The Ghostwriter Secret by Mac Barnett

appropriate nickname (Rock Salt) and invents a story about why he wears a beard (to cover a scar from atragic bumper car accident). When he tells his tale to gangs at the state fair, they accept him as one of their own!
    â€œKeep it natural,” Steve whispered to Dana as he pushed the door open at the Sea Spray Waterfront Hotel. Steve and Dana were dressed as resort guests: They were wearing Hawaiian shirts and brightly colored board shorts. Steve had a camera around his neck (the camera didn’t work, but nobody needed to know that). Dana had a straw hat on his head and a beach ball under his arm. “I’ll take the lead,” Steve whispered. The two boys sauntered up to the front desk. Steve wanted to whistle a carefree tune but settled for humming instead.
    The woman working today had a bright pink face and a brass name tag that said LINDA, MANAGER .
    â€œGood morning,” she said pleasantly.
    â€œGood morning, Linda,” said Steve. “I’m Sam and this is Otis. We’re brothers, out here on a trip with our dad. We checked in yesterday, with Lewis, I believe.”
    â€œOkay …,” said Linda.
    â€œBoy, we’re sure enjoying this California weather,” said Steve. “It’s a different world in Ohio, where we’re from.”
    The manager nodded slowly.
    â€œTell me,” Steve said. “Do you guys have a doorman working at the hotel?”
    â€œNo,” said Linda. “Why?”
    Just like he’d suspected! But there was no time to celebrate his discovery—he had to keep up his identity. “Just curious,” said Steve. “When our dad took us on another vacation to Hawaii we stayed at a hotel with a doorman.”
    â€œOh,” said Linda. “All right.”
    Dana spoke up. “When we went to Hawaii, we visited Maui.” Nice! Dana was deep undercover.
    â€œWell,” said Steve, “we’d better get to our room. Our dad’s waiting for us. He’s an engineer on the railroad, so he expects everyone to be punctual.”
    â€œSounds good,” said the manager.
    Steve and Dana walked past the desk and turned the corner into a long hallway lined with doors.
    â€œThat was perfect!” said Steve. “Our story was airtight.”
    Steve and Dana high-fived.
    Just then, a pale old couple wearing huge wraparound sunglasses came walking in the opposite direction. Steve and Dana smiled and kept walking.
    â€œHow will we know which room is Bart’s?” Dana asked.
    â€œI’ve thought of that,” said Steve. “Yesterday theguy at the front told me that MacArthur Bart has been ordering caviar, salmon, and cheese for every meal. But since he’s been kidnapped, the food’s been sitting outside his room.”
    Steve stopped next to a silver plate, covered with a silver dome, that was sitting on the carpet in the hall. “All we have to do is find the plate that has Bart’s meal, and we’ve got it. Voilà!” He bent down and whisked the shiny cover off the plate. Underneath were a few nibbled pizza crusts, a bowl of soggy lettuce, two dirty champagne flutes, and an empty green bottle.
    â€œThat’s disgusting,” Dana said.
    â€œYeah.”
    Steve and Dana strolled down the hotel’s nearly endless corridors, peeking under covers at the platters underneath. They found half a croissant; a piece of French toast, soggy with syrup; the bones of some sort of fish (which made Steve gag violently); a glass smeared red with cocktail sauce and holding two white shrimp; pieces of eggshell and a tiny silver pedestal; a single asparagus shoot that looked like a fat-knuckled finger in brown sauce; a vegetal mash that smelled like gorgonzola cheese; a bunch of grapes and a sausage patty; and a plate of six Kobe beef sliders, cold but untouched. They climbed a flight of concrete stairs up to the second floor, walked nonchalantly past a maidand her cart, and continued