The Classy Crooks Club Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œMiss Annemarie?” he says.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œFenton’s Foxes, huh?” he says, nodding at the picture of the fox on the front of my orange and white soccer uniform.
    â€œUh-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.”
    â€œSweet deal,” Stanley says. “When I was your age, my summer soccer league was sponsored by an auto repair shop.”
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œThat’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?
    â€œReady 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