his writing is very neat and also very unique … like his own special Kip font. Everything is labeled, and he has arrows helping me follow the steps, and, very slowly, something in my brain goes
click
. “Let me try the next one,” I tell him. Then I calculate the molecular weight of C 12 H 22 O 11 —otherwise known as sugar—convert it to moles, divide by liters, and circle my answer.
    “Looks right,” he says, then borrows my calculator, jabs in a bunch of numbers, and comes up with the same answer. “You’ve got it!”
    And the funny thing is, I’m actually excited to try the next problem, so when he stands up, I want to yank him back and make him watch me, but he’s already beelining toward the computers like he’s remembered that he was in a hurry. So I wind up just saying, “Thank you!” which feels kinda lame because “thank you” doesn’t even begin to cover the relief I’m feeling.
    Anyway, I’ve just figured out the molecular weight of sodium carbonate when I hear a little snort and “I
knew
it,” from over by the computers. Kip’s got his back to me and is far enough away that I can’t see any details, but from the screen I recognize that he’s on Facebook.
    Whatever. I get back to work, but then I hear him mutter, “What
idiots
.”
    So now I’m curious. And before I really think things through, I get up and move closer, but all I see is a post of two girls in bikinis, holding up icy pink drinks. They’re definitely older than Kip—maybe around twenty? And it takes me a minute to click into the fact that they have blond hair and blue eyes.
    All of a sudden, I’m feeling really panicked. I’d jumped all over him for sneaking up on me, and now I’m spying over his shoulder?
    Plus, he’s a Kensington!
    They have codes and rules and gag orders!
    So I hold my breath and sneak back to my seat, and while Kip’s fingers are flying around the keyboard, I pretend towork, but my brain’s racing, remembering bits and pieces of conversation that happened in the Royal Suite.
    I hear a printer activate and then Kip stands up, shoves his chair in, and heads across the room. Everything he does is fast, and he seems upset. So I call after him, “You okay?”
    He whips around, then looks at his computer and realizes I can see the monitor.
    “You don’t seem like the blond-bimbo kind,” I tell him.
    He looks all around, and when he sees that the Puzzle Lady’s gone and we’re alone, he gets defensive, saying, “I’m not! They’re my cousins.”
    “Ohhhh.” Then I add, “The ones who are too sick to come on the cruise?”
    He gives me a sharp look. “Stay out of it.”
    “Sure. Happy to.”
    And I am.
    Like I want to get tangled up in the wacky web of Kensingtons?
    But still, I can’t seem to resist saying, “I can see why you’re mad, though. Seems