Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls Read online

  This book is for

  Brenda Bowen

  and

  Jean Feiwel

  with gratitude

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Copyright

  The evening was gloomy and windy, with rain streaming down from heavy clouds that blocked the moon. I thought it was the perfect night to a) curl up with The Phantom of Pine Hill—a really spooky Nancy Drew mystery—and the licorice whips I’d hidden in my desk or b) work on the still life I’d started and daydream about Trevor Sandbourne. But “No,” my dad said, “homework first, Claudia,” and there’s no arguing with Dad. Besides, we have an agreement, my parents and I. The agreement is that if I get all my homework done every night (with someone in my family supervising me), I can continue to take my art classes. More important, I can stay in the Baby-sitters Club.

  The Baby-sitters Club is something my friend Kristy Thomas thought up a little while ago at the beginning of seventh grade. Kristy, who lives across the street from me, does a lot of baby-sitting. So do I, Claudia Kishi, and so does Kristy’s best friend, Mary Anne Spier, who lives next door to Kristy. So Kristy had this idea that the three of us should get together to form a group of baby-sitters, advertise ourselves, and have a little business, which is just what we did. Plus, we asked a new friend of mine, Stacey McGill, to join, which she did. The Baby-sitters Club is working really well. People know about us and call us all the time, and each of us has more jobs now than before the Baby-sitters Club, so it was important that I be allowed to stay in it. But I almost blew it when the school sent a letter home to my parents saying that I wasn’t working up to potential and stuff like that. My parents are used to those letters—they get them about twice a year—but what they hadn’t expected to find out was that I had done almost none of my homework since school started. That was when Mom and Dad laid down the law.

  The thing about homework is that it is just so boring I can barely concentrate on it. And it’s useless. Who cares whether > means greater than or less than, or what x equals? (Besides, why bother finding out, since x equals something different every time?) The only school thing I like to do is read, and the teachers even take the fun out of that. They don’t care that I can almost always solve a mystery before the detective in the story can. They just care that I don’t know what an adverb is.

  None of this would be so bad if it weren’t for Janine. Janine is my sister. She’s fifteen and a real-and-true genius. Her IQ is 196, which is above average (100), and above above-average (120), and even above the genius level, which is about 150. Actually, I’ll tell you a secret. My IQ is also above average. Everyone is amazed, since I can barely spell, but that’s why my parents and teachers come down so hard on me. I’m smart, but I’m not a good student. They say if I’d just Pay Attention and Concentrate, I could do fine in school. But who cares? I’d never live up to Janine.

  You have no idea what it’s like to have a genius for an older sister (unless, of course, you have one yourself). You can’t even say the simplest thing to her. Yesterday morning all I did was go, “Janine, it’s cold out. Mom wants you to close your window before you leave for school,” and you know what she said? She said, “I find it fascinating that in our society we attempt to regulate the temperature of our environment rather than our bodies. It’s so much more difficult and it’s highly inefficient. Primitive peoples and peoples in various other societies existing today tend toward the mere addition or removal of clothing, while we invite the use of heating units and air conditioners.”

  I didn’t even know there was such a word as peoples.

  Anyway, to get back to that gloomy evening, Dad said I had to do my homework, and he said it was Mimi’s turn to help me. I’m supposed to try to do the work on my own, but one of them sits next to me to keep me from daydreaming, to make sure I do each assignment completely, to see that I follow directions and stuff, and to answer questions if I have them. They’re not supposed to do the homework for me, but sometimes I can get Janine to give me answers. This is because my dumb homework is so boring for her, as she tells me at least twice every time she has to help me, that she’ll do anything to speed it along. Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not up to trigonomulus, or whatever it is she does. We can’t all be scholars.

  Mimi, my grandmother, is the best person to help me. She’s quiet and soft-spoken and endlessly patient. My family is Japanese, and Mimi and my grandfather (who died long before I was born) brought my mother to the United States when Mom was just a little girl. Mom has no accent whatsoever (neither does my father, who also came to the United States as a small child), but Mimi has this pleasant, rolling accent that reminds me of a ship at sea. And she is polite, polite, polite, never speaking a harsh word.

  I got out my social studies text.

  “What do we have between the covers of this book?” asked Mimi, who thinks books are eyes into the hearts and lives of other people (peoples?). She told me so once.

  “Social studies,” I replied. “We read chapter three in class today. Now we have to answer the discussion questions at the end of the chapter…. Mimi, if they’re discussion questions, why aren’t we discussing them? How come Mr. Miller is making us write them down?”

  “I do not know, my Claudia, but if that is the assignment, then you must complete it as your teacher wishes.”

  “I know.” Boy, did I know. A few weeks ago, I would have written down one-word answers or skipped the assignment altogether. Now there was no way out.

  I began to write. Mimi looked on, every now and then pointing out a misspelled word or suggesting that I check my punctuation. After social studies came math and then English, and at last I was done. I breathed a sigh that was relief mixed with boredom.

  “And what are you going to do now, my Claudia?” asked Mimi.

  “Get back to The Phantom of Pine Hill,” I replied, slapping my English text closed. Mimi knows about my Nancy Drew books, but no one else in the family does. Mom and Dad would tell me to read something more grown-up, and Janine would tell me to read something more worthwhile. (Her idea of a really good book, something to curl up with in front of a fire, is Sources of American Social Tradition, which at this very moment she’s devouring as if she were never going to read again.)

  “And what is happening in The Phantom of Pine Hill?” asked Mimi.

  “Ooh, it’s really spooky,” I began.

  “You like to be scared, my Claudia?”

  “Well, yes, I guess so. I mean, when it’s just a book, it’s fun. Look outside, Mimi. Look at the wind blowing the trees and the lightning flashing. It’s the perfect night to read a mystery.”

  Mimi smiled. “Spooky … It is almost Halloween,” she remarked. “Just a few more weeks.”

  I nodded. “But I think I’m too old to go trick-or-treating.”

  “Well, then, you can dress up and help us hand out the candy. I’m sure that is almost as much fun as tricks and treats.”

  Mimi knows how much I like to dress up. It’s very important to me. I think clothes make a statement about the person inside them. Also, since you have to ge
t dressed every day, why not at least make it fun? Traditional clothes look boring and are boring to put on. So I never wear them. I like bright colors and big patterns and funny touches, such as earrings made from feathers. Maybe this is because I’m an artist. I don’t know. Today, for instance, I’m wearing purple pants that stop just below my knees and are held up with suspenders, white tights with clocks on them, a purple-plaid shirt with a matching hat, my hightop sneakers, and lobster earrings. Clothes like these are my trademark.

  I like costumes, too, and I’ll really miss being able to show one off this year. But, as Mimi said, I could make one just to wear when I pass out goodies. Maybe I’ll dress up as a Smurf. Blue makeup would be fun.

  I stood up. “Thanks for helping me, Mimi. I wish you could help me every night.”

  “I know, my Claudia, but I think it is better to take turns. Some evenings I am busy, and your mother and father like to see your work, too.”

  “Right.” So why does Janine have to help me? It’s because my homework is so boring, no one can stand it for more than one night in a row—even Mimi—and the less often they have to help me, the better (for them).

  I was halfway upstairs when I remembered something. I turned around and ran back down to the first floor. “Mimi?” I called.

  “Yes, my Claudia?” She was settling down in the den with a fat book.

  “I just thought of something. Let’s work on your portrait.” In my art class, we’d been assigned two projects that semester: One was the still life and one was a portrait. Both were to be done in oils. Mimi was the subject of my portrait. “Would you mind?” I asked. “We’ll just work for half an hour or so.”

  “That would be fine.” Mimi carefully placed a marker in her book. She followed me to my room.

  I know artists are supposed to paint in daylight, but between school and baby-sitting, I didn’t have many daylight hours left over. I had to settle for painting in my room with every light blazing.

  I posed Mimi in the easy chair, adjusted my easel, and got to work. It was the third time Mimi had sat for me, and the painting was really coming along.

  “Mimi?” I said after a few minutes. “Tell me about when you were a little girl in Japan.”

  Mimi smiled and began the story I’d heard so many times before. She was good at talking without moving around. “We were a family very much like this one,” she said. “I lived with my parents, my older sister, and my grandfather—my father’s father.”

  “Mimi,” I suddenly interrupted. “Did you and your sister get along?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Mimi. “My sister was my friend, my dear friend. We studied together and played together. I followed her everywhere and tried to do all the things she did. She was very patient with me.”

  “Why aren’t Janine and I friends?” I asked, frowning at the portrait.

  “Being friends takes work,” replied Mimi quietly. “To be a good friend you must spend time with someone. You must talk to her and try to understand her. That is how you became friends with Kristy and Mary Anne and Stacey.”

  “But Janine is impossible to talk to,” I protested. “And she never has time for me. Well, hardly ever. She helps me with my homework, but that doesn’t count.”

  “And what about you? Do you have time for your sister?”

  “Not very often.”

  “Someday you will be friends,” said Mimi.

  I went back to her portrait, and she continued her story. Later, when she had left my room, I got the licorice whips out of my desk and the Nancy Drew book out from under my mattress, where it was hidden, along with a bag of root beer barrels.

  I was up to chapter fourteen in The Phantom, and it really was pretty exciting. Even so, as I chewed away on the licorice, my thoughts began to wander, and they wandered right to Trevor Sandbourne.

  I lowered the book.

  Trevor Sandbourne is the most gorgeous boy in the entire seventh grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. And he happens to have the most romantic name in the whole world. Trevor has jet black hair and dark, brooding eyes and freckles on his nose. He walks through the halls looking serious and deep in thought, and he writes poetry for The Literary Voice, our school’s creative journal. I never dreamed I would fall in love with a poet. The only problem is that Trevor and I don’t have any classes together, so we don’t know each other at all. He probably doesn’t even know I’m alive.

  R-r-r-r-ing! The sound of the phone made me jump. I reached for the receiver, wondering if there was just the teensiest chance that Trevor was on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Claud. It’s me.”

  “Hi, Stacey.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking about Trevor Sandbourne. What are you doing?”

  “Thinking about Sam Thomas.” (Sam Thomas is one of Kristy’s older brothers, and Stacey has an Immense Crush on him. Personally, I think he’s too old for her. He’s a freshman in high school.)

  I sighed.

  Stacey sighed.

  “Any Baby-sitters Club calls?” she asked after a moment.

  “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” The headquarters for the club is my bedroom. This is because I’m the only one of the four of us with a phone in my room. Not only that, I have a private number. The Baby-sitters Club meets three times a week in my room, and if people call during a meeting, they can reach all four of us at once, so they’re bound to get a sitter immediately. As Kristy says, “That’s the beauty of the club.” Of course, people can call us individually at our homes during other times, plus a number of club calls come in on my line when we’re not meeting. When that happens, I’m supposed to take down all the information about the job, like when it is, how many kids there will be, and how late the parents will be out—stuff like that. Then I’m supposed to offer the job to all the club members before calling the client back with a sitter. I’ll admit that a few times I’ve forgotten to do this and have taken the job myself on the spot. But I didn’t think it was very nice of Stacey to imply that I was job-hogging.

  Stacey sighed again.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked her.

  “I just wish I knew more people, that’s all.”

  “You will, Stace. Look, you haven’t even been here two months yet. It takes time to make friends.” Stacey and her parents had moved to Stoneybrook, Connecticut, from New York City in August.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Maybe you and I could get together with Kristy and Mary Anne on Saturday. I mean, to do something besides have a club meeting. Are you free Saturday?”

  “I’m always free,” said Stacey.

  “Oh, come on, you are not. You get lots of baby-sitting jobs, and you get to go back to New York with your parents all the time.”

  “That’s not the same as having friends.”

  “So—let’s do something Saturday, okay? I’ll call Kristy and Mary Anne.”

  “All right.”

  “See you tomorrow, Stace.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  We hung up, and I stared out the window at the rain. It wouldn’t be easy finding something Mary Anne’s strict father would allow her to do, or something Stacey’s strict diet would allow her to do, but I was determined that we would get together. I’d talk to Kristy and Mary Anne in school the next day.

  I went back to The Phantom of Pine Hill.

  Stacey, Kristy, Mary Anne, and I did get together on Saturday, but we couldn’t think of a thing for the four of us to do together. Mary Anne wasn’t allowed to ride her bike to the mall. Stacey couldn’t eat s’mores or ice cream or anything fun. (She has diabetes and has to control very carefully the amount of sugar she takes in each day.) And there was only one movie playing in town, and Kristy and I had already seen it.

  So we sat around in Kristy’s front yard. We were sprawled all over the place, except for Stacey, who was sitting up primly with her legs tucked under her
. She wanted to look nice in case Sam should come along or poke his head out the door or something. Mary Anne had the latest edition of The Stoneybrook News spread open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading it. We were very, very bored.

  “We could go up in the attic and look through that trunk of antique toys that Mom got from Grandma’s,” Kristy suggested.

  Stacey and I rolled our eyes. Even though Kristy and Mary Anne are in seventh grade, just like Stacey and I are, they can be very childish. They’re not interested in boys or clothes yet, and sometimes they do the weirdest things. Mary Anne still dresses up her stuffed animals. And they even look younger than we do. Kristy has long brown hair, which she doesn’t do much with yet, and big brown eyes, which will look great with makeup in a couple of years. She’s small for her age. She looks more like a ten-year-old. Mary Anne also has brown eyes and brown hair. Her father makes her wear her hair in braids. I wonder how long that will go on. And both of them wear kind of little-girl clothes—kilts and plain blouses and stuff like that.

  Stacey, on the other hand, dresses pretty much the way I do. She’s tall and slender and she gets her blonde hair professionally cut. She looks older than twelve.

  “We could try that new cookie pl—” Mary Anne began, then glanced at Stacey and stopped, remembering the diet problem.

  “We could rent a movie,” I said to Stacey.

  “Yeah!” said Kristy.

  “Yeah!” said Mary Anne.

  “The player’s broken,” said Stacey.

  “Oh.”

  I picked up a bright yellow maple leaf and twirled the stem between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll tell you guys a secret,” I said. “Well, Stacey knows about this, but no one else does.”

  “How come you already told Stacey?” asked Kristy accusingly.

  “I just did, that’s all. Okay?”

  I saw Kristy and Mary Anne glance at each other and knew what they were thinking—that Stacey and I left them out of things. Well, maybe we did sometimes.

  “Do you want to know the secret or not?”

  “Yes,” said Kristy grudgingly.

  “Okay. Well, here it is …” I said slowly, trying to drag out the suspense. “I’m in love!”