No. No, no, no. I cannot stay here. I cannot stay in a dingy motel room that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since before I was born. I can’t share a dingy motel room with a cockroach.

I hurry back to the front of the building and toss the key across the desk at the dozing clerk.

“Huh?” His eyes snap open as he hears the key ping off the desk.

“I can’t stay here,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me. I realize I’m shaking. I can’t stop seeing the giant cockroach in my mind.

“It’s . . . it’s just awful!” I exclaim. His eyes narrow even further, and I feel compelled to explain. “I mean, no offense,” I say quickly, remembering my manners. “But it’s dirty. And the dresser is broken. And the carpet is all worn. And there’s a cockroach!” I exclaim, expecting him to gasp in disgust. Instead, he just laughs.

“Just one?” he chortles. “Dream on!” My stomach turns.

“That’s gross,” I say bluntly.

He shrugs.

“I don’t see the problem,” he mumbles.

I stare at him, incredulous. “There are cockroaches in my room,” I repeat slowly. “And the place is disgusting. Didn’t you hear me?”

I pause and take a deep breath, worried that I’m being a diva. I hate being a diva.

“So don’t stay there,” the clerk says with a shrug and a smirk. I sigh. I feel like I’m talking to a wall.

“That’s my point,” I say. “I can’t. I won’t stay here. Can I have my money back now, please?”

The clerk laughs and taps a plastic sign propped up on the desk. My eyes slowly glide over to it, and my heart sinks. ABSOLUTELY NO REFUNDS, it says.

“But I didn’t know!” I exclaim. “Can’t you make an exception?”

He taps the signs again, still smirking at me. I squint and realize that in small print below the NO REFUNDS line is another line. NO EXCEPTIONS, it says. I groan.

“Oh, come on! Please?” I beg. I can’t afford to lose two hundred dollars and to have to shell out at least that much for another hotel. For once, I can’t plunk down my American Express Centurion card to make everything all right.

On top of that, I suspect it isn’t exactly legal for sixteen-year-olds to go around booking hotel rooms on their own.

“No exceptions,” the clerk says, tapping the sign insistently.

“But—” I start to protest. He laughs and cuts me off.

“What did you expect for a hundred and eighty-nine dollars a week?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at me.