Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) Read Free Page A

Aunt Maude,” Louanne said sweetly. Right by her side, looking like Puppy Charming, was Giggle.
    “And this must be the lovable little mutt,” Maude said, softening for, I guessed, the first time ever. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears, and he nuzzled her hand. He knew who buttered his scone.
    I was glad for Louanne, who looked as if she might collapse with relief. I understood. Giggle was one of the reasons London was bearable—fun, even—for her.
    After taking off her cape and setting down her bag—both of which suspiciously looked like they’d been stolen from one of those British nanny shows—Aunt Maude followed us into the tiny kitchen. Like most people in England, we lived in a semidetached; that is, a house divided neatly in two with one family on one side and one on the other. Which meant the rooms were much smaller than the ones back home.
    “Well, looks as if you’re taking good care of the place.” She sniffed.
    “Thank you,” Mom said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
    Mom brought out the meal, which she’d kept plain just for her guest.
    “Meat, two veg, and jacket potatoes,” Maude said approvingly.
    “Care for butter?” I asked. And those were the last words I got in for the entire meal. Maude told us all about her varicose vein problems, her digestive problems, the crime problems that Wexburg had now that they’d never had before, and how unlikely it was that England would ever be the same again, no matter what the Queen did, God save her.
    Two hours later we politely closed the door behind Aunt Maude and slumped onto the sofa in the sitting room.
    “And you want to make more British friends?” Dad teased my mother.
    “They can’t all be like that,” Mom said. “Can they?”
    Dad and Louanne went to clean the kitchen, and Mom and I stayed to talk.
    “Do you think all of them are that way?” I asked quietly. “I mean, the women . . . and the girls my age?”
    Mom looked at her hands for a minute. “No, no, I don’t. We just haven’t found the right ones yet.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back.” A minute later she came back with her Christmas cookie cookbook.
    “Oh yeah,” I said. “I was worried you’d left that at home.”
    “Never,” Mom said. “Today I was moping around feeling sorry for myself, thinking that I’d be planning my annual Christmas cookie exchange if I were at home. Then I thought, why not have one here? I’ll invite all the neighbors.”
    I didn’t really want to stick a pin in her balloon, but someone had to say something. “Do you think the neighbors . . . well, do you think they seem like the cookie-exchange type?”
    “Never know till you try!” Mom said. “Since Christmas is just over two months away, I’m going to hand out invitations soon. Maybe hold the party a week or two before Christmas. And—” she snapped the book shut—“how about you, Sav? How about that Hazelle in your maths class? Isn’t she on the newspaper staff too?”
    “Oh, Mom. Hazelle wishes I were yesterday’s news. And bad news, at that. If anything, she’s probably trying to convince Jack not to offer me a position.”
    “How about those girls at Fishcoteque?” Mom pressed. I had to admire her persistence. And maybe she was right.
    “The ones in my science class?” They had smiled at me in class again this week. And shared their dissecting equipment.
    Mom nodded hopefully.
    “Science club meets tomorrow. I could give it a try,” I said doubtfully. I didn’t mention that I was the only one in class who had popped the crayfish’s eye during the dissection. Really, my only skill was writing. But so far, no word from Jack. Face it, he probably wasn’t going to invite me to join the staff. Maybe it was just as well—maybe I had it coming, with my false pretenses and all.
    “That’s my girl,” Mom said. “Tomorrow then. Science club.”

Chapter 6

    Science club met after school on Wednesday. I strolled in just as they were