Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

on the floor in Grams' room. I was madder at my mom than I was at Grams, but Grams can be a pretty fierce snorer. I considered crashing on the bath mat, but Dorito didn't seem to like it in there, so I wound up on the floor of Grams' room. Way off in a corner.
    Grams and Mom stayed up talking, which I eavesdropped on for a while, but they were being very careful about what they said, and then they started talking about
Lords.
And believe me, once my mother starts up about her soap, that's it. You can kiss talking about anything else goodbye. Besides, it had been some day, and I was exhausted. So I just curled up with Dorito and thought about everything that had happened. About the cats in the trash and the Psycho Kitty and the whole adventure at Slammin' Dave's. I still couldn't quite believe I'd won forty bucks. Forty bucks! I could actually buy myself a birthday present.
    But what?
    Everything I own fits in Grams' bottom drawer—you name it, and I probably don't have it. So what did I want? What did I really want?
    Besides a normal mother.
    Or being fourteen instead of thirteen.
    That was stuff forty bucks couldn't come close to buying.
    So I made myself think about
things.
You know,
tangible
items. And after a while I decided that I'd really like to have my own portable CD player. Marissa had a jack splitter and two sets of headphones for hers—which was fun, but I never really got to listen to music when I was alone. And believe me, Grams is not into the kind of music I like, and vice versa.
    But after I figured out what I wanted, my brain went back to being mad about having to be thirteen twice. Maybe it would be all right to be
Vera's
age and
then
go back to being thirteen. But being thirteen twice back-to-back? That was teenage torture!
    I also thought about Vera's first lipstick and Meg wanting go-go boots. You have to understand—Meg is not the go-go boots type. She's about five-eight and stocky. Not fat, just big boned and, you know, strong. So the thought of her in white go-go boots and a miniskirt or hot pants or whatever you wear with go-go boots was a little, uh, scary?
    Eventually I drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew it was morning and Grams was standing in front of her open closet, trying to decide what to wear.
    So I stumbled into the bathroom, but my mom was already in there, messing with makeup.
    “Good morning,” she sings out.
    I just grunt and act like I'm still asleep as I tinkle in the toilet.
    “I'm looking forward to meeting Hudson.”
    “Grmmm.”
    She drops her voice. “Your grandmother became… flustered when she talked about him. Is there something going on between the two of them?”
    “Grmmm-ummm.”
    She pulls a face. “What does that mean?”
    “Grmmm-ummm.”
    She screws her mascara tube closed and snaps, “Why can't we ever have a normal conversation?”
    I just flushed the toilet and mumbled, “Happy birthday to you, too,” and went back to bed. And as I curled up with Dorito, I knew I hadn't been very mature in the bathroom, but I told myself that my mom deserved every bit of sarcasm I dished her way. It was her own fault for having a thirteen-year-old twice.
    But I couldn't go back to sleep, and the truth is I felt kinda guilty. Hudson's voice kept murmuring through my brain…
She knows she was wrong, and she apologized. Show her how mature you really are….
    So I got up, got dressed, and joined Grams and Mom in the living room, where they were having tea.
    “Happy birthday, darling,” my mother says, and Grams smiles and nods. “Happy birthday, Samantha.”
    “Thanks,” I tell them, sitting down cross-legged by the coffee table. “Can we have cake for breakfast?”
    Grams laughs, “Cake?”
    “You don't want to spoil your appetite for brunch,” my mom says. “If it's anything like it used to be, their brunch will fill you up for the entire day.”
    I look at her and ask, “When have you been there?”
    “Oh… it was years ago.”
    “Years