Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot

only remembers but doesn’t seem to be on drugs. Not if the look he gives me—a look that could kill—is any indication.
    Well. It’s clear I’ve done something wrong. But what? I’m only telling the truth.
    So I say, to Andrew, “Wait. What’s going on here?”
    That’s when the man behind the counter at the Job Centre picks up a phone and says, “Mr. Williams, I have a problem. Yeah, be right there.”
    Then he plops a Closed sign down in front of him and says, “Come with me, please, Mr. Marshall, miss,” while holding up the partition in the counter so we can pass through it.
    Then he escorts us into a little room—empty except for a desk, some shelves with nothing on them, and a chair—in the back of the Job Centre office.
    On the way there, I can feel the gazes of everyone else—both in line and working behind the counter—burning into the back of my neck. Some people are whispering. Some of them are laughing.
    It takes a good five seconds before I finally realize why.
    And when I do, my cheeks go as red as Andrew’s had gone pale a minute earlier.
    Because that’s when I know that I’ve done it again. Yes. Opened my big, fat, stupid mouth when I should have kept it closed.
    But how was I to know that a Job Centre is where British people go to sign up for unemployment benefits?
    And what is Andrew doing, anyway, signing up for unemployment benefits when he ISN’T
    UNEMPLOYED?
    Except that Andrew doesn’t seem to see it that way—you know, as illegal. He keeps opening his mouth Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    to bleat, “But everybody does it!”
    But that’s not how the Job Centre people seem to feel, if the look the man gives us before he leaves to find his “superior” is any indication.
    “Look, Liz,” Andrew says to me the minute the Job Centre man is out of the room, “I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve completely cocked things up for me. It’ll be all right, though, if, when the bloke comes back, you just tell him you made a mistake. That we had a little misunderstanding and I wasn’t working yesterday. All right?”
    I stare at him, confused.
    “But Andrew—” I can’t believe this is happening. There has to be some mistake. Andrew—MY
    Andrew, who’s going to teach the children to read?—can’t be a welfare cheat. That’s just not possible.
    “Youwere working yesterday,” I say. “I mean…weren’t you? That’s where you told me you were.
    That’s why you left me alone with your family for the whole day and most of the night. Because you were waitering. Right?”
    “Right,” Andrew says. He is, I notice, sweating. I’ve never seen Andrew sweat before. But there is a definite sheen along his hairline. Which, I notice, is receding just a little. Will he be as bald as his father someday? “Right, Liz. But you’ve got to tell a little lie for me.”
    “Lie for you,” I say confusedly. It’s like…I realize what he’s saying. I understand the words.
    I just can’t believe Andrew—MY Andrew—is saying them.
    “It’s just a white lie,” Andrew elaborates. “I mean, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking, really, Liz. Waiters make SHIT here, it’s not like back in the States, where they’re guaranteed a fifteen percent tip. I swear to you, every single waiter I know is on the dole as well—”
    “Still,” I say. I can’t believe this is happening. I really can’t. “That doesn’t make it right. I mean, it’s still…it’s kind of dishonest, Andrew. You’re taking money from people who actually NEED it.”
    How could he not realize this? He wants to teach underprivileged children…the very people that welfare money he seems to feel so entitled to is actuallyfor . How could he not know this? His mother is a social worker, for crying out loud! Does she know how her son comes by his extra cash?
    “Ineed it,” Andrew insists. He’s sweating harder now, even though it’s actually quite pleasant,