Odds Are Good by Bruce Coville Read Free Book Online Page A

a housekeeper, he or she takes on some of
my
work first.”
    â€œThen who did this to me?” asked Jamie.
    Her mother looked at her oddly. “You are the strangest child,” she said at last. “But thanks anyway.”
    Before Jamie could reply, Mrs. Carhart turned and left. Jamie growled and stabbed a long metal tool through the little clay man she had been making. She knew what her mother was thinking. She was thinking that she, Jamie, had cleaned up the room but was too embarrassed to admit it. She was also thinking that if she pushed the issue Jamie would never do it again. Which meant that when Jamie claimed she had nothing to do with this . . . this
catastrophe
, her mother would simply think that she was playing an odd game, and the more she tried to convince her otherwise, the more Mrs. Carhart would be convinced that she was right in her assumption. Jamie groaned. It was hopeless.
    Of course, the other possibility was that her mother was lying and really had hired someone to clean the room. Jamie considered the idea. “Unlikely,” she said out loud.
    But what other explanation was there? Some demented prowler who broke into people’s houses to clean rooms when no one was at home? Jamie glanced around nervously, then shook her head.
    Â 
    Dinner that night was interesting. Mrs. Carhart had clearly warned Mr. Carhart that he was not to make a big deal over the clean room for fear that Jamie would never do it again.
    By the time the meal was over, Jamie wanted to scream.
    By the time the night was over, she
did
scream. “I just want you to know that I am
not
responsible for this!” she bellowed, standing at the top of the stairs. “I had nothing to do with it!”
    She heard her father chuckle.
    Furious, she returned to her room, slamming the door behind her. When she undressed for bed she tore off her clothes and scattered them about the floor. Once she was in her nightgown she went to the door, opened it a crack, and yelled “Good night!”
    Then she slammed it shut and climbed between the sheets.
    Â 
    When Jamie got home the next afternoon, yesterday’s clothes (which she had studiously avoided touching that morning) had disappeared from her floor. Her clay-working tools were lined up in an orderly fashion on her desk. The bits of clay that she had left around had been gathered together and rolled into a ball.
    The cat was curled up in the middle of her bed, sleeping peacefully.
    â€œDid you do this?” she asked, looking at him suspiciously. She was perfectly aware of what a stupid question it was. On the other hand, when things got this weird, stupid questions began to make sense.
    Mr. Bumpo blinked at her, but said nothing. She reached out to stroke him and realized that his fur, which normally had a number of tangles and knots, was perfectly groomed.
    â€œThis is creepy,” she said. “And I don’t like it.” She tossed her backpack on the bed and began to search the room for some clue or sign as to who might have done this. Under her bed she found only that the rapidly breeding colony of dust bunnies had become extinct. She checked her closet next, where she saw something she had not laid eyes on in over three years: the floor. When she looked in her dresser she found that every item of clothing had been neatly folded. This was even worse than it had been the day before!
    What she did not find was any sign of who had done this terrible thing to her.
    She sat on the edge of her bed for a long time, stroking Mr. Bumpo and listening to him purr. Finally she decided to go back to her clay working. Remembering a sketch for a new project she had made during math class, she overturned her pack and emptied it on the bed. Out tumbled a mixture of books, crumpled papers, pens and pencils in various stages of usefulness, candy wrappers, rubber bands, sparkly rocks she had picked up on the way to and from school, three crayons stuck