The Classy Crooks Club (2 page)

“What?”

“That screeching sound. Wait. Is this house
haunted
?”

Dad laughs. “Of course not. It's a very old house; sometimes it settles and makes weird noises. It was probably just the pipes banging or something.”

It didn't sound anything like pipes banging, but before I can argue, Mom comes in, carrying my last suitcase and my mesh bag of soccer balls. “I think this is the last of it,” she says, plunking them down next to the rest of my stuff. Her bright pink shirt looks totally out of place in this room, where everything is beige and gold and printed with old-lady upholstery patterns. “Give me a hug, sweetheart. I need enough AJ love to last me four weeks.”

I hug her tight and breathe in her citrusy smell. “I wish I could come with you guys,” I say, even though I know that's ridiculous. Mom and Dad are headed to the Amazon rain forest to do research on malaria. They won't even have access to phones. But if I can't have my normal life, I'd much rather be going on an adventure than sitting here waiting.

Mom rubs my back in that familiar pattern she always does when she's trying to comfort me. “You might get eaten by an anaconda,” she says. “We can't risk it.”

“I could totally handle an anaconda.” When my parents got home from one of their rain forest training sessions at the hospital, Dad taught Maddie and me exactly what you're supposed to do in case of a snake attack. If you thrash around, it'll squeeze you to death, so you're supposed to grip your machete really tightly, lie down on the ground with your hands by your sides, and let the snake think you're dead. Then it'll start swallowing you from the feet up, and if you can believe this, you're supposed to
lie there and
let it eat you
for a while. By the time it gets up to your waist, your machete hand will be all the way inside its body . . . and then
bam
, you slash your arm up really quickly and cut it right open. Totally disgusting in the most awesome way possible.

Honestly, a giant snake would probably be easier to deal with than Grandma Jo. At least it wouldn't complain about my skateboard or make me drink tea.

“We'll take you to the Amazon when you're older, and you can wrestle all the snakes you want.” My mom hugs me one more time. “We'll miss you so much, but four weeks will be over before you know it. You'll hardly notice we're gone.”

I'm pretty sure I'll spend the entire time counting down the minutes until I can go home, but nothing's going to make my parents change their minds, so I might as well be brave about it. “I'm sure it'll be fine,” I say.

Dad heads downstairs to make sure Grandma Jo has their emergency contact information. Mom turns to follow him, but then she says, “Oh, one more thing. I almost forgot.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out Hector, the beaten-up stuffed armadillo I've had since I was born. Even though I left him at home on purpose—what kind of twelve-year-old still needs a stuffed animal to sleep?—I'm embarrassingly glad to see him. I make myself roll my eyes anyway. “
Mom!
I would've been fine without him!”

“Of course you would,” she says, “but I thought it wouldn't hurt to have him around, just in case. If you don't want him on the bed, he can guard your suitcases in the closet.”

“Then he'll smell like old ladies. I guess I'll leave him out.” I arrange Hector in the center of my pillow, and the bed suddenly
does
look a little homier. He's not as good as Snickers, but it's still a pretty big improvement.

Mom smiles like she knows what I'm thinking. “Good plan,” she says. “We can't have him reeking of mothballs.”

She heads for the stairs, and as soon as she's out of the room, I hear that weird shrieking sound again, a little more distant this time. It's definitely not
the house settling
or whatever my dad said, and it sounds like it's coming from the vent near the floorboards. I crouch down and press my ear to the grate, and the noise gets a little louder. It almost sounds like garbled words, but I can't make them out. After a few seconds it breaks off as suddenly as it started. The room is pretty warm, but goose bumps spring up on my arms anyway.

“AJ, are you coming?” my mom's voice calls from downstairs.

“Be right there,” I call back. I tell myself the noise was probably coming from outside, or maybe from a TV downstairs. My dad would know if this place was haunted—he grew up here, after all. But I can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right in this house.

I snatch Hector off the bed, bury my nose in his nubby fur, and give him a quick, tight squeeze for reassurance. Nobody sees me, so I figure it doesn't count.

I
've always loved soccer, but I don't think I've ever been so excited to go to practice as I am today. Honestly, I think I'd be excited if I had a dentist appointment. I'd take any excuse to get out of my grandmother's house.

After my parents leave for the airport, Grandma Jo spends the rest of the morning drinking tiny cups of tea with her pinkie extended, patting her tight gray bun to make sure no unladylike wips have come free, and telling me about the “household staff” and the “household schedule” and the “household rules.” (Sometimes when you say a word over and over and over, it totally stops making sense, and that's what happens to me with the word “household.”) I sit there on the “chaise longue,” which looks like a couch with half the back melted off, and pretend to sip from my teacup, trying to figure out how I'm going to survive the next month. And I have a lot of time to think about it—there are so many things that aren't allowed in Grandma Jo's house that I feel like it would be faster for her to tell me what I
can
do.

There's no running inside, no walking on the front lawn, and no poking around in the flower beds. I'm not allowed to shout, make long-distance calls, or bother the staff. (In addition to the chef, my grandmother has a gardener, who she calls “the boy,” and a cleaning lady who comes a couple times a week, who she calls “the maid.” Until her foot heals, she also has a driver, who gets to go by “Stanley” for some reason.) I can't use my cell phone at the table or in the parlor or basically anywhere Grandma Jo can see me. There's no computer in the house, and the only TV is in her bedroom, so I'm not allowed to watch it or use it to play video games. I'm not allowed to pick up the knickknacks in the living room or open the china cabinet—as if I'd actually want to. The hallway at the back of the house—which leads to my grandmother's study, the laundry room, and the storage room—is off-limits. I have to turn my lights off at 9:30 on the dot. Luckily, I brought my flashlight from last summer's camping trip, so at least I can read comic books under the covers.

The worst part is that I'm not allowed to have friends over. I hope Maddie's prepared for me to spend the rest of the summer at her house, because I'll probably die of boredom here.

When Grandma Jo is done listing all the things that aren't allowed, she tops it off by saying she'll be giving me
etiquette lessons
for two hours every day after soccer practice. I swear I'd rather shovel horse poop for two hours every day. I wonder if my parents knew this was what my grandmother had planned for me when she agreed to let me stay. I consider trying to call them before they get on their plane, but it's not like they can do anything about it now.

My summer soccer team practices at my middle school, which is about four blocks from my house. Normally, I'd walk there, swinging by Maddie's house to pick her up on the way, but Grandma Jo's house is half an hour from mine. So the second the little silver clock on the mantel chimes twelve fifteen, I cut her off by clearing my throat as politely as I can. “It's almost time for soccer, Grandma Jo,” I tell her. “I better get my uniform on.” I know how much she hates being interrupted, but she also hates it when people are late, so I'm hoping it'll cancel out.

Grandma Jo sighs heavily and shakes her head, and for a second I'm terrified she's going to tell me I'm not allowed to go to soccer anymore. But then she says, “Stanley will take you in the town car. Meet him in the garage when you're dressed.”

I dash up to my room before she can change her mind.

The whole chauffeur thing shouldn't really surprise me—it's not like I thought Grandma Jo was going to drive me herself with a broken foot—but I'm still a little weirded out by the thought of some guy I don't even know taking me to soccer. Is he going to be wearing a uniform? What the heck is a town car? Is that the normal black car Grandma Jo drives when she comes to our house for holidays, or is it like a limousine? I can't show up for soccer in a
limousine
.

My uniform is in one suitcase, and my cleats and shin guards are at the bottom of another, so by the time I'm done getting ready, it looks like my luggage threw up all over the floor. In case Grandma Jo checks my room, I shove everything under the bed and pull down the dust ruffle. There's not a single dust bunny under there to keep my stuff company.

I fill up my water bottle, stuff my cleats into my duffel, and pull my hair into a ponytail as I dash down the stairs. “Bye, Grandma Jo,” I call as I slip past the parlor.

“No running in the house, Annemarie,” she calls back. “And no
shouting
!”

The door to the garage is off the kitchen, and I throw it open, then jump back with a little squeak—there's a guy in a button-down shirt and dark jeans standing about two feet from me. But this can't possibly be Stanley. Guys named Stanley are my dad's age and have beer bellies and mustaches. This guy looks like he could've walked right off one of the movie posters my friend Amy has plastered all over her room. I imagine Grandma Jo visiting all the gyms in the area and picking out the cutest guy she could find to drive her around.

“Miss Annemarie?” he says.

“It's not—I mean—yeah, but—it's AJ,” I stammer, and I feel my cheeks go pink. Oh my God, I have
got
to pull myself together.

Stanley smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss AJ,” he says. “I'm Stanley.” He reaches for my hand, and for a second I'm worried he might kiss it or something, but he just gives it a firm shake. I hope my palm doesn't feel too sweaty.

“Fenton's Foxes, huh?” he says, nodding at the picture of the fox on the front of my orange and white soccer uniform.

“Uh-huh,” I say, oh-so-articulately. When he seems to be waiting for more, I say, “Um, Fenton's is the name of this ice cream parlor near my house? They sponsor us, and they give us free sundaes after our games, so . . . yeah.”

“Sweet deal,” Stanley says. “When I was your age, my summer soccer league was sponsored by an auto repair shop.”

“What'd they give you to eat after your games? Tires?”

For a second I'm mortified by my terrible joke, but then Stanley bursts out laughing. No way; he actually thinks I'm
funny
! “Rubber isn't quite as delicious as mint chocolate chip, as it turns out,” he says.

“That's my favorite ice cream too,” I tell him, and suddenly I'm not quite as nervous anymore. For a second I imagine inviting Stanley to share a Fenton's grasshopper sundae with me when he comes to pick me up after a game. Brianna from my team would
die
—she's always bragging about the eighth graders she dates. Maddie and I are pretty sure she makes it all up, though. Who would go on dates with someone as snotty as her?

“Ready to go?” Stanley asks. When I nod, he goes around and opens the car door for me like I'm one of those respectable ladies Grandma Jo is always going on about. The car is just the normal one I've seen her drive before, and a tiny little part of me is actually disappointed. I slide into the passenger's seat and tuck my soccer bag under my feet, and Stanley shuts the door gently behind me. On the other side of the garage is a big black van with tinted windows, the kind of thing you might drive if you wanted to kidnap someone. I wonder what use my grandmother could possibly have for a car like that.

“So, how did you end up working for Grandma Jo?” I ask when Stanley gets in beside me.

“She's friends with my grandmother,” Stanley explains. “I was looking to make some extra money, so when Mrs. Johansen hurt her foot, my grandma recommended that she hire me for a little while.”

“Huh,” I say. I never really considered that my grandmother might have friends. “Is your grandma, um, a lot like mine?” I mean prim and proper and stuck-up, but I'm afraid I might offend Stanley if I come out and say that.

He laughs. “Not really. She's a lot more eccentric. I'm sure you'll meet her, so you can judge for yourself.”

I'm afraid Stanley and I are going to run out of things to say really quickly, but we get into a pretty lively discussion about pro soccer, and there's not one single awkward silence. Before I know it, we're pulling up to Benedict Middle School, right behind the blue minivan that belongs to Amy's family. Amy's butt is sticking out of the backseat as she rummages around, looking for something on the floor. I'm about to open my door when Stanley hops out of the car and opens it for me. Amy straightens up in time to catch him standing at attention like a soldier while I gather up my stuff, and her mouth drops open.