On the Loose by Jenny B Jones Page A

yeah.” A drop of sweat beads on Frances’s brow.
    Not a good sign.
    “So then you will suggest to Nash that the two of you adjourn to the dining room. Charlie and I will take the living room.”
    “Why do you get the living room?”
    “Because if you get the living room then you’ll seat yourself as far away from Nash as you can get. I know you.”
    Frances nods rapidly, her eyes glued to the road.
    “So you’ll go to the dining room. Let Nash sit down first, and then you will sit directly across from him.”
    Frances chews on a fingernail. “What will we talk about?”
    I open my mouth to respond, but Frances’s squealing muzzles my thoughts.
    She grabs my hand. “Oh, my gosh. We’re here. What do we talk about? Help me, Katie!”
    I grab my stuff and open the door. “In this order: compliment his performance at church, discuss today’s disgusting meat loaf casserole in the cafeteria, and ask him where he’s going for Spring Break. If there’s any time left, declare your undying devotion and break out into Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You.’”
    “Hey, girls. Welcome to the casa .”
    Charlie walks out to greet us, and I look right through him to the house. Casa ? More like El Mansion.
    It’s gigantic. It looks like the White House or something.
    What am I doing here? And why do I have Richie Rich for my science fair partner?
    “Frances,” I whisper, ducking my head back into the car, “if you need help the code will be ‘I’d like a glass of water.’ Can you remember that?”
    Her smile wobbles on her face as she faces our host. “ Hola , Charlie.”
    I follow the two into Charlie’s foyer. He has an entire room just for the front door. A giant chandelier hangs overhead. I take a step to my left. I’ve seen enough scary movies to know what can happen to teenage girls directly beneath giant light fixtures with spiky glass things hanging down.
    “Come on in. Nash is in the kitchen.”
    Yeah, he’s probably in there hanging out with the maid and butler.
    Charlie escorts us into his kitchen, which is surprisingly . . . cozy. The walls are a sunny yellow and remind me of Millie’s favorite Italian restaurant. Dark brown cabinets surround the walls and ceramic roosters perch on the counter tops.
    The smell of chocolate chip cookies attacks my senses, and I immediately quit my decorative analysis and scan the room for the baked goods.
    A short, plump woman enters the kitchen. “Hello! Come on in. I have some cookies that will be coming out of the oven in about five minutes.” Her cheeks are pink with color, and her oversized mouth is pulled into a smile.
    “I’m Donna.” She holds out a hand for me to shake.
    I take in her simple white t-shirt and khaki pants, which have seen better days.
    “Are you the maid?” I ask, picturing Charlie’s mom upstairs, reclining on a chaise lounge eating bonbons.
    Donna’s smile vanishes. “What?”
    “Katie, this is my mom.”
    Somewhere in the kitchen a clock ticks.
    “Would you like a glass of water?” Frances whispers behind me.
    “It’s quite all right, dear. I do look a mess. I’ve been outside all day mowing.”
    Charlie’s mom puts her arm around my shoulders. Her stubby fingernails are in serious need of a manicure.
    “I’m so sorry.” And I thought Frances was going to be the one to blow it today.
    “I guess in a way, I am the maid. This one,” she points to Charlie, “refuses to pick his underwear off the floor.”
    Ew. Okay, things I don’t need to know about Charlie Benson.
    “Now, you kids go on into the living room, and I’ll bring you some cookies and fresh lemonade in a few minutes.”
    Are you the maid? I am such an idiot. She’ll probably spit in my lemonade.
    I land on an oversized couch, propping my feet up on a matching ottoman. Frances parks herself right beside me. As in cheek to cheek.
    I shoot her a look, but she’s too busy chewing her thumbnail to notice my glare or the fact that her butt is