Real Mermaids Don't Sell Seashells Read Free Page B

themselves reloading the back of the van with luggage. Soon, they were all packed up and Faye tooted her horn as they drove away.
    â€œI wonder what’s keeping your dad.” Mom looked over her shoulder at the reception area. “Are you guys okay here if I go check on him?”
    â€œSure,” I replied, sitting on my Dalmatian-print suitcase.
    â€œOnce we get all settled in our rooms, we can catch the shuttle back to the Straw Market. Maybe we can find some cute sarongs for the wedding and a beachy tropical shirt for your dad. All he brought are T-shirts,” Mom said as she pushed through the lobby doors and disappeared inside.
    â€œWe should find out about this paddleboarding excursion,” Cori said, looking through a brochure she’d nabbed at the airport tourist kiosk. “And windsurfing. And sea kayaking. Oh, and they have this thing called Snuba diving!”
    So much for my plan to chillax.
    That’s when Sticky Boy #2 upchucked all over my Chuck Taylor sneakers.

Turned out (after ditching my beloved “upchucked” Chucks, washing my feet in the ocean, and rooting through my luggage to find a pair of flip-flops) that the Eutopia Resort didn’t have a record of our reservation after all.
    â€œYou have no room for us?” Dad yelled. I wasn’t sure if he was yelling because he was angry or because his ears were still blocked from the airplane, but either way, people looked over from the hotel lobby bar and a burly-looking security guard came over to investigate the situation.
    â€œSir, there is no reservation on file for a Dalrymple Baxter. I’ve checked several times,” the hotel attendant said, looking up from her computer.
    â€œI’d bet you any money that Taylor ’n Tyler and their entourage stole our reservation,” Cori whispered to me as we saw the large group of tanned, bleached, sunglassed people follow an army of bellhops pushing carts full of Gucci and Prada luggage toward the bank of elevators.
    â€œDo you really think that’s them?” I asked, squinting through the crowded lobby.
    Cori flipped open an OK! Magazine to a photograph of Taylor Ariella holding an oversized bag with a dust mop of a puppy in it. It was the same kind of dog our “Taylor” was carrying in her handbag.
    â€œThat doesn’t prove anything,” I said, inspecting the picture, though it sure did look like her. “Those guys over there could just be some rich kids on school break.”
    But still, if Taylor ’n Tyler and their crew did get us kicked out of our hotel, that was so not cool.
    â€œBut I have the confirmation number right here!” Dad continued to yell, showing the paper he’d brought with him from our travel agent with all the reservation information.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” the hotel attendant repeated for the umpteenth time while signaling for the security guard, “but your yelling is upsetting the other guests and there really isn’t anything else I can do for you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
    The refrigerator-sized security guard sprang into action and started loading our luggage onto a cart to escort us out the door.
    â€œNumber! Confirmation number!” Dad insisted, waving the paper in the air.
    â€œCome on, Dalrymple,” Mom said quietly, taking his arm. “We’ll figure something else out.”
    After a series of phone calls to our travel agent, which probably cost as much in cell-phone fees as the plane tickets to the Bahamas, we finally got rebooked at a smaller hotel down the road.
    â€œThe Asylum?” I said as we rolled our suitcases up the driveway after walking the half mile or so from the Eutopia. The straps of my flip-flops were already starting to make my feet ache.
    â€œA side of what?” Dad asked, tapping the side of his head with the heel of his hand as though trying to dislodge something from his ear