“I needed a job,” she said. “Everyone else at school just gets cash to spend. Now I’m just going to be stuck here every day, doing the wash and getting evil looks from Marlene.”

Spencer turned from his spying. He had too much respect for her to deny that she had a point.

“I’m sorry this is how your birthday turned out,” he said. “But all jobs suck. You might as well have a sucky job that you don’t have to get up early to go to. Plus, they can’t fire you.”

“I guess,” she said glumly. “But what about you? We only have three days.”

“I’ll do…something. I’m going to call every single person I know in the entire world. Maybe somewhere out there…maybe something will come up.”

Scarlett slumped further in her chair and stared up at the chandelier. From this angle, she could see the thick membrane of spiderwebs that seemed to hold it together.

“Look,” Spencer said, stepping away from the window, “it’ll be…”

Just as he moved, his foot seemed to get stuck. He tripped hugely, taking flight before landing face-flat on the floor with a loud, painful smack. Even though he had been doing that trick her entire life, it never failed to get her. The painful smack was his hand slyly hitting the floor to sell the gag. She laughed out loud despite herself.

“Just checking,” he said, looking up from the floor. “I was kind of worried your face would stick like that.”

He reached for the little table to pull himself up, then jerked and almost fell over again. For a second, Scarlett thought he was doing another gag. Then she saw that no, the table leg had just given. He caught it before it tipped and propped it back up with a whack to hold it in place.

“No matter what,” he said, “promise me one thing. No matter what happens here, no matter how broke we get, promise me you’ll never do that.”

He pointed in the direction of where the long-gone Mercedes had been.

“Get in Chip’s car?” Scarlett asked.

“Date a bank account instead of a person,” he said. “Or anybody I don’t like.”

He looked at his watch, which was currently being held together by electrical tape.

“I have to go, too,” he said, picking up his backpack from the floor under his chair. “We’ll talk later. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

He ruffled her curls as he passed. He was the only person allowed to do that.

Scarlett picked up the Empire Suite key from the table. This was her fifteenth birthday. No job. No prospects. No exciting, life-changing project. Just an empty hotel room, some leftover balloons, and a bunch of people telling her how it was going to be fine, and obviously lying.

“I need a plan,” she said to it. “Something needs to give. What do I do?”

The key did not answer, because keys generally do not speak. This was probably a good thing, because if it had replied, Scarlett’s problems would have taken on a new level of complexity.