Trust Me, I'm Lying by Mary Elizabeth Summer

Author:Mary Elizabeth Summer [Summer, Mary Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780385382885
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2014-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

THE MERRY CHASE

I barrel backward into Sam, who is still holding the door to the stairwell open. Sometimes bluffing your way out is not an option. The trick is to know when it’s time to turn tail and run. Like now, for instance.

Sam instinctively pulls the door shut and grabs the crash bar, holding it in the locked position against the pulling and pounding from the other side.

“Grabbing your belt,” I say as I whip off his belt and then my own. I loop the first belt around the metal stair railing behind me, threading the end through the metal clasp and pulling it tight. Then I loop the other belt around the crash bar and pull it tight. The belts almost reach each other, but not quite. There’s about six inches between them.

“I can’t hold it much longer.” Sweat stands out on Sam’s forehead as he strains against the bucking door. He puts a foot against the wall for more leverage.

I drop to my knees and pull my shoelace free. Fastest costume change in the West. I thread the lace through the beltbuckle holes on each belt and double-knot the excess.

“Let’s go!” I’m bounding up the stairs even as I say it.

Sam runs after me, not bothering to look back to see if the belts are holding the crash bar.

I swing out of the stairwell onto the third floor and race to the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be a supply closet packed to the gills with towels, toilet paper, cleaning carts, and other hotel paraphernalia. Sam squishes in behind me and closes the door.

We’re pressed up against each other so close I can hear his blood racing and feel his breath on my cheek.

“Why’d we run?” he pants. “We could have let ourselves get caught. What’s the big deal if we get kicked out?”

“We have a spotless record—never been caught. I’d rather not start getting sloppy now,” I say, thinking about how long his parents would let him continue associating with me once I let him get pinched for doing anything even marginally illicit.

“Well, what now?”

We can’t go back for the delivery-guy outfits, since the sous-chef saw us in those as well. I pull off my wig and goatee, which are useless now, damn it. Good wigs are not cheap.

It is simply time for Plan B, as my father would say. But I hate having to go with Plan B. Plan B is invariably not as strong as Plan A. Obviously, or it would be Plan A.

“I have an idea.” I speed-dial Mike’s number.

When he picks up, I say, “How fast can you run?”

Three minutes later, I hang up with Mike and start stripping. Sam clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. I’m hoping he doesn’t think to ask who I called.

“Take off your vest,” I say as I squirm against him, trying to get my pants off.

“This is not exactly what I—”

“Stuff a sock in it, Sam. We don’t have time to coddle your delicate sensibilities. Ditch the vest.

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