Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen by Wendelin Van Draanen

have—”
    “Will you please just listen?” She was suddenly quiet, so I said, “You know how you said you saw a guy who looked like a—”
    “Pit bull,” she spits out. “A vicious, good-for-nothing pit bull!”
    “Wait—a
pit
bull? Before you said he looked like a
bulldog!”
    “Pit bull, bulldog—same difference.”
    “No, it's not! A pit bull doesn't look anything like a bulldog.”
    “Oh, come on. They're dogs!”
    “So's a Chihuahua and a Saint Bernard!”
    “Quit harassing me! Don't you ever dare call this number again!”
Click.
    After I put the phone down, Holly said, “She thinks a pit bull looks like a bulldog?”
    “She probably doesn't have a clue what either of them looks like.” I stood up and shook my head. “I can't believe I went through all that because she said ‘bulldog.'”
    Holly smiled. “Look at the bright side—you won forty bucks.”
    I grinned. “True.”
    Then the phone rang, which made us both jump. But right away we laughed, and Holly answered it, saying, “Pup Parlor.” My heart sank, though, when she pulled a face at me and said, “Uh, yes, she is,” and handed the phone over, mouthing, “It's your grandmother!”
    I hesitated, then took the phone. Dead cats and back bumps couldn't delay me forever. It was time to go home and try some of Hudson's advice.

Grams was calm enough on the phone, but when I snuck through the apartment door, my mother attacked me with, “Where have you
been
?”
    I gave her a surprised look. “Why, visiting with Vera and Meg and Holly and let's see… spending time at Slammin' Dave's … discussing things with Hudson …” I nodded and headed for the fridge. “Yeah. That pretty much covers it.”
    She followed me. “You mean to tell me you've been running around all over town discussing our business with other people?”
    I shrugged and hung inside the refrigerator. “Just seeking an objective perspective.”
    “Sa
mantha
!”
    I took out a leftover sandwich and cocked my head at her. “Yes?”
    My mother rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, which was actually very interesting to observe—it was the exact same move Grams makes when
she's
fed up with me.
    “So,” I asked, taking a bite of sandwich, “did you two have a nice afternoon?”
    “A nice…?” Grams was looking at me like I'd lost my very last marble.
    I walked into the living room, saying, “Well, I'm sure you had lots to discuss.”
    Mom crossed her arms. “All right. What's the game?”
    “Game?” I shrugged. “Just making polite conversation.”
    Grams stepped forward and said, “Samantha, you may not believe this, but your mother is pretty torn up about what she's done.”
    “Oh, by the way,” I said, ignoring her comment, “Hudson has invited us all out for brunch at the Santa Martina Inn tomorrow.” I took a giant bite of sandwich. “To celebrate my birthday.”
    Grams' brow furrowed into unhappy rows. “But… your mother and I wanted to take you out to brunch ourselves.”
    “Oh,” I said, then chewed for the longest time. Finally I swallowed and said, “Well, I'm sure you want to make
me
happy on
my
birthday, right? And what would make me happy is to accept Hudson's generous invitation to take us all to brunch.” I gave my mom a forced smile. “He's really looking forward to meeting you.”
    Mom looked uncertain. “Because of all the terrible things you've said about me?”
    “No, because he's a fan of yours. He says you're really good in
Lords.”
    Grams was blinking like crazy. So was Mom. And inside I felt great. Almost calm. Maybe there really was something to this acting mature stuff.
    If only I could keep it up.
    * * * 
    I made it through the whole evening without complaining, criticizing, or making one sarcastic remark. And my reward for this nearly impossible feat?
    My mother accused me of being “aloof”
    Whatever.
    My big decision that night was whether to sleep on the floor in the living room with my mother, or