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

ago?” I wait for a second, then ask, “Is that all I'm gonna get?”
    My mom shrugs, and I can tell she's about to give me some lame story instead of the truth, so I just shake my head and mutter, “Why can't we ever have a normal conversation?”
    “Samantha!” my grams snaps.
    “Sorry. Sor-ry! But she asked me the same thing when I wouldn't answer about you and Hudson.”
    “About me and…,” Grams says, her cheeks turning all red.
    I face my mother and say, “I think you can look to each other for the answer to your question.”
    “My question?” my mother asks, looking all confused.
    “About why we can never have a normal conversation! You guys have way too many secrets. Why can't you just tell me who you went to the Santa Martina Inn with?”
    “Because it's really irrelevant,” my mother says.
    “Well, was it my father?”
    My mother's lips pinch together for a second, then she says, “Stop with the third degree, would you?” and all of a sudden she spills some tea and has to run to the kitchen for a rag.
    Now, there are all of four drops spilled, but of course Grams gets up to help her. And then they notice how late it's getting, so my mom disappears into the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup while Grams goes back into her bedroom.
    So I curl up with Dorito on the couch. And after flipping through a dozen magazines, I finally call out, “We're gonna be late!”
    Like magic they both appear, but they must've drunk the same evil potion, because they take one look at me and at the same time they say, “You can't go to the Inn like that!”
    I look at my sweatshirt and jeans and high-tops, then brush off some cat hair. “There. That's better.”
    “No!” Grams says. “That is not better!”
    I shrug. “It's
my
birthday, right?”
    “But… I think the Inn has a dress code!”
    I roll my eyes. “Oh, it does not.”
    Grams sputters a bit, then finally says, “Why don't you wear that sweater your mother gave you for Christmas?”
    “Oh, she doesn't have to wear that,” my mother says, then smiles at me like she completely understands why I don't want to be caught dead wearing pink angora.
    But what flashes through my mind is that if I wore the stupid sweater, I would totally blow them away. I mean, how mature would that be of me? So I said, “You know what? I'll wear the sweater. And I'll put on better jeans.”
    Grams blinked.
    Mom blinked.
    I smiled and went into the bedroom to change.
    But as I snuck down the fire escape to meet Grams and Mom out front, I couldn't help grumbling to myself thatso far the second thirteen was just like the first thirteen, only pinker and itchier.
    Little did I know that it was about to get a whole lot more uncomfortable.

The Santa Martina Inn has a large circular drive that lets limousines drop prom and wedding people off at the front doors so they don't get their hairdos blown apart by the wonderful Santa Martina winds. My mother, of course, was all for Hudson dropping us off So we females got out and stood around the lobby checking out the scrolled wood and chandeliers and stained-glass partitions until the male showed up.
    How nineteenth century can you get?
    The hostess led us into the dining room and seated us at a square table with thick white linens, an arsenal of utensils, and enough drinking glasses to drown yourself. And then a waiter in a white coat and black bow tie came over and said, “Four buffets?” through his nose. I felt like saying, “Dude, get a grip—this is Santa Martina,” but Hudson just smiled and said, “Yes,” then added, “it's my young friend's birthday.”
    “Happy birthday,” the waiter said to me, like he had thorns on his tongue. Then in a flash he started picking up side plates, glasses, and utensils, until all we had left was your basic plate, glass, fork, knife, and spoon. “Enjoy,” he said, and hurried off.
    “Enjoy?” Grams asked, looking around.
    Hudson laughed and pointed to a side room. “The buffet's