Baby-Sitters' European Vacation

by Ann M. Martin

  But I could feel them.

  As the curtain came down, we had to run downstairs to make way for the next number.

  Tanisha and I burst into the green room, shrieking.

  The rest of the company (the ones who weren’t in the next number) crowded around me, hugging me, congratulating me.

  Mr. Brailsford was already there.

  “Was I okay?” I asked.

  He lifted me up. “Jessica, I am so proud of you!”

  As he spun me around, the other dancers gathered in a circle and applauded.

  I was crying.

  But you know what? He was too.

  That, I think, was the best part of the whole evening.

  Boy, had I jumped the gun.

  The moment I finished writing that entry, I ran downstairs to the hotel lobby and found that our trip was doomed.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re just going to have to call it off,” said Ms. McGill.

  “We can’t!” Stacey protested.

  “The limo’s on its way,” Kristy reminded her.

  “I know that, but I simply can’t go,” Ms. McGill said. “Mr. Dougherty insists on leading a literary walk, and he won’t change his mind. The Berger kids are off cathedral hopping with their chaperones. Someone has to take the group to Hyde Park. It’s on our schedule.”

  I felt like crying.

  I’d been looking forward to this. Until a couple of weeks ago, the Kents had been living in Stoneybrook, on assignment from the British government. Their eight-year-old daughter, Victoria, was a BSC baby-sitting charge. (Actually, Mary Anne and I were the ones who spent the most time with her and knew her the best.)

  Victoria is a real, live princess. If everyone in the royal family dies, and their cousins die, and then a few dozen of their cousins, she will be the Queen.

  Or something like that. Anyway, she is technically a royal. She had told us all about her castle, complete with a moat and servants and hunting grounds.

  Could I miss this? Ix-nay.

  Besides, Stacey, Kristy, Jessi, Mal, and I were in our nicest clothes.

  “We can go by ourselves,” I suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” Ms. McGill snapped. “You are in a foreign country, with total strangers —”

  “Mom, Sir Charles and Lady Kent are not strangers,” Stacey insisted. “They were our neighbors.”

  “They might be insulted if we don’t accept their invitation,” Jessi added.

  “We wouldn’t want to cause an international incident,” Kristy said solemnly.

  Ms. McGill’s eyes were focused on a faded Mercedes sedan that was pulling up to the curb.

  The driver peered out at us. “Abigail and friends?” he said.

  Well, it wasn’t a coach and four horsemen, but so what? When you’re invited to a castle, you can’t be picky about the wheels.

  Ms. McGill swallowed. We were all staring at her. “Uh, may I see your ID?” she asked the driver.

  I thought Stacey was going to faint with embarrassment.

  But the guy was cheerful. He pulled out a photo and a set of instructions on official government stationery with Sir Charles’s name printed at the top.

  “Don’t worry, madam, they’ll be in good hands,” the driver said with a chuckle. “There will be more adults than children in the house.”

  A house, he called it. He was being cute.

  The Kents were so modest.

  Ms. McGill let out a big sigh. “All right. But I want you to call me when you get there and leave a message at the hotel.”

  “Yeeeeaaaa!” I threw my arms around Ms. McGill.

  Then I jumped into the car before she could change her mind.

  Kristy and Stacey joined me in the backseat, while Jessi and Mal rode up front. As the driver took off, I gave the royal wave — palm cupped, wrist pivoting ever so slightly — just like the Queen. (Ms. McGill didn’t even notice.)

  Kristy opened a map across her lap. “Where are we going?” she asked the driver. “Windsor Castle?”

  “No,” the driver said. “One of the lesser edifices.”

  “What?” I said.

  “It means building,” Stacey whispered.

  Okay. Fine.

  The English countryside sped by. We passed through some suburban areas with low, attached houses. But before long we reached a hilly neighborhood of deep, manicured lawns and stately old trees.

  As we approached a walled garden that overlooked an endless meadow, the driver slowed down.

  My pulse was pounding. What a front yard! “Awesome,” I said.

  The driver nodded. “Best park in England, some say. It’s called. Hampstead Heath.”

  He made a turn and drove half a block. Then he pulled into the driveway of a large, Tudor-style house with a nicely kept lawn.

  Servants’ quarters. Obviously.

  “Here we are!” the driver exclaimed.

  “Where’s the castle?” Kristy asked.

  The driver opened our door. As we climbed out, the front door of the house flew open, and out bustled Victoria’s nanny, Miss Rutherford.

  “You’re here,” she said. “Splendid. The roast should be ready within the hour, and —”

  “Hello-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

  Victoria bolted out of the house. She ran into my arms, and I swung her around.

  “The Vickster!” Kristy shouted.

  Victoria scrambled out of my clutches and hugged Kristy, Stacey, Jessi, and Mal. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re all here!” she exclaimed. “Mummy was worried you’d be late, and we’ve so much to do to prepare for tomorrow, and it feels like years since I’ve been in the States, and don’t you know that everyone here thinks I’ve gone Yank on them because of the way I speak now, and oh, this is just so … cool! Come!”

  She took my hand and led us toward the house.

  Sir Charles had appeared at the door. He was wearing a cardigan and smoking a pipe. “Well, well! So nice to see you here in our native habitat!”

  “Come in, come in!” Lady Kent’s voice called from inside. “You must be starved.”

  The place was beautiful. Ornately carved wood walls, antique furniture, hanging tapestries.

  It just wasn’t what I expected.

  “Nice house, Vic,” I said.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” she replied. “I call it Kent Castle — you know, like Windsor Castle?”

  I smiled. I did not look disappointed.

  I was a perfect guest.

  But my heart was dragging on the Oriental rug.

  We sat down for lunch in the Kents’ yard, under a canopy of flowering vines. The grounds stretched before us like a golf course, ending in a small forest. Not far from the house was a tiny guest cottage with gingerbread moldings. The sight of it cheered me up.

  Victoria did not stop chattering. “Mrs. Bundy, our cook, makes the most delicious sandwiches! I adore outdoor eating! You know, tomorrow I am going to meet with the Queen!”

  Mm-hm, I thought. Right here in the castle.

  Mallory’s eyes were as round as baseballs. “Really?”

  Sir Charles nodded. “A rather large gala at Buckingham Palace. Victoria will be presenting flowers to Her Majesty for the first time, and we are all very excited.”

  “Would you stand with me, Abby?” Victoria blurted out.

  Huh?

  “Stand?” I said. “Like, before the Queen? The Queen?”

  “I must have a guardian,” Victoria went on, “and Mummy and Daddy will be involved in the organization, and Miss Rutherford simply can’t stand on her rotten ankles for more than two minutes without complaining —”

  “Victoriaaaa,” Lady Kent said warningly.

  “I heard that!” Miss Rutherford called from inside.

  “I’m only repeating what she told me!” Victoria insisted.

  “Do it, Abby,” Kristy urged me.

  “You have to!” Stacey agreed.

  Jessi and Mal were both nodding like crazy.

  “If you wouldn’t
mind, that is,” Sir Charles said. “Subject to your schedule, and your chaperones’ permission, of course.”

  Of course. I’d have to ask. I couldn’t just jump in.

  “YES!” flew out of my mouth.

  Me, Abigail Stevenson, meeting the Queen?

  Who needs Elvis?

  I felt so stupid writing in the BSC journal. I told Stacey I had nothing to say. But she insisted.

  Then, when she read what I wrote, she acted all disappointed.

  I don’t understand her.

  Maybe it’s just girls in general I don’t understand.

  Jacqui Grant especially.

  She was hovering around me at the continental breakfast today. All I wanted to do was eat some pastries, hang with Pete Black, maybe read the paper.

  But she sat down right next to me.

  “Stacey left?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I replied.

  “For the day, right? Like to go to some castle?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is that all you can say? ‘Uh-huh’?”

  What was I supposed to do? I had a mouthful of Irish soda bread.

  Pete was approaching. But he took one look at us, grinned, and sat at another table.

  I swallowed. “Yup. To visit this princess. The one who lived in Stoneybrook for awhile.”

  “Cool,” Jacqui said, spreading jam on her toast. “Want to go outside and smoke?”

  “You smoke?” I said.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You are too good, Robert.” She elbowed me in the ribs and giggled.

  I was not in the mood for this.

  Why couldn’t she leave me alone? The whole point of this trip was to get away. To have some space. Enjoy myself.

  Boy, did I need that.

  Before this vacation, I had been a mess.

  Some days I thought life was not worth it. I had a hard time sleeping. I couldn’t make the smallest decisions. Not only that, but my grades were slipping. I didn’t even want to play baseball. (For me, that is way serious.)

  Plus, I was leaning on Stacey too much. Asking her advice on everything. Treating her as if she were still my girlfriend. (She was, once upon a time. But we broke up.)

  Stacey finally let me have it. She said I wasn’t being myself.

  Well, to make a long story short, I had this long talk with my baseball coach. And I started reading about depression. I learned that it can be serious. You shouldn’t ignore it.

  Talking about it can help.

  So can a long trip.

  I noticed the difference as soon as the plane lifted off. I felt like a tight knot slowly unraveling.

  I sure didn’t need any new problems. Which is why I did not want Jacqui bugging me.

  I mean, Jacqui’s great-looking. And she seems nice enough sometimes. But boy, does she come on strong. She hadn’t left me alone since the trip began.

  “So, are you going with Mr. D’s group, or Ms. McGill’s?” Jacqui asked. “Or one of the Berger chaperones?”

  “Don’t know,” I replied. “You?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  Jacqui smiled. “Oh … on who’s in which group, I guess.”

  Please.

  I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast and stood up. “Well, guess I better get ready.”

  “Me too!”

  Jacqui followed me to the cafeteria trash area, where I dumped my tray. Then she followed me into the lobby.

  And into the lift. (It’s a good thing I didn’t go into the men’s room. Talk about persistent.)

  “Can I ask you something?” she said as the door slid shut.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “What’s with you and Stacey?”

  “Nothing. I mean, we’re friends.”

  “Uh-huh. So, like, you’re free. I mean, I’m just asking.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I mean, if you must know.” I did not like where this conversation seemed to be heading.

  “Cool.” Jacqui was grinning now. “We don’t have to tell her, you know.”

  “Tell her what?”

  Jacqui giggled. “You know. About us!”

  She was leaning close to me now. Way close. Pushing her face into mine.

  Where was Stacey when I needed her? She’s good at telling people off. Much better than I am.

  Ding!

  The lift door opened. I darted out.

  Jacqui’s room was on the next floor. But she followed me out.

  “Are you lying to me, Robert?” she called out.

  “About what?” I said over my shoulder.

  “About Stacey. You still like her, don’t you? That’s why you’re so scared of me.”

  That did it.

  I spun around. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Yeah? Well, let me tell you something, Robert Brewster. Stacey has, like, totally deaded you.”

  “Really? She told you, or did you just read her mind?”

  “It’s so obvious, Robert. Everyone sees it except you.”

  That did it. I was not going to take this.

  “I know exactly how Stacey feels, Jacqui. You sure don’t. I don’t mean to shock you, but it’s possible for a guy and girl to be friends after they break up.”

  “Then why — I mean, if you’re not going with her —?”

  “What makes you think I want you to be my girlfriend?”

  Jacqui’s face tightened. “Okay. Fine. You don’t have to yell at me.”

  I felt like a jerk. I was yelling at her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Look, I don’t mean to be harsh. I guess I just don’t want to have a girlfriend right now, that’s all. No offense.”

  “Okay,” Jacqui said, turning back toward the lift. “No problem.”

  I felt a little guilty watching her go.

  But not too guilty.

  Later on that day, I told Stacey what had happened.

  She was cool. She said Jacqui deserved it.

  She also said, “I’m really glad you did this on your own, Robert.”

  At first I thought that was kind of a put-down.

  But Stacey didn’t mean it that way.

  To tell the truth, I agreed with her.

  “Let me go,” Claudia said.

  Janine shook her head. “I’ve already told them that Dawn is going.”

  “It’s okay if Claudia goes in my place,” I said.

  “It’ll be a great experience,” Claudia insisted.

  “The children here are looking forward to the Nature Art Project,” Janine said. “That was your idea, Claudia, and you’re the only one with the expertise to pull it off. As your head counselor, I cannot let you go.”

  End of conversation. Janine walked off, clipboard in hand.

  I thought Claudia was going to throw a tube of paint at her.

  “Of course I can’t go,” Claudia muttered. “Janine needs someone to torture.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I tried.”

  Claudia was angrily slamming down her art supplies on a table. “It’s not your fault that I’m stuck here with Sister Godzilla.”

  Poor Claudia.

  Janine had been like Jekyll and Hyde. Fine to the kids. Fine to the counselors. But very hard on Claudia.

  I signaled Mary Anne to come and help out. Then I scooted away.

  The truth? I was excited about going to the Sunshine Gang Day Camp. I’ve always wanted to learn more about working with special-needs children.

  In Palo City, where I live, I often baby-sit for a girl who has Down Syndrome, Whitney Cater. (Kids with this condition are pretty easily recognizable. They have round faces and narrow eyes. Often they also have unusually sweet personalities.)

  Whitney is an absolute doll.

  I could use my experience with her at the new camp.

  I walked the half mile or so to Stoneybrook Day School, where the camp was located. As I approached the playground, I could see a group of counselors lea
ding kids out of the building. A couple of the kids appeared to have Down Syndrome, but most didn’t. Many of them ran around gleefully, but some were in wheelchairs and others had difficulty walking.

  Among them, holding a clipboard and wearing a big whistle, was an energetic-looking woman with long brown hair and a trim, runner’s physique.

  She smiled and waved me to her. “You must be Dawn! I’m Lila Schwartz. I can’t thank you enough for coming to help.”

  A loud scream from behind her nearly made me jump.

  Ms. Schwartz turned casually around to look. “That’s William,” she said. “He does that when he’s very happy. Janine did tell you what kind of camp this is?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Sort of.”

  “Some of our children have limited mobility,” Ms. Schwartz said. “Cerebral palsy, congenital birth malformations, and so on. Others have rather severe developmental issues. We have a child who is an autistic savant….”

  I knew that term. It described a girl named Susan Felder, for whom Kristy used to baby-sit.

  An autistic person has difficulty communicating with other people. A savant is someone with an exceptional talent. Susan, according to Kristy, was a great piano player. If you played a song for her — on tape, from the radio, anything — she played it back perfectly. If you sang a lyric, she repeated it, word for word.

  But she didn’t talk at all.

  When I asked if the girl was Susan, Ms. Schwartz’s face brightened. “Good, you know her! Susan amazes us. She’s only here for a short while, though. She goes to a special school, year-round, but it closes each summer for a week. She’s with the indoor children. I was going to ask you to help with them anyway.”

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  Ms. Schwartz gave me some forms to sign. As she led me toward the building, she introduced me to some of the counselors.

  On the playground, several kids in wheelchairs were playing half-court basketball. A loud, laugh-filled volleyball game was underway. I saw bubble making, medicine-ball games, sand play, and a group singalong.

  The counselor-to-camper ratio looked about one to three. No one was sitting around unattended.

  I was impressed.

  “Most of the indoor children are in the gymnasium,” Ms. Schwartz explained. “Unfortunately the noise level doesn’t suit some of them, including Susan.”