something about sandcastles
an excerpt

Lots of nine-year-old kids have to take out the trash to get their allowance for the week. But most kids don’t have to do it for every room in a motel.
Mallory Carver hummed to herself as she walked down the path, the garbage back bumping along behind her. She knocked on the next door: “Housekeeping!” There wasn’t an answer, and with her ear pressed to the door, she couldn’t hear any rustling around or snoring, so she put her master key in the lock and slowly opened the door. She was greeted by the careless disregard of a family taking a vacation from house-cleaning as well as the other chores of normal life. There was a towel slung over a chair, gaping suitcases spilling out clothes, unmade beds and empty coffee cups from the complimentary continental breakfast sitting on the table.
Next to the bed, however, Mallory spied a jackpot. Cobweb Morning. The man and woman on the cover were looking forlorn, and Mallory couldn’t wait to come back and find out what they were thinking about. But not yet. “Room 103,” she whispered to herself, and set to business. The trash cans were mostly empty, most of the detritus still scattered about the room. Ida would take care of that later; fortunately, she hadn’t been given full housekeeping responsibilities yet. Maybe in a couple of years—each birthday seemed to come with a new and more involved set of chores that made her think of Cinderella. But child labor laws don’t apply to the boss’s kid.
She carried the trash can from the bathroom out to the one next to the table, carefully stepping around the soggy bathing trunks crumpled on the tile floor. She dumped the first into the second, returned the first trash can to its home, and carried the second one outside to dump in her giant garbage bag. She went back inside to replace the trash can, gazed longingly at the romance novel sitting on the nightstand, and closed the door behind her as she walked out.
The next room was clearly another family. The cot crammed in between the bed and the dresser made it hard for Mallory to squeeze by to retrieve the trash can. There was also evidence of a pallet between the two beds. Six people? There must always be someone to talk to in this family! Mallory often wondered what it would be like to have siblings, a little brother or sister to boss around. She’d make them collect the trash for her, and then she’d tell them a story as a reward. There was an inflatable raft leaning in the corner, next to a bucket and shovel and a few other well-loved beach toys. Ida’s going to hate vacuuming up all that sand, Mallory thought. Ida complained about sand so much Mallory often wondered why she lives in Florida.
Trash can two, meet trash can one. Insert trash. Trash can one, meet Mr. Giant Black Garbage Bag. Do you have anything to say to him? Oh, really? Well, he doesn’t like you much, either. But he’ll still take that yummy trash you’re offering him. Back home you go, trash can one. Nighty-night! See you tomorrow!
Mallory continued to walk from room to room, lost in her thoughts and her made-up song, dragging her trash bag behind her. If her dad saw her he’d yell at her that she was going to rip it, but she didn’t expect to see him this early in the morning, and she’d pick it up and carry it really fast if she spotted him coming. Room after room of messy vacationers, enjoying the fact that someone else was cleaning up after them. But did they realize that the someone was her?
She didn’t really see anyone while she was doing her chores. Most people were already out playing and sunbathing at the beach. Just in case, she tried to make her voice sound grown-up as she called, “Housekeeping!” If they were in the room, they shouted through the door and she moved on to the next room. On the rare occasion that she found herself face-to-face with a guest after identifying herself as the pint-sized trash girl, they looked at her funny and she blushed furiously, but she was forgotten before she was through the next room. The people she passed along the breezeways didn’t even seem to recognize her existence.
Ida noticed her, though, as she made the bag go bumpety-bump down the back staircase. “Don’t let you father catch you dragging that thing again!” she admonished, though she didn’t really care herself. Ida had been cleaning motels for so long that she knew the bags were nearly indestructible. And she wasn’t going to waste time yelling at a kid for something like that when she still had ten rooms to go. But if Mallory’s father did see her with the bag dragging—which worried him more because of the image it presented than the danger of ripping—that was a scene she’d rather avoid. He’d make the kid cry, and she’d come wailing to her like she could do something about it. Mr. Edgar hired her to clean toilets, not raise his kid.