“Yes, yes, yes!” shouted Buddy.
Suzi smiled shyly at me. Her eyes were shining.
Marnie scrunched up her face and wrinkled her nose.
“That’s the ham face,” Buddy informed me. “She only makes it when she’s happy.”
I grinned. “All right, everybody, here are the special instructions for the Kitchen Race. I’m in charge of putting dishes in the dishwasher. You guys bring dirty dishes to me and I’ll take care of them. Trash goes in the garbage, and anything that doesn’t belong in the kitchen goes to the room it does belong in. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Buddy.
“Got it,” said Suzi.
Marnie made the ham face.
“Take your marks,” I cried. “Get set, go!”
The kitchen was tougher than the living room. It took longer than I had thought it would to rinse the plates and glasses and put them in the dishwasher, but we worked hard anyway. Suzi cleaned the trash out of the sink and put it in the garbage. Buddy swept the floor. Marnie found a bag of M&M’s and began eating them. I stopped her, gave her a paper towel, and showed her how to mop up the floor around Pow’s water bowl.
When we were done, I looked at my watch again. “Well, we didn’t break our record, I’m afraid. That took eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds.”
“Darn,” said Buddy.
“Yeah, darn,” said Suzi.
“Let’s clean up the playroom,” Buddy suggested. “That’s a real mess. If we break the record in there, it’ll be a miracle.”
So we straightened up the playroom, too. (We did not break our record.) Mrs. Barrett wasn’t going to recognize her own house when she got home.
The Barrett kids and I flopped on the couch in the playroom. Pow wandered in. Buddy aimed a finger at him. “Blam, blam!” he shrieked.
I covered Buddy’s hand with my own. “Hey, remember what I said about guns,” I warned him. “Not while I’m around.”
“So? Who says you’re the boss?” Buddy asked defiantly. He leaped up and stood in front of me, legs spread, cowboy hat askew. Very slowly, he raised his gun finger and aimed it at me.
“Buddy,” I said calmly, “while I am babysitting, I am the boss. I’m in charge. And I say no guns.”
“Why?”
“Because real guns are very dangerous. They are not toys. And I don’t think we should ever pretend they are toys. There are plenty of other things we can pretend instead.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a hairdresser, and you’re a father, and Suzi and Marnie are your kids and you decide to take them to get their hair fixed.”
Buddy considered this. “I’m the daddy?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“I’m the boss of them?” He pointed to his sisters.
“Yup.”
“Okay.”
So I accomplished two things. I rebraided Suzi’s hair (and even brushed Buddy’s), and I took Buddy’s mind off guns. Buddy wasn’t going to be playing with guns while I was around.
By five o’clock, the kids were getting tired and cranky. Buddy yelled at Pow. Marnie stopped making the ham face. Suzi stopped talking and started nodding again.
“Do you have a daddy?” Buddy asked me suddenly.
We were sitting on the floor in the playroom. I looked at him in surprise. “Well, yes,” I replied. “But not here. I mean, he doesn’t live with us.”
“Really?” said Buddy.
I sighed. “Yeah. He’s in California. Three thousand miles away.”
Buddy nodded knowingly. He looked like a little old man. “We don’t have our daddy, either.”
“My mom and dad are divorced,” I explained.
“So are ours,” said Buddy.
“I know.”
Suzi had been helping Marnie build a tower of paper cups. She looked up with interest.
“I wonder how long divorce lasts,” she said.
“It’s forever,” I replied, surprised.
“That’s what Mommy said, but …”
“But you keep hoping your dad will come back?”
“Yeah,” said Buddy and Suzi at the same time.
“Me, too,” I said, “except I know he won’t.”
“Do you miss your dad?” asked Buddy.
“Very much.”
“Me, too.”
Buddy moved over until he was sitting next to me. I put my arm around him. Then I held my other arm out to Suzi, but instead of joining us, she jumped to her feet.
“You. Are. A. Liar!” she cried, pointing her finger at me. “A liar.” Then she ran out of the playroom and upstairs.
“What did I say?” I asked Buddy.
Buddy frowned. “I think it was the part about daddies not coming back. She really thinks ours is going to come home for good one day.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Well, we’ll leave her alone for a while.”
Buddy turned on a cartoon show and settled down to watch. After a while I decided to take Marnie upstairs to change her diaper. Marnie shared a room with Suzi, but Suzi wasn’t in the room. The door to the bathroom was closed, however.
As I was finishing up with Marnie, the bathroom door opened a crack. Suzi peeked through. “Dawn?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“I-I had an accident.” Suzi scrunched up her face and began to cry.
“Hey, that’s okay,” I said. “Accidents happen.” I put Marnie in her crib, and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
“I wet my pants,” Suzi moaned.
“It’s really all right,” I told her. I grabbed some paper towels and mopped up the puddle on the tile floor.
“Do we have to tell Mommy?” asked Suzi.
“Not if you don’t want to. Here, we’ll rinse out your pants and your underwear, and get you some clean pants. Then you’ll be all set.”
By the time Suzi and Marnie and I were on our way downstairs, Suzi was smiling again. A few minutes later, Mrs. Barrett came home. I wish I’d had a camera so I could have recorded the look on her face when she saw the clean house.
“You’re a wonder, Dawn!” she exclaimed.
“She’s the best baby-sitter we ever had,” said Buddy.
“She’s our favorite,” Suzi chimed in.
“I hope you’ll come back,” said Mrs. Barrett as she paid me.
“Anytime,” I told her cheerfully.
If I had only known then how often “anytime” was going to be, I might not have spoken so quickly.
Saturday, May 2
I baby-sat for Karen and Andrew for four hours this afternoon. Karen invited a friend over and the four of us played “Let’s All Come In.” We had a scary encounter with Mrs. Porter and she did some witchy things, but nothing happened. Boo-Boo is terrified of her now and stays inside, so there weren’t any problems. He slept in one of the second-floor bedrooms most of the afternoon. Karen says he used to go on the third floor, but that their attic is haunted, so he won’t go any higher than the second story. Karen’s got a real thing about this haunted attic, which you guys should be aware of when you sit at Watson’s. I’m trying to convince her it’s not haunted—without actually having to go in it myself.
Kristy is so lucky. I wish Andrew and Karen were going to be my little stepsister and stepbrother. I baby-sat for them once and they were lots of fun and really cute, even if Andrew is kind of shy and Karen talks too much.
I asked Kristy lots of questions about her afternoon there because I was trying extra hard to be friendly to her. Kristy always opens up where Andrew and Karen are concerned. This is what she told me.
As soon as Mr. Brewer left, Karen pulled Kristy into the living room and said, “Let’s play ‘Let’s All Come In.’ Please.”
“Okay,” said Kristy, “but I don’t think we really have enough people. Wouldn’t the game be better with four?”
“Let’s All Come In” is a game Karen invented herself. Karen just turned six and she’s very smart. She started out in kinderga
rten last fall and was skipped into first grade after Christmas. She didn’t have a bit of trouble, and now she reads like crazy and can add and subtract almost as fast as I can.
Her game is about the guests who come to a big, fancy, old-fashioned hotel. Karen always makes Kristy (or the oldest person) the bell captain. Then she and Andrew and her friends take turns entering the lobby as hotel workers or exotic guests — wealthy old women in furs, sea captains, famous people. Karen and Andrew have an amazing collection of “dress-up” clothes, so they can put on a good costume for just about every character. And Mr. Brewer’s living room is perfect for a lobby.
As I’ve mentioned, Mr. Brewer is rich and his house is a mansion. It’s full of expensive things, but he hasn’t turned it into a museum. What I mean is that Karen and Andrew are allowed in the living room, the dining room, the study, etc., even though there are antiques and breakables everywhere. As far as I know, they’re always careful. Maybe it’s because they know their father trusts them.
Anyway, Mr. Brewer’s living room is gigantic — big enough for a grand piano, and even a little tree, which stands in a brass tub near the fireplace. There are three couches, five armchairs, a long glass coffee table, several end tables, and a crystal chandelier. Instead of carpeting, Mr. Brewer has put small Oriental rugs down and keeps the wooden floor polished. The room does look a little like a hotel lobby, if you squint your eyes and use your imagination, which Kristy and Karen and even Andrew (although he’s not quite four) can do just fine.
“I know who the fourth person for our game could be,” Karen told Kristy that Saturday afternoon.
“Who?”
“Hannie Papadakis.”
Hannie is one of Karen’s new first-grade friends. She lives across the street and two mansions down from the Brewers. Kristy had met Hannie a couple of times and liked her.
“Okay,” said Kristy. “Let’s call her. You invite her over, but I’ll have to talk to her mother or father.”
(A good baby-sitter always includes parents in plans for younger children. Kristy knew that Mr. and Mrs. Papadakis might not want Hannie going to a house with a baby-sitter in charge instead of a parent.)
But Mr. Papadakis said it was fine for Hannie to come over, and a few minutes later, Hannie was ringing the Brewers’ front bell.
Karen and Andrew ran to answer it.
“See who’s there before you open the door,” Kristy cautioned them. (You can’t be too careful.)
Karen peered out the left window, Andrew peered out the right. “It’s Hannie!” they called at the same time.
“Okay, let her in.”
Karen hauled open the door and led Hannie into the living room. “Are you ready for ‘Let’s All Come In’?” Karen asked her excitedly. “That’s what we’re playing today.” Sometimes Karen can be bossy. I’m surprised she and Kristy get along so well.
“I’m all ready,” replied Hannie, who has played often. “First I’m going to be Mrs. Noswimple.”
“Okay,” said Karen. “Kristy, you go behind the desk. Andrew, you be the bellhop.”
As the youngest, Andrew often gets stuck with parts like elevator operator or bellhop, or less important characters such as somebody’s little boy. Once, Karen made him play a pet cocker spaniel.
Kristy sat on the floor behind the coffee table. Karen had placed a pencil, a composition book, and a bell in front of her.
“Hannie, come put on your Mrs. Noswimple outfit. Andrew, get your cap and jacket.”
The kids ran up the stairs to the playroom on the second floor. A few minutes later, they ran back down. Andrew was wearing a red cap and a blue jacket decorated with gold braid. Hannie was wearing a skirt that reached to the floor; large, sparkly high heels with no toes; a fur stole; and a hat with a veil. In one hand, she carried a pair of spectacles attached to a diamond-studded stick. Behind her, Karen was dressed as Mrs. Mysterious, all in black, including a black eye patch and a black fright wig.
“Places, you guys!” Karen directed.
Andrew ran to stand next to Kristy’s “desk,” Karen waited in the foyer since guests only come into the hotel one at a time, and Hannie made her entrance.
She walked into the hotel lobby as grandly as was possible, considering she was clumping around in shoes that were six sizes too big for her. “Helloo,” she called in a high, thin voice.
“Good day,” replied Kristy. “Won’t you come in, Mrs. Noswimple. How nice to see you.”
“Why, thank you,” replied Hannie. “I’m just staying for one night this time, Mr. Bill Capstan.” (Hannie has never once pronounced “bell captain” properly.) “I’m meeting my husband in Canada tomorrow. We’re going to go to a party with the queen. And the emperor.”
“How lovely,” said Kristy. “Does the emperor have new clothes?”
“Oh, yes. He has a new suit of silver,” replied Hannie, not getting the joke.
“Oh,” said Kristy. “Well, why don’t you sign the registration book and then the bellhop here will help you to your room.”
“Okay.” Hannie bent over the composition book, pencil poised. “Kristy,” she whispered, “how do you spell ‘Noswimple’?”
Kristy spelled it out and Hannie printed the name painstakingly. She straightened up. “Ready, bellhop? I have two trunks and a hatbox, so I need lots of help.”
“Ready, Mrs. Noswimple,” said Andrew.
Andrew and Hannie left the living room and Karen entered.
“I don’t believe it!” cried Kristy. “Mrs. Mysterious! What a surprise! How nice to see you. You haven’t stopped by in ages.”
“Heh, heh,” cackled Karen. “I’ve been at a Mysterious Meeting in Transylvania. All the witches and warlocks and ghosts and spooks and mysterious people got together.”
“Well, you’re looking especially mysterious today,” said Kristy.
“Thank you,” Karen answered politely. “I do look mysterious, don’t I.” It was a statement, not a question. Karen stepped over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the Brewers’ front lawn. “This is a mirror,” she told Kristy. “I’ll just —”
Karen stopped midsentence. She shrieked.
So did Kristy.
Andrew and Hannie ran into the living room to see what was happening. Andrew gasped and hid behind an armchair. Hannie opened her eyes and mouth wide, but couldn’t make a sound.
Kristy told me later that she was so surprised she thought she was going to faint.
What everyone had seen when Karen stepped in front of her “mirror” was another scary, black-clad figure. Only it wasn’t Karen’s reflection. It was someone outside the window — Mrs. Porter from next door.
The thing about Mrs. Porter is that Karen is convinced she’s a witch whose real name is Morbidda Destiny. Karen’s got everyone — Andrew, Hannie, Kristy, and all us baby-sitters (especially Mary Anne) thinking she’s a witch, too. So it was no wonder everyone panicked.
Mrs. Porter gestured toward the front door with a wave of her cape. “Yipes,” said Kristy, heart pounding. “I wonder what she wants.”
“Probably frogs’ noses or the hair from a mole or something. I bet she’s cooking,” Karen offered.
“Don’t be silly,” said Kristy.
With legs that felt as heavy as lead, Kristy opened the front door — just a crack.
Mrs. Porter was standing on the front steps. She was leaning over so that her nose poked into Kristy’s face.
Kristy jumped back.
“I rang your bell,” Mrs. Porter said in a croaky voice, “but you didn’t answer.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t work,” Karen spoke up timidly from where she was hiding behind Kristy.
“Can — can I help you?” Kristy asked. The last time Mrs. Porter had come to the door, it was to dump poor fat old Boo-Boo, the Brewers’ cat, inside after he had left the remains of a mouse on Mrs. Porter’s front porch.
“I’m cooking. I need to borrow something.”
Kristy noticed th
at Mrs. Porter had a little scar near the corner of her mouth that jumped around when she spoke.
Karen nudged Kristy’s back. “I told you so,” she whispered. “Morbidda Destiny is cooking.”
Kristy nudged Karen back. “What do you need, Mrs. Porter?”
“Fennel and coriander.”
“Aughh!” screamed Karen.
“Aughh!” screamed Andrew and Hannie, who were watching from the safety of the living room.
“Shh,” said Kristy. “They’re just herbs, you guys.” She turned back to Mrs. Porter. “I’m really sorry, but I’m sure Mr. Brewer doesn’t have those things. He’s not much of a cook.”
“Well, it never hurts to ask.” Mrs. Porter turned abruptly and dashed down the front steps and across the lawn toward her house. Her black cape and dress flapped in the breeze.
Karen, Andrew, and Hannie found the courage to run to the front door and watch her leave. Kristy watched with them. They saw her pause at her herb garden and examine the new green shoots. They saw her flap up the steps to her own front porch. And they all saw her take up a broom and carry it into the house, talking to it.
Kristy closed the door before the kids could panic again. As she did so, something occurred to her. “Karen,” she said, “where’s Boo-Boo?”
“Well,” replied Karen, “I’m not sure. But he’s probably upstairs. I’ll show you where.” Karen ran upstairs, the others at her heels.
She ran down the long hallway past the playroom, past her room, past Andrew’s room, and past two guest rooms to a room at the end of the hall.
Kristy looked inside. Curled up at the foot of the bed was Boo-Boo, the world’s fattest cat.
“Oh, good,” said Kristy with a sigh. “I was afraid he might be out in Mrs. Porter’s garden again.”
“Nope,” said Karen. “He’s scared of her now. He stays inside all day. Mostly he stays right here. And he never goes up to the third floor anymore. You know why?”
“Why? I’m afraid to ask.”
“Because the attic is haunted.”
“Karen …” Kristy warned.
“It is?” said Hannie in amazement.
Karen nodded solemnly. “Animals know those things. Our attic is haunted. It’s haunted by the ghost of old Ben Brewer, Daddy’s great-grandfather, who —”
The Baby-Sitters Club #5: Dawn and the Impossible Three Page 4
