Baby-Sitters' Winter Vacation Page 6

  Mary Anne narrowed her eyes at me. She doesn’t lose her temper often, but she’s human, after all. She just has a longer-than-usual, very slow-burning fuse. I had a feeling I’d reached the end of it.

  I was right.

  POW!

  Mary Anne let loose. “Of course I’ve thought of other things,” she cried. “I’ve been working on my project … sort of … and rescuing children, and —”

  “Oh, forget it,” I snapped. “You still didn’t hear a word I said. And friends are supposed to listen when they’re needed.”

  “Then I guess I’m not much of a friend, am I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re fired as my bunkie.”

  “You can’t fire me, because I fire you.”

  Well, it didn’t matter who fired whom. All I know is that I stomped up to our dorm, yanked the blankets and sheets off my bed, and made up the empty bed on the bunk beneath Pinky’s.

  I decided that I was not speaking to Ms. Mary Anne Spier, my ex-bunkie and former friend.

  Wednesday was not the best day of my week at the lodge, although it started off okay. After breakfast I decided to interview three of the old-time lodge employees. One was Marie Castleman, the head housekeeper, who was at least seventy-five years old; one was Teensy Mooseman, who’s real name is Rebeccah, but no one calls her that, and who was in charge of all the gardeners and handymen, and who was also about seventy-five; and the last one was Curtis Oates, the head cook, who looked a little younger than Marie and Teensy — maybe seventy or so.

  I started with Marie, mostly because as I was leaving the library, I passed her office and saw her in there.

  “Excuse me,” I said, knocking lightly on the doorjamb.

  Marie looked up. “Yes?” Her gray hair was frazzly, she wore gold-rimmed granny glasses, and she was as skinny as a wet cat. But what I couldn’t help noticing first were her ears. They were pierced, and must have been pierced for decades, and Marie must have worn very heavy earrings in them for all those decades because now her earlobes were, well, let’s just say droopy.

  “Um, hi, I’m Mary Anne Spier,” I said. “I’m writing a paper about Hooksett Crossing and Leicester Lodge, and Mrs. George said you’ve worked here for a long time and —”

  “Only since nineteen-thirty,” Marie interrupted proudly.

  “Since nineteen-thirty. Wow!”

  Marie smiled. She rested her pen in a holder and gestured for me to come in and sit down. I did, and right away she began talking, so I began taking notes. “The lodge was only ten years old when I began working here,” she said. “The Georges didn’t own it yet, of course. They weren’t even born yet. And the lodge was nowhere near this size. Huge additions were built in the forties and fifties.”

  I let Marie talk for almost fifteen minutes before I said, “I heard the lodge has a ghost.”

  Silence.

  “I — I read that in Mr. George’s book,” I ventured.

  Marie sniffed. “I don’t hold store by such things.”

  “But have you ever seen a ghost here? Or anything weird?”

  “Never. Not once,” Marie replied quickly.

  I nodded. “Well, thank you very much. I really appreciate your talking to me. It was a big help.”

  “Any time.” Marie smiled again. Was it a smile of relief? I wondered. A smile because I hadn’t pressed the ghost issue?

  I found Curtis Oates in the kitchen, showing a new cook how to make tuna salad for eight hundred. When I saw that he was busy, I started to back out of the double doors, but Curtis looked up and smiled. He is missing a tooth, which is something I just can’t stand. I mean, in adults. I am a firm believer in dentures.

  “Well,” I said, “I wanted to interview you for my paper on Hooksett Crossing and the lodge, but you’re busy, so I’ll come back later.”

  “Oh, now hold on,” Curtis replied. “I’m at a good stopping place. I was just getting ready to take a coffee break. Do you drink coffee?”

  “Uh, no. Thanks.” I tried to picture the look on my father’s face if he were to catch me drinking coffee. He has often said that coffee will prevent me from growing — and I am not that tall to begin with.

  Curtis poured himself a cup of coffee and we sat across from each other at a butcher-block table where someone had been chopping onions. The onions made my eyes run, but they didn’t seem to effect Curtis.

  I asked Curtis what Hooksett Crossing had been like when he was a boy, and he told me all about it and also how the town had changed during the Depression, and again during World War II. Then he told me how the Georges had come to buy the lodge in 1963. Finally I asked my big question — what about the ghost?

  Curtis suddenly lost the power of speech. He became as unresponsive as when I’d asked him about the ghost the last time. So I thanked him (with onion tears welling up in my eyes), and went off in search of Teensy Mooseman.

  Teensy is not too hard to find in the wintertime, since there isn’t a lot of gardening and grounds work to be done. I headed for the boiler room, because, according to Mrs. George, the boiler breaks down with great regularity all winter long. Sure enough, there was Teensy and two repair people. Despite her age, Teensy was wearing blue jean overalls, a plaid shirt, and a paint-spattered baseball cap.

  Teensy was just as eager to talk as Marie and Curtis had been — until I pulled out the ghost question. Then she clammed up. All I could get out of her was, “No such things as ghosts.” (Actually, she said, “No setch things as ghosts.”) This was getting me nowhere. And the more people avoided the ghost subject, the more I wanted to hear about it.

  I decided I should talk to Mr. George, since he’d devoted three chapters in his book to the ghost. And Mr. George did turn out to be helpful. At least he would talk.

  “The ghost story,” he said, “seems to have stemmed from the death of a visitor to the lodge in the late nineteen-thirties. One morning he was found dead in his bathtub. No one knew what had happened to him. But when his relatives heard the news, they seemed awfully relieved. They seemed to think he was evil. One went so far as to say he was in league with the devil. And none of them would agree to take his body away for burial, so he was buried in the woods here. The owner of the lodge took pity on the dead man. But as soon as he’d been laid to rest, visitors and workers here began reporting odd occurrences.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Oh, the usual. Nothing they couldn’t have read in a mystery book — windows that opened themselves on rainy nights, vague white figures drifting down dark hallways or staircases,” (I shivered) “odd moaning noises, also usually at night. That sort of thing.”

  “And what do you think?” I asked.

  “I think,” Mr. George answered with a smile, “that my wife and I have owned the lodge for over twenty years and haven’t experienced any of those things. Not one. A few of our guests have. And Curtis had quite a scare one night, but we think people’s imaginations tend to run away with them. Period.”

  I asked what kind of scare Curtis had had, and Mr. George said something about his mistaking a pile of laundry for a ghost. Not too interesting. So I returned to the common room and started to write up the notes from my interviews. I couldn’t concentrate, though. No matter how hard I tried to work, I kept finding myself picturing Logan and that gorgeous girl doing all sorts of island things together — snorkeling, waterskiing, tanning … kissing.

  A horrible feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. And just when the feeling was at its worst, Dawn returned to the lodge, slumped into a chair, and picked a fight with me. Honest. She really did. She accused me of being insensitive, and then she fired me as her bunkie and moved all her stuff to the empty bed under Pinky’s.

  What a baby. Why did I ever think she was one of my best friends?

  When Dawn huffed off, I moved to one of two chairs hidden in a corner of the common room. They were facing out a window, which meant their backs were to the rest of
the room. Perfect. I didn’t feel like looking at anyone or talking to anybody.

  Once again, I tried to work. I had written exactly three sentences when someone sat down in the chair next to me. For a long time, I managed not to look over at the person. I wanted to be alone, and I hoped that whoever it was would go away.

  But the person didn’t leave. However, he (or she) didn’t speak to me, either. And after awhile I became so curious about this quiet person who was probably as depressed as I was that I just had to look over and see who it was.

  When I did, I saw … dum da-dum dum … Ms. Halliday.

  Yikes!

  I started to leave, realizing that Ms. Halliday didn’t even know I was there. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She looked as pensive and as sad as I probably looked.

  As quietly as I could, I gathered up my things. I was just starting to tiptoe away, when … dum da-dum-dum … Ms. Halliday spoke to me.

  “You don’t have to leave,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I was just … just …” What was I doing? Escaping?

  “You look pretty sad,” Ms. Halliday observed.

  “So do you,” I couldn’t help replying.

  “I miss someone,” Ms. Halliday said simply.

  “Me, too,” I whispered.

  “Really? Who?”

  This didn’t sound like the screaming gym teacher I remembered, so I told her about Logan. Then she told me about her fiancé. He was a reporter for our Stoneybrook newspaper, and boy, did she ever miss him. It turned out that they’d never been separated for more than a couple of days.

  I must have had a funny look on my face because after a pause, Ms. Halliday said, “You know, Mary Anne, I have a feeling that you think I don’t like you.”

  I was completely taken aback, but this quiet Ms. Halliday seemed pretty easy to talk to, so I found the courage to say, “That’s … that’s true. I’m so bad at sports. I know I was a really frustrating gym student. I guess I do think you don’t like me. Actually, I think you hate me.”

  “Oh, Mary Anne, no. I’m sorry. I pushed you last year, that’s for sure, because I wanted you to try your hardest. But I know that not everyone is a born athlete. In fact, I admired you because you kept trying. Even when I asked you to do difficult things.”

  Really? Wow! I felt a whole lot better — about everything, even my fight with Dawn. I knew we’d make up sooner or later. And when Jessi asked me if I’d help the little kids plan a skit for the talent show, I said yes right away.

  The day was looking brighter.

  Whew! Tuesday was easy compared to Wednesday. With the Winter War underway I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. (I know that’s a disgusting analogy but my stepfather says it all the time.)

  The first event of the day was the skating contest, which my team lost. I had fully expected to win. There were some really good athletes on my team, but darn old Dawn was being a total klutz. I didn’t know she was such a klutz. If I had known, I wouldn’t have encouraged her to enter the contests. And I was certainly going to quit asking Mary Anne to participate. We did not need another klutz. I know that sounds mean but, well, I wanted to win. I was the team captain and I like winning, okay? What’s wrong with that?

  As I said in my notes for Mary Anne’s book, after we lost the ice-skating event, I started a snowball fight so the kids could practice for the real thing the next day. Once that was underway, I rounded up the Conway Cove kids and asked them if they wanted to have a snowman-building competition. Nine of them did, so I set them up in an area on the front lawn near where the snow sculptures would be built in the afternoon.

  I should mention here that it had finally stopped snowing. I should also mention that the sky was darker than it had been when we’d woken up in the morning, and guess what the weather report called for: a ripsnorter of a storm (I got the weather report from Teensy Mooseman) that was supposed to move in late Thursday night.

  Anyway, here are the kids who wanted to build snowmen: Renée, Corey, Kara, Valerie, Frankie, Ian, Amber, Ryan, and Kathie. Bryce, Joey, Ginnie, and Pinky were playing inside, and the others were off skiing.

  I needed someone to help me with this last-minute contest, and it wasn’t easy tracking down a BSC member who was free. Jessi, Mal, and Mary Anne were working on their projects, Dawn had gone off angry, and Stacey was nowhere to be found. Finally I had to drag Claud away from the snowball fight.

  “Come on,” I said. “It’ll be good practice for judging the snow sculptures this afternoon. Besides, I really need you. Everyone else is busy, mad at me, or has disappeared.”

  Reluctantly, Claudia came with me.

  “All right,” I said to the kids, “each of you has until fifteen minutes before lunchtime to build a snowman. You can use any props you want — scarves or hats or sticks or whatever. Claudia will choose the winning snowman.”

  “Snow person,” spoke up Kara. “It doesn’t have to be a man, you know.”

  And Frankie asked, “What does the winner get?”

  Hmm. Good question. The winners of the Winter War were each going to get a coupon for a free slice of pizza at the Pizza Pan back in Stoneybrook. But what could we give the Conway Cove winner?

  “I know!” Claudia cried suddenly. “But I can’t tell you what it is. It’ll be a surprise.”

  “What if we don’t like it?” asked Amber.

  Yeah, I thought.

  But all Claud would say was, “Trust me. It’s good.”

  So, looking dubious, the kids got to work on their snowmen. They rolled and patted the snow. Sometimes they needed help. Corey seemed to think that bigger was better and rolled three balls that were so huge and heavy he needed both Claudia and me to help him set the middle part on the bottom, and the head on the middle part.

  Kara worked diligently on a snow woman who was wearing a long skirt.

  And Ian made a snow Martian.

  Once the bodies were built, the kids began running into the hotel for props. And Claud and I began laughing. Those kids were making really imaginative snow creatures. Valerie put glasses on hers. Renée dressed hers in Mr. Dougherty’s ski jacket. Kara stuck boots under the skirt of the snow woman. Ian made tinfoil antennae for his Martian.

  Fifteen minutes before lunchtime I shouted, “Time’s up, you guys!”

  “Oh,” groaned at least half the kids.

  “We’re not finished,” complained Ryan.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “Our judge needs a few minutes to make her decision. Everyone stand next to your snowma — snow creature.”

  Obediently, the kids stopped their work. Claudia paced up and down in front of the nine masterpieces, her hands behind her back, her brow furrowed. She was deep in thought. Was this how she planned to look when she judged our snow sculptures?

  At long last (when there were only about ten minutes left before lunch), Claudia stopped her pacing, stood beside me, and said, “I am pleased to announce that the third-place winner is Frankie and his snow farmer. The second-place winner is Ian and his snow Martian. And finally … the grand-prize winner is Kara and her snow woman!”

  “Hurray!” cried Kara.

  The other kids tried to smile, but they weren’t very successful. “Now don’t anyone go away,” said Claud. “Wait right here for the prizes. All of you.”

  “What? What prizes?” asked the kids as Claud dashed inside.

  “I have no idea,” I replied honestly.

  When Claudia returned, she was carrying her Polaroid camera. She snapped a photo of each kid with his or her creation. By the end of the day, the photos were displayed in the common room with a yellow ribbon under Frankie’s picture, a red one under Ian’s, and a huge blue one under Kara’s. You should have seen the looks on the kids’ faces when they saw the display. For the rest of the week, they kept hanging around it, especially Kara. I had to hand it to Claud. For someone who thinks she isn’t smart, she sure comes up with good ideas.

  * * *

  By
two-fifteen, when the snow-sculpture contest was getting underway, the sky was so heavy with clouds that I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had fallen down, just like Chicken Little was afraid of. Of course it didn’t. And the snow held off, too.

  Fifteen minutes later, I found myself saying, “The snow-sculpture contest will now begin! You have an hour to work on your sculptures. The creators of the best sculpture will win this event for their team. And for those of you who don’t know, the Red Team won the skating contest this morning. Okay, teams, get to work!”

  All across the lawn, groups of kids began shaping mounds of snow. Very few contestants were working alone. In fact, Ashley Wyeth and a sixth-grade boy I didn’t know were the only ones.

  I thought the Conway Cove kids had been serious snow-person builders this morning, but I wasn’t prepared for us older kids. Lots of us were equipped with buckets of water to help freeze the snow into shapes. We had no rules apart from the time limit.

  I was working with Dawn and Stacey on a giant teddy bear. (Dawn was barely speaking to me.) Not far away Jessi and Mal were working on something that I couldn’t identify. Good. They were on the other team. I hoped Claud wouldn’t be able to identify it, either.

  The hour flew by so quickly that when Claudia told me the time was up, I could hardly believe it. Then Claud began her pacing again. She and Mr. Cheney, the co-judge, examined each sculpture thoroughly. I grew extremely impatient waiting for their decision.

  After what seemed like hours, Claudia said, “It wasn’t easy, but we’ve decided that the winning sculpture is Troy Parker and Amelia White’s Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.”

  Oh, brother, I should have known better than to agree to let Claud judge the contest. Of course she’d chosen a sculpture by Red Team members. My team had lost again. The only way we could win the Winter War now was if we beat the Red Team in every other contest.

  Sheesh.

  I couldn’t help giving Claud a dirty look.

  And I noticed that I wasn’t the only one doing so. Ashley looked pretty disgusted herself. And no wonder. She is one of the best artists in the school, not to mention a member of the Blue Team and one of Claud’s good friends. I know she had expected Claud to choose hers as the winning entry in the contest.