IT WAS FRIDAY morning at the Barclay Hotel, and Emma had just gotten the saddest news you can possibly imagine. Emma had been moping around the hotel for days. As amazing as the hotel was, she’d been just too upset (more on why later). And now she was getting tired of her own sadness.

On top of that, Emma was extra bored that Friday. Sure, the Barclay Hotel had plenty to do for a twelve-year-old girl: there was the pool, the movie theater, the carousel, the Cupcake Shoppe, and the bowling alley. And the elevator had this great game that—well, that was kind of a Barclay Hotel secret.

But Emma didn’t want any of those things. Really, she just wanted another kid to hang out with.

Emma spent most of her downtime roaming the hotel. Her parents had other things to do, so she hung out in the kitchen with her uncle, Chef Pierre. But even he couldn’t talk to her.

That Friday morning, she’d already roamed the halls and watched Chef Pierre cook oatmeal for breakfast (with raisins, very grown-up and dull). And now she was sitting on a porch rocker, pushing her feet against the squeaky old floorboards.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Squeak, squeak. So boring!

Emma twisted a strand of long dark hair around her finger, and faced the sun. She could use a little daylight. Too much time in the hotel this winter had made her kind of pale.

Mr. Clark, the butler, stepped outside, followed by her uncle. Both men had their eyes on the blue sky and hadn’t seen Emma outside.

“Do you think it will snow?” Mr. Clark asked.

“Je ne sais pas,” her uncle replied. He was French, and often forgot that other people were not. He quickly switched to English. “I don’t know. The weather forecast said only ten percent chance.”

Mr. Clark nodded. “That’s acceptable. Plus, no one can control the weather.”

“Mais oui—that’s right, monsieur.”

“Before I forget: it appears we have a straggler. Two stragglers, in fact. Kids, to make matters worse.”

The chef’s face was like a giant question mark.

“A straggler is someone who tags along and hangs behind the real invited guest, an extra person . . .”

“Ah, oui.”

“A boy, aged twelve,” Mr. Clark said. “And a girl—she’s eleven. Two of our guests RSVP’d asking to bring their kids.”

“I’ll count it into the food preparations,” the chef said. “Perhaps pancakes for dinner?” Emma’s uncle specialized in pancakes, pizza, hot dogs, and burgers—food kids like.

“No more children’s food, Pierre,” Mr. Clark said with a sigh. “Please.”

The chef nodded but couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“It’s important that this weekend goes off without a hitch, you understand, Pierre?” Mr. Clark said to the chef. “We have to keep our plan on track.”

“Oui.” His voice was small.

Emma’s ears perked up, but she didn’t say anything. What plan could they be talking about? When you’re eavesdropping on grown-ups, it’s better to keep your lips zipped. Any kid knows that.

“Back to work, then.” The butler turned, and went back inside the mansion.

The chef let out a big sigh. Emma didn’t want to call attention to herself, so she sat very still in her rocker until her uncle followed Mr. Clark inside.

Emma was so excited—there were stragglers coming! A twelve-year-old boy and an eleven-year-old girl, Mr. Clark had said. And Emma knew what that meant.

Friends.

All the plans Mr. Barclay had made, everything that had been set in motion, the whole invitation business—Emma didn’t know and couldn’t care less about it all. There were two kids her age coming to the Barclay Hotel.

Things were about to be so much less boring. Maybe not boring at all.