Stacey and the Haunted Masquerade Read online

  Speaking of sharing, you’ll never find a more generous person than Claudia Kishi, my best friend (and favorite shopping buddy) and the vice-president of the BSC. Claudia is Japanese-American and has long, shiny black hair, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and a complexion to die for. She’s vice-president mainly because she has her own phone with a private line, so we can take BSC calls without tying up anybody else’s phone. But, over time, Claudia seems to have decided that providing munchies for each meeting is part of the vice-presidential job description. I’ve never attended a BSC meeting where there wasn’t food, and plenty of it.

  Maybe calling it “food” is a stretch. I guess it depends on whether or not you consider Cheez Doodles and Snickers bars “food.” Claudia sure does. She adores any kind of junk food, and always has tons of it on hand. (She knows I can’t eat it, though, and she’s very thoughtful about making sure she also has stuff I can eat, such as pretzels or fruit-juice-sweetened cookies.)

  At that meeting, Claudia was rummaging through her bureau drawers, searching for a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures she was sure she had hidden there. (Claudia has to hide her junk food, and also her beloved Nancy Drew mysteries. Her parents don’t approve of either.) “Whoa!” she suddenly cried, interrupting Kristy, who was in the midst of asking if there was any new business. Kristy shot Claudia a Look, but Claudia ignored it. She pulled out a pair of purple, orange, and green paisley leggings. “I’ve been looking everywhere for these,” she said.

  “How could you miss them?” muttered Kristy.

  Claudia grinned. “They are kind of loud, aren’t they?” she said. “I love them.” Claudia sees things a little differently than the rest of us. She’s an artist, and color and texture and design mean everything to her. She has never received anything less than an A + in art class. She can draw, paint, sculp, or create other kinds of art better than anyone else at SMS, but her grades in her other classes are more in the C range. Claudia’s smart, but she just doesn’t care too much about spelling, or algebra, or anything that doesn’t have to do with art. Also, I think Claud figures her older sister, Janine, makes enough A’s for both of them; Janine’s a certified genius.

  Claudia finally found the bag of chocolates and sat on the bed next to me, still clutching the leggings. She passed the chocolates to Mary Anne, who sat on her other side.

  “Any other business?” Kristy asked.

  There was none, but if it had been a Monday, I would have said it was dues day, and everybody would have groaned. You’d think I was asking for a pint of blood from each of them! Dues are no big deal. As treasurer of the club, I collect them every Monday and keep track of how much we have in the treasury. We use the money for things such as contributing to Claud’s phone bill, paying Kristy’s brother Charlie to drive her and Abby to meetings (which he’s done ever since the Thomases moved across town to Watson’s, which is about three miles away), and buying stickers and other things for our Kid-Kits. Once in a while, if there’s enough extra money, we’ll have a pizza party.

  While I was out of the club, my job was taken over by Dawn. She was the BSC’s alternate officer, which means that she could step in for any other officer who couldn’t make it to a meeting. But now that Dawn’s back in California for good, we have a new alternate officer — and a new BSC member! Her name’s Abby (short for Abigail) Stevenson, and she and her twin sister, Anna, and their mom (their dad died in a car accident when they were nine years old) recently moved into Kristy’s neighborhood.

  That day, Abby was perched on a stack of Claud’s art books. She can’t sit on the bed, because she’s allergic to the feathers in Claudia’s pillows, and she can’t sit on the floor because she’s allergic to dust. Abby seems to be allergic to just about everything. She’s constantly sneezing, wheezing, and blowing her nose. She also has asthma, a disease that can be life-threatening. But she’s learned to deal with it, just like I’ve learned to deal with my diabetes.

  Her physical problems don’t slow her down, though. Abby’s a real dynamo. She even gives Kristy a run for her money. She’s a natural athlete, with tons of energy for biking, soccer, or whatever. She’s also addicted to fun. If nothing’s happening, Abby makes something happen. We’ve always had a good time at BSC meetings, but it seems as though we laugh even more now that Abby’s a member.

  Abby and Anna are identical twins, but they’re easy to tell apart because they dress differently and have different hairstyles. (Abby’s hair is long, dark, and curly, while Anna’s is short, dark, and curly.) They both wear contacts most of the time and glasses occasionally. The twins are very different in other ways, too. Anna is a talented musician — violin is her instrument — and she’s much more introverted than Abby. Despite their differences, though, Abby and Anna are very close and seem to have a special kind of connection.

  Sitting on the floor near Abby that day were the two junior officers of the BSC, Mallory Pike and Jessi Ramsey. Unlike the rest of us, who are thirteen and in the eighth grade, Jessi and Mal are eleven and in the sixth. Being junior officers just means that they take lots of afternoon sitting jobs, since they aren’t allowed to sit at night unless it’s for their own families.

  You remember I mentioned that for a while I felt as if I’d outgrown the BSC? Well, at the time, I had convinced myself that all the BSC members were babyish, and that Jessi and Mal were the most babyish. But you know what? They’re actually both mature for their age. For example, Jessi, who’s African-American and beautiful, with high cheekbones and long, long legs, is a serious ballet student who has been dedicated to dance for years. And Mal, who has red hair, freckles, glasses, and braces (“a quadruple curse” as she says; she has no idea how pretty she is), is the oldest of eight — count ’em, eight — kids, and she’s been baby-sitting for ages. (Jessi’s family is smaller, but she’s a good sitter, too. She has a younger sister and a baby brother, and she’s had lots of practice taking care of them.) Jessi and Mal both love to read, especially horse stories, and Mal wants to be a children’s book author and illustrator when she’s older.

  And last but not least, we have two associate members: Logan Bruno (Mary Anne’s boyfriend), and Shannon Kilbourne (a girl from Kristy’s neighborhood, who goes to private school). (Associate members don’t usually come to meetings. They just help out when we’re overloaded with sitting jobs.)

  Okay, ready for the quiz? Now that you’ve learned about every BSC member, this should be easy. Between calls at our meeting that day, the main topic of conversation was the Halloween dance and how to dress for it. All you have to do is try to guess which member was considering which costume to wear to the dance. (The answers will be revealed later on, for anyone who’s still in the dark …)

  1. Ballerina A. Mallory

  2. Lucy Ricardo (from I Love Lucy) B. Mary Anne

  3. Dorothy (from The Wizard of Oz) C. Abby

  4. Amelia Earhart D. Claudia

  5. Morticia Addams E. Stacey

  6. Cowgirl F. Jessi

  7. Giant Twinkie G. Kristy

  There. I’d done it. I stepped back and looked at my name, which I had just written near the top of an almost blank sheet of paper. Then I smiled to myself and stuck the cap onto my purple felt tip pen.

  I’m not much of a joiner. The BSC is an exception, a big exception. But, for the most part, I usually like to go my own way. That’s why what I’d just done was a big step. I had been thinking about it ever since Mr. Kingbridge’s announcement the day before. I hadn’t talked to anybody else about it — not my friends, not my mom, not Robert, not anybody.

  I looked back at the sheet of paper. “Decorations Committee,” it read at the top. “Faculty Advisor, Mrs. Hall.” The only other writing on the paper was my name, signed with a flourish. I was the first person to join.

  It may not seem like a big deal, signing up for a decorations committee. And it’s not, really. But for me, it was a symbolic step. See, lately I’ve been feeling as if I need something new in my life. I mean, I’m thrilled to b
e part of the BSC again, don’t get me wrong. But lately I’ve wanted to be more active at school.

  I need the chance to prove myself, to have fun, to be involved. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that working on the Halloween dance was the perfect opportunity.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out which committee to join. The tickets committee sounded totally boring, and being on the refreshments committee wouldn’t be my thing either. The decorations committee would be fun, creative, and active, just what I was looking for.

  I felt even better about my decision when I walked into school that morning and saw the sign-up sheets posted on the main bulletin board. The decorations committee definitely had the best faculty advisor. Claud has Mrs. Hall for English, and I hear she’s pretty decent.

  The first bell rang as I was standing there looking at the bulletin board. I needed to run for my locker if I was going to make it to homeroom on time. I skidded through the halls, feeling psyched. I couldn’t wait to return at the end of the day and find out who else had signed up for the committee.

  I thought about ideas for decorations during homeroom (Ms. Levine had to call my name three times before I finally answered) and through all my morning classes. I was full of creative plans. For example, I thought we should steer away from the typical orange-and-black color scheme. Why be traditional? Why not use, say, red and purple?

  It’s funny. Everybody (including me) is used to thinking of Claudia as the artist, the talented one. But I can be creative, too. It’s true that I can’t draw or paint the way she can, but I know I have a strong sense of style. During social studies class, I suddenly remembered something that happened when I was in sixth grade, when I lived in Manhattan. My mom had a friend who was an interior designer, and one day she saw my room. She was very impressed when she found out that I had done all my own decorating (at that time I was into an Art Deco look), and she told my mom that I had a “good eye,” and that I could be a designer like her when I grew up.

  Maybe being on the decorating committee was going to be the start of a whole new direction for me!

  I was still thinking about decorating ideas when I walked into English class, my second-to-last class of the day. I took my seat and started to sketch out some plans for a fake gallows, which I thought would make a great set for the stage where the band would be playing. Mr. Fiske was taking attendance, so I didn’t really need to pay attention yet. I was lost in my drawing when I felt somebody nudge me, and I turned just in time to see Amanda Martin toss a folded-up note onto my desk. I opened it and read it.

  New guy? I hadn’t noticed any new guy. But when I glanced around, I spotted him immediately. He was sitting right next to me, and when I looked at him he gave me a big smile. He was cute (but not nearly as cute as Robert), with straight blond hair and brown eyes. He wore a blue denim shirt and khakis, and he was leaning his chair back on two legs, looking totally mellow. I was impressed. I doubt I ever appeared that relaxed when I was new at SMS.

  I turned Amanda’s note over and wrote on the other side.

  I tossed her the note just as Mr. Fiske was finishing up attendance. Amanda opened it, read it, looked at me, and shrugged. I looked back at the new boy, and he smiled at me again. This time, he even added a wink. I felt myself blushing.

  Just then, Mr. Fiske put down his attendance book and sat on the corner of his desk. “People, may I have your attention?” he asked.

  “I can tell you want attention just by looking at your tie,” cracked Rick Chow, who was sitting in the front row. Everybody laughed, including Mr. Fiske. He’s the kind of teacher you can joke with.

  “Like it?” he asked, looking down at his tie. Mr. Fiske is known for his silly ties, and this one was no exception. It was bright yellow, and it was covered with red punctuation marks: exclamation points, question marks, commas, you name it. Just the thing for an English teacher.

  “Very tasteful,” called out the new boy. “Simple, yet elegant.”

  Everybody cracked up again.

  “Why, thank you, Cary,” said Mr. Fiske. “You may be new in town, but obviously you’ve already spotted the best-dressed teacher at SMS.” He gave the new boy a little bow. “Class, I’d like you to welcome Cary Retlin. Cary just moved here from” — he checked a card on his desk — “Oak Hill, Illinois. Welcome to SMS, Cary.”

  Cary smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “This seems like a cool school.” He was still leaning back in his chair.

  “Cool enough,” said Mr. Fiske. “Now, for today we’re going to do a little free reading while I meet with each of you privately to go over last week’s quiz. Cary, if you need a book there are plenty on the shelves over there.” He waved toward the back of the room.

  Free reading time in Mr. Fiske’s class is generally an excuse to hang out. Some kids really do read, but most of us use the time to trade gossip or talk about what movies we saw over the weekend. Mr. Fiske doesn’t mind too much, as long as he knows we keep up with our reading at home.

  I pulled out my book, but I couldn’t concentrate with everybody around me talking. I noticed that Cary was already engaged in a whispered discussion about sports with some of the guys. He seemed completely at ease, talking and laughing and cracking jokes.

  Mr. Fiske called me up to his desk and reviewed my quiz with me. I’d done pretty well — I missed only two questions — so it didn’t take long. As I returned to my seat, I saw that Cary was tipped back in his chair again. The kids around him were laughing as he read out loud in a funny voice from the book he’d chosen.

  Suddenly, just as I passed by him, Cary’s chair tipped too far over, and dumped him onto the floor. The room was silent for a second as the other kids stopped talking and laughing, out of surprise. I let out a loud giggle. I just couldn’t help myself. Cary glanced up at me, and an odd expression crossed his face, an expression I couldn’t quite read. Was he angry? Were his feelings hurt?

  I stopped giggling and held out my hand to help him up. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said. By then he was grinning again. He turned to face the rest of the class. “And the judges are holding up their score-cards,” he said, pretending to speak into a microphone. “Retlin is receiving some pretty high marks for that dive! Eight point six, eight point seven, eight point four, and — this is amazing! — nine point seven from the Canadian judge! Retlin is in first place!” Cary held his hands over his head and acknowledged pretend cheers from a pretend audience. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Mr. Retlin,” said Mr. Fiske, in a warning tone.

  Cary sat down, but not before he’d given me another smile and a wink. I shook my head, as if to clear it. This guy was a real live wire. English class was definitely going to be more interesting from now on.

  Later, after math class, I made a dash for the bulletin board. I couldn’t wait to see who else had signed up for the decorating committee. As I moved closer to the sign-up sheets, I could see that a few names were listed after mine. I walked up to the board and started reading. “Rick Chow, Todd Long, Grace Blume —” So far, the list looked fine. My friends and I didn’t used to like Grace much, but lately we’ve discovered that she can be okay. I peered closer at the last name on the list, which was written quickly and sloppily. And when I’d deciphered it, my heart sank. Cokie Mason. Great.

  Cokie (who is Grace Blume’s best friend) is probably my least favorite person at SMS. She’s petty, small-minded, devious, and totally unscrupulous. (That’s one of Mr. Fiske’s vocabulary words. It means “without scruples.” Cokie wouldn’t know a scruple if it bit her.) I know that description makes her sound more like a soap opera character than an eighth-grade girl, but it’s true. Cokie will stop at nothing to get what she wants, and the BSC has been “Cokified” more than once. Believe it or not, one time she even went so far as to try to steal Logan away from sweet, sensitive, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Mary Anne. (I could have smacked her for that.)

  I turned away from the bulletin board, t
rying to fight my disappointment. I had been looking forward to the first meeting of the decorating committee, but now I wasn’t so eager. Still, I had to make the best of it, and not let Cokie ruin things for me. After all, why give her the satisfaction?

  “Welcome! I am the Gatekeeper!”

  “Nice to meet you, Gatekeeper,” said Abby, shaking Nicky’s hand. “Still looking for that Keymaster, are you?”

  “How did you know?” asked Nicky, Mallory’s eight-year-old brother. He dropped the deep voice he’d put on when he answered Abby’s knock at the Pikes’ front door. He’d been imitating a character from Ghostbusters.

  “I’m a CPG,” said Abby matter-of-factly.

  “A what?” asked Nicky.

  “A CPG,” repeated Abby. “A Certified Public Ghostbuster. I’d show you my badge, but I left it at home.”

  Nicky’s eyes grew round. Then he turned and ran toward the living room. “Hey, guys! Guys!” he shouted. “Guess what?”

  Abby turned to Mal, who had answered the door along with Nicky, and grinned. Mal grinned back. “He’s impressed,” she said. “They just watched Ghostbusters — again. I can’t believe they’re not tired of it yet.” Then she turned and called out, “Hey, everybody! Come say hi to Abby.”

  It was a rainy, gloomy Saturday afternoon, which meant that the Pike home was crammed with bored kids who had been stuck inside all morning. Abby and Mal were sitting while Mr. and Mrs. Pike went to a wedding.

  Now, Abby had already met the Pikes, but just barely. That’s why, Mal told us later, she was so impressed by the way Abby remembered all their names, plus something about each one of them.

  “Hey, Jordan,” she said, as one of Mal’s ten-year-old brothers (there are three: they’re identical triplets) barreled into the front hall. “How are the piano lessons going?”