A Snitch in the Snob Squad Read Online Free Page B

a break,” I said. “The only thing I remember from my early years is falling down the stairs and breaking my arm.”
    Vanessa frowned at me. “That wasn’t you. That was me.”
    “Really? Then I don’t remember anything.” Which was scary. Maybe I was abducted by aliens. My eyes strayed back to Dad, who
     was eyeing the bowling lanes, smiling hypnotically. Maybe I’d never returned.
    Vanessa pulled out a pair of shoes and sniffed them. Her nose puckered. She dug down deep into her bush bag and said, “Here,
     use this.” She handed me a moist towelette. “I’d advise you to wipe out the finger holes on the bowling balls, too.”
    Did I mention my sister is also obsessive/compulsive? Her condition has improved—she doesn’t zone out as often as she used
     to—but only an obsessive/compulsive would carry a whole canister of moist towelettes. I wondered what else was in her two-ton
     canvas bag. A new pair of shoes, perhaps? I could squeeze into a six if I had to.
    I spotted Mom first, or maybe my nose did. She was carrying a tray of hamburgers and fries and drinks. No sign of cottage
     cheese, thank goodness. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I made a mental note: Dear Fatty Food Diary, know all the
     dieting I did this week? Blow it off.
    We trailed Mom over to our lane. Dad was sitting at the controls, cranking up the scoreboard, which was huge and lit-up. When
     he wrote down my name, I freaked.
    “Dad,” I said, wrenching down his writing arm, “everyone can see our scores. Don’t use our real names.”
    He met my eyes and saw that I was serious. “Who do you want to be?” he asked.
    I considered the question. “Ashley Krupps,” I replied.
    He smiled and wrote,
Aslee Craps.
    Close enough. Apparently Vanessa and I got our defective spelling genes from him.
    Mom was up first. At the end of the lane, she poised with her ball, aimed, and threw. The ball thudded on the lane, bounced,
     and rolled down the aisle. Straight toward the middle pin. Which toppled and set up a chain reaction. When the last pin dropped,
     Mom shrieked and jumped for joy.
    Beside me, Vanessa muttered, “I was switched at birth.”
    “You’re up, Van,” Dad said.
    “Do I have to?”
    Mom gave Vanessa the look. You know the one: Life is short, especially yours if you keep this up. Vanessa exhaled in disgust.
     She rose from her seat, stormed to the machine, grabbed her ball, and flung it. It rolled right into the gutter. She stormed
     back.
    “We’ll call that a practice shot,” Dad said.
    “You can’t,” Mom told him. “It’s automatic scoring. No free balls.”
    Vanessa grumbled, “Let’s call it a night.” She threw her second ball, also into the gutter, then slumped over in her seat.
    Dad was next. He stood with his ball, gazing down the lane. Then he wiggled his hips, aimed, and threw. He was left with what
     he called the dreaded seven-ten split, which apparently meant there were two pins still standing, one on each side.
    I’m no physics whiz, but even I know you can’t hit two pins, a hundred feet apart, with one ball. And Dad missed both pins.
     Then he said a really bad word.
    “Robert!” Mom scolded him. “Really.”
    I was next. My ball was heavier than I remembered, and the finger holes were smaller. The worst part was waddling up to the
     line. Everyone who was bowling stopped to gawk. “Go ahead,” I said to the bowlers on either side of me. “I’m testing the wind.”
    They both rolled strikes.
    I studied their form. Tried to copy it. But as my arm swung back, my fingers lost their grip. The ball clunked behind me,
     right after my arm popped out of its socket. Everyone in the universe watched my ball roll off the alley and under a seat.
     Vanessa covered her mouth. Dad’s shoulders shook.
    “Shut up.” I scowled at them.
    Mom said, “Honey, I don’t think that’s your ball.”
    Oh, gee. Is that why I blew a disk in my spine?
    Dad retrieved the ball and took it back, while I