Aloha, Baby-Sitters!

by Ann M. Martin

  “Ew! Get that away from me!” screamed one of the kids.

  A boy was chasing after her with a seaweed-encrusted, waterlogged Raggedy Ann doll.

  Jessi and I looked at each other. Then we headed back over the ridge. I tossed the cooler into the Dumpster.

  When we returned to the muddy beach, Jessi went right to her tape recorder and spiral notebook. Ms. Bernhardt was deeply into a thick book about Hawaii.

  “It says here,” she announced, “that Hawaii is the healthiest state in the country to live in. The average lifespan is the longest, because people just stay healthier in this climate and lifestyle.” She put the book down and let out a whoop of laughter. “But tooth decay is thirty percent above the national average. Well, isn’t that a hoot. Closet candy eaters. I suppose we all have our dirty little secrets, don’t we?”

  Wasn’t that the truth. Like a certain beach just up the road.

  A cavity. That’s what it was like. A little area of decay in a beautiful mouth.

  I had to do something about it. But what?

  “You’re crazy,” Stacey said.

  “Am not,” I replied. “Look at these dudes. They’re cool.”

  Paniolos, in case you don’t know, are Hawaiian cowboys. What a concept. Ride horses all day, rope steer, then grab a surfboard and head to the beach.

  That, in my opinion, is the life.

  Stacey didn’t agree with me. “Robert, you can’t just be one. First of all, they’re Hawaiian. Second of all, they’re … never mind.”

  “They’re what?”

  “Well … tough.”

  “Hey —”

  “I mean, outdoors tough. Not sports tough. You know what I mean.”

  “I do?”

  “Robert!”

  I was trying. Joking, smiling, being as nice as I could. But Stacey was like a broken faucet. I couldn’t tell whether she was going to be warm or cold.

  She was still jealous that I had been talking with Sue Archer, back on the flight from New York. Well, I like Sue, okay? I mean, not like like. I like like Stacey. It’s completely different.

  Or maybe it isn’t. I’m kind of messed up about it, I guess.

  All I know is that I’d had the coolest twenty-four hours of my whole life, and I’d spent it with Stacey, and half the time she wanted to be on a different planet from me.

  The other half, she was her funny, smiling self.

  On Friday, we stayed up on Haleakalā until sunset. That killed me. The sun was so huge I thought it had fallen right through the atmosphere.

  Afterward we ran back to the minivan, because Mr. De Young was scared to drive down those hairpin turns in the dark. We only had to go as far as the campgrounds, though. He’d brought a couple of lightweight tents, so we split up, boys/girls, and pitched camp for the night.

  It was pretty cold, but we all had down sleeping bags. I woke up while it was still dark, feeling great. Stacey complained about her hair.

  We convinced Mr. De Young to drive to the top and watch the sunrise. Would you believe we hit a traffic jam on the way up? I saw why when we arrived. The sunrise was even more spectacular than the sunset.

  Then we took a hike into the crater. I nearly jumped out of my hiking boots when I saw a boar running across the path. And I pretended to jump into the Bottomless Pit, this hole where early Hawaiians used to throw their babies’ umbilical cords (hey, I don’t understand it, either).

  Stacey’s favorite part was seeing silversword plants. They’re huge, spiny things that take ten or twenty years to grow, bloom once, then die. Pretty grim life, if you ask me.

  After the hike we piled into the van and drove to a botanical garden, where Stacey bought a protea flower (which looks like a Koosh ball) to press and put in Mal’s scrapbook. That was kind of fun, but nothing like the paniolos. They were farther down the road, where the land flattens out.

  We watched the old cowpokes for awhile, and then Mr. De Young gave us the signal to leave.

  “So long, guys!” I called out.

  One of them actually waved to me.

  “Robert, don’t embarrass me,” Stacey said, ducking into the minivan.

  As we drove on, we passed a huge field of brilliant red flowers. “Poppies!” exclaimed Renee Johnson.

  “Scarecrow, I feel tired,” I said, leaning my head on Stacey’s shoulder.

  “Oh, thanks,” Stacey snapped. “Are you saying my hair makes me look like a scarecrow? How sweet.”

  “No! It was a joke. You know, like Dorothy falling asleep in The Wizard of Oz? In the poppy field?”

  “You don’t look like Dorothy,” Pete Black said in his most obnoxious voice.

  “At least I’m not a cowardly lion,” I shot back.

  “Guys …” Mr. De Young warned us from the front seat.

  “Can I get out and hitchhike?” Stacey asked.

  After awhile we passed a field of long, stiff shoots, waving in the breeze. “What’s that stuff?” I asked.

  “Sugarcane,” Mr. De Young explained.

  Stacey sneered (she’s diabetic). “Ugh.”

  Well, it goes to show you how stupid I am. I thought sugar was dug out of mines.

  Don’t worry. I didn’t say a word. I do have my pride.

  * * *

  That night we stayed in Kahului, then woke up Sunday morning and drove right to the helicopter company.

  This was the part of the tour I’d been looking forward to the most. Stacey was psyched, too.

  A chopper was revving up as our guide came to greet us. He had to shout to be heard. “Welcome! I’m Jim Fredericks and I run this place! Only four passengers fit in each helicopter, so I’ve reserved two of them for you! Follow me!”

  He led us onto the field and started shouting directions — don’t stand in the chopper, use the barf bags if necessary, stuff like that.

  Stacey squeezed my hand. That felt great.

  “Now,” Mr. Fredericks yelled. “I’ll take you four …”

  He gently pushed Pete Black toward the helicopter, then Renee, then Mari.

  Then his hand landed on Stacey’s shoulder. She let go of my hand and gave me a helpless look.

  I followed her to the chopper. “Uh, wait, uh, can we —” I said.

  “Sorry, only four!” Mr. Fredericks bellowed. “Plenty of room in the other one!”

  “But — but we —”

  It was no use. My voice was swallowed up by the noise of the rotor blades.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. De Young said with a smile. “You can wave to each other across the volcano. Very romantic.”

  I punched him in the shoulder. He laughed.

  Oh, well, it was only going to be a short trip. I could deal with it.

  “To your right is the Bubble Cave,” Mr. Fredericks announced, “where the bubbling molten lava cooled and hardened.”

  We swooped downward. My stomach jumped. Pete Black looked about ready to pass out.

  I put down my spiral notebook, which calmed my stomach. I could see Robert’s helicopter veering off in another direction. I felt a kind of tug inside. Despite all our arguing, I guess I still cared about him.

  But, to be honest, I wasn’t thinking too much about him. At least not for the moment. I was thinking about my life.

  I cherished it. And up in a helicopter, I was realizing how fragile it was.

  I mean, imagine being in a small car hurtling through the air. That’s what it felt like. Not exactly cozy and safe.

  “The bubbles you see now are not lava formations,” Mr. Fredericks announced as we swung in another direction. “They’re the domes of Science City, an observatory and research center. Let’s give ’em a wave — they might be looking at us through their telescopes!”

  Mari and Renee waved. Pete Black made a goon face. (Somehow I could not deal with dumb jokes at a time like this.)

  As the helicopter turned around, I gasped. Dark clouds were tumbling over the far edge of the crater.

  “As you can see, the weather
can change in a minute upcountry,” Mr. Fredericks said cheerfully. “Let’s swing out over the lip and take a gander at the forest.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He was heading into the storm. “Isn’t this … dangerous?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Mr. Fredericks replied with a chuckle. “The crater contains the clouds. Over the edge, we’ll be leeward, in dry country. Besides, these choppers fly in any kind of weather condition. I figure we’ll just beat the moving front …”

  The clouds were racing toward us, swallowing up the cinder cones and rock formations. Half of the crater seemed to have disappeared.

  Now, in my opinion, it would make sense to turn the other way. But no. Mr. Fredericks was heading to our right, to the edge of the crater. Right into the edge of the crater. I could practically count the rocks.

  My throat was suddenly parched. My knuckles were white from gripping the armrests. I could see sweat trickling down Mari Drabek’s forehead. Pete was now turning a shade of green.

  I didn’t know which would hit us first. The storm or the crater’s edge.

  “Um … um,” I stuttered.

  Mr. Fredericks looked as if he were taking a slow, leisurely drive along the Ohio Freeway. “And after we check out what we call the ‘dry-land forest,’ we’ll head over to ‘Iao Valley …”

  We jerked upward. The crater’s edge began to fall away. I could see Mr. Fredericks’s eyes darting to the left nervously.

  “There we’ll see, uh, some interesting rock formations,” he said, “including — now, hang on, we’re going to hit a rough patch — including one that resembles the profile of, um, former President John F. Kennedy — okay, this’ll feel a little bumpy here — um, I suppose you’re too young to know who he was …”

  Be quiet! I wanted to scream. We were higher than the edge of the crater now. We could see to the other side. Dry country, where the storm wasn’t supposed to go.

  But it was going there. I could see the clouds swirling over the top of the crater, like an explosion. Trees under it were bending in the wind.

  Mr. Fredericks had seen it, too.

  “Oh boy oh boy,” he muttered, grabbing his two-way radio mike. “Headquarters, this is five oh one. We may have a wind shear. Do you read me?”

  That was it for Pete. He bent forward and puked his breakfast into a bag.

  “We’re located at approximately —”

  He didn’t have a chance to finish.

  The cloud hit. I could feel it in my teeth. We lurched to the right, as if we’d been smacked by a giant baseball bat. My seat belt pulled taut against my stomach. I fell against Renee, who was now screaming her brains out.

  Or maybe that was me. I couldn’t tell.

  The chopper’s engine was groaning. The blades sounded as if they were cutting through mud. The wind howled and rain slapped against the windows. Mr. Fredericks was yelling into the mike.

  Now we were all shrieking. Clutching at one another.

  And then we plunged. Straight down.

  I couldn’t breathe. The cries were trapped in my throat. My stomach could feel the drop, but my eyes saw only wet darkness.

  Suddenly we broke through the clouds and I saw the tops of trees. Lot of trees. Spiraling under us, growing closer, like moving cork-screws.

  I was dizzy. I was trying to scream. I was thinking of my dad and mom, my friends, Robert …

  And then I blacked out.

  * * *

  Smell was the first sense that returned to me. Pete Black’s … accident seeped into my nostrils, shocking me back to consciousness.

  What a rude awakening. I absolutely hate barf.

  My eyes flickered open and I tried to move. My legs were jammed between an armrest and a door. Below me was a smooth, concave pane of glass. Unbroken, fortunately.

  Slowly the memories were seeping into my brain. The storm. The plunge.

  I’m alive. The words wiped out every other thought. I was still in the helicopter, and it was on its side.

  I looked around. No one else was with me, not Mr. Fredericks, not any of my friends.

  I swallowed hard. Had they fallen out? Was I really alone? Where was I?

  And where was my pack, which contained my insulin? That was nowhere in sight, either.

  From what little I could see, the sun was dappling the forest floor around me. It was as if the storm had never happened. Birds were screeching and cawing.

  And among those sounds, I thought I could hear voices.

  I twisted around and tried to move the seat that had pinned my lower body. It gave a little, and I slowly pulled out my legs.

  “Okay, Stacey’s next,” Mr. Fredericks’s voice said.

  “I’m here!” I shouted.

  His face peered through the pilot’s door, which was above me, where the roof should have been. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Can you move?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “How about my friends?”

  “A little shaken up, but okay.”

  I looked around frantically. “How about my pack?”

  “That’s out here, too, safe and sound.”

  Mr. Fredericks reached inside. I unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed his hand, and climbed out. The helicopter had landed against the side of a boulder, and I stepped onto that and hopped down.

  “We actually made a decent landing,” Mr. Fredericks said. “Unfortunately, I didn’t clear the rock, so it pushed us over. Can you walk?”

  I took a few painless steps. Mari, Pete, and Renee were standing a few feet away. They all looked grim, pale, and dirty.

  “Morning.” Pete forced a smile. “I trust your flight was comfortable?”

  Only then did I realize how tense I was. Because the tension came welling up from inside, and it exploded out in a huge fit of laughter.

  Mari and Renee lost their somber expressions. They began to giggle. Then the giggles grew, until we were all doubled over, cackling hysterically with shock, relief, and sheer happiness at being alive.

  Pete stood there, looking slightly confused. I think visions of the Comedy Store were forming in his brain.

  “Sprinkler?” asked Claire. “Why?”

  “It’s not that hot,” Margo added.

  “It’ll be fun,” I said.

  “But we’re having fun here,” Claire insisted.

  Okay, I was stretching the truth in my BSC notebook entry.

  My sisters were as peaceful as can be. They were running around, playing tag in the yard. Also, it was actually pretty mild outside. But I was determined to go to that playground. I had some unfinished business there.

  Margaret Wellfleet.

  Ever since she’d called the BSC, I’d been thinking about her. Rerunning that day in my mind. Thinking of the things I should have said when she yelled at me.

  In all my mental reruns, I always said the right things. I told her off. I recited every word that Kristy had said to me. And she shrank away, apologizing. Promising to give the BSC number to all her friends.

  The horrible Tuesday had been five days ago, and I had not spotted old Margaret Wellfleet once. I’d been trying. In fact, I’d gone to that playground every day, sometimes with baby-sitting charges, sometimes alone.

  I know, I know. Stalking people in playgrounds is not exactly a normal thing for an eleven-year-old girl to do. But I had to see her. I had to show her I had a mind of my own. I wasn’t the weak, incompetent, lazy kid she thought I was.

  I was beginning to think she was a figment of my imagination.

  “Put on your bathing suits,” I said.

  “Do we have to?” Claire whined.

  “It’ll be fun,” I repeated. “Go.”

  Grumbling, my sisters went inside to change.

  I felt a little guilty dragging them along on my quest. But I knew they’d have a good time.

  (Margo, by the way, is seven and Claire’s five. I also have an eight-year-old brother, Nicky; a nine-year-old sister, Vanessa; and ten-year-old triplet brothers, Byron, Jordan, and Adam
.)

  I rounded up some sand toys, and we left the house together.

  As we approached the park, I kept my eyes peeled. I didn’t recall exactly what Margaret Wellfleet looked like. I’d kind of blocked out her face. But I remembered some details: medium height, brownish hair, somewhere around my mom’s age.

  Which narrowed it down to about ninety percent of the adults in the park.

  “Push me, push me!” Claire shouted.

  She ran to the swings and hoisted herself on. I pushed her for awhile. I tried to teach her to pump. Later on I left her and helped Margo make a damp sand castle (I was the Royal Water Fetcher).

  It was during one of my water runs that I saw HER. At the other end of the playground.

  Margaret Wellfleet was sitting on a park bench, reading a magazine.

  All the words, every sentence I’d practiced since Tuesday, swam around in my head. I thought about the friendly approach, sitting down and reintroducing myself. I thought about the direct approach, just hashing it out, not letting her get a word in edgewise.

  I also had a water bucket in my right hand. (Heh heh.)

  What did I do? None of the above. I just couldn’t bring myself to confront her. The bucket was heavy. My other hand was shaking with nervousness. Queen Margo of Sand was waiting.

  I hurried toward the castle.

  A little boy, who looked around three years old, was walking away from Margo with one of her plastic shovels.

  “Hey!” Margo yelled. “I’m using that!”

  She ran over to him and held out her hand. “That’s mine. Would you please give it to me?”

  “Mine!” the boy said, stalking away.

  I thought Margo might make a scene, but she didn’t. She stewed for a minute, then turned back to her castle, keeping an eye on the boy.

  I dumped my water and started making wet sand blocks. The boy dug for a few moments, then wandered away from the shovel.

  Margo was ready. She scampered over and took it back.

  I gave her a wink. “Good move.”

  “More water, peasant!” Margo demanded.

  I ran off with the pail. When I returned, the boy was standing next to Margo. Shrieking. “I WANT THAT!”