Well. The teachers had been right. There was plenty of information for my report. I pulled several books off the shelf, piled them on an end table, and curled up in an armchair to start taking a few notes. Most of the books covered boring things like population statistics, agricultural information, weather and weather patterns, plus a lot of stuff about how to make maple syrup. But nearly every book mentioned one chilling story: the tale of the ghost of Leicester Lodge.
My heart began to pound. I hadn’t heard about any ghost before. Why hadn’t last year’s historian uncovered this information? Then I remembered. There hadn’t been a historian the year before. No one had volunteered for the job. No one had volunteered when I was in sixth grade, either. It took a dork like me to volunteer. No wonder the teachers had been so thrilled when I’d raised my hand.
I shivered. The ghost of Leicester Lodge. Did Mr. George mention it in his book? He certainly did. He devoted three entire chapters to it, finally concluding that there was no ghost — there were just a lot of people with big imaginations.
Immediately, I ran to the kitchen to interview the cook and some of the hotel workers.
“Is there a ghost at the lodge?” I asked the cook breathlessly.
“Some say so,” he replied cryptically.
“Well, have you ever seen it?”
“Might have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t.”
I gave up on the cook. I asked a couple of the kitchen hands about the ghost. Then I asked two of the housekeepers. I got the same sorts of answers from everyone.
Hmm. What a puzzle. This sure was interesting. Everyone seemed to be covering up when it came to the ghost story. I moved my stack of books from the library to the common room. Boy, did I have something to write about. I opened my notebook to a clean piece of paper. And after much thought I wrote:
I paused in my writing. I was picturing Logan on a beach in Aruba, lying on a towel next to some gorgeous girl — a girl who wasn’t shy and who was good in gym. With great difficulty, I managed to finish the letter. It was six pages long. The entire last page consisted of xxx’s and ooo’s. I wondered if it would reach Aruba before the Brunos left, decided that it wouldn’t, and didn’t mail it.
I also didn’t write a word of my history project.
When I woke up this morning, I was so excited … once I got over the shock of actually waking up, that is. We (the BSC members and the Conway Cove kids) were still pretty zonked from the excitement of the night before. But when I looked out the window and saw the snow, and later when I walked into the dining hall and smelled the toast and eggs and other good breakfast smells, I felt my energy return.
Kristy sat at our table, talking a mile a minute about the activities for the day: “Since it’s still snowing, we’ll have ski practice first,” she said. “That’ll give the lodge people time to clear the snow off the pond. We’ll go skating in the afternoon if we can.”
“Can we learn to ski?” asked Amber, one of the littlest kids.
“Sure. There’s a snowbunny trail especially for you guys, and a really nice instructor who’ll show you what to do. Plus, Ms. Halliday will help you out.”
“Ooh, I can’t wait!” exclaimed Ginnie. “I have never, ever been skiing.”
“I went once,” spoke up Joey. Joey had this straight brown hair with a big cowlick in the front. His bottom middle teeth were missing, and so was a side one on top. “It was fun. But I fell down a lot.”
Kristy grinned. Then she looked around at us BSC members. “Who else is coming to practice?” she asked.
“Me,” said Stacey and Claudia at once.
“I’ll come,” added Dawn.
Kristy looked at Mary Anne.
“Me?” squeaked Mary Anne. “You must be kidding. No way.”
“Mal?” said Kristy.
Mallory shook her head. “I’m no good on skis. I’ll be in the snowball fight, though, and Jessi and I have a good idea for a snow sculpture.”
“Great,” said Kristy. She turned to me. “Jessi? Skiing?”
I was all set to say, “Sure. Why not? I’d like to learn.” But something stopped me. It was the image of myself dancing on stage. First I saw myself in Coppélia, then in Swan Lake. I saw myself whirling around and around and … falling! A huge cast was on my leg and I was completely off balance.
How could I have been so stupid? I thought. I can’t go skiing. I’m a dancer. I could break an arm or a leg. Come to think of it, I couldn’t very well go skating, either. What if I broke an ankle? Suddenly even the snowball fight didn’t seem too safe. Suppose I got frostbitten and had to have my toes removed. I couldn’t dance without my toes. I need them for balance.
“Um,” I said, stalling for time. “Um, I think I’ll skip ski practice. Someone has to … has to watch Pinky. Yeah, that’s it. Because Miss Weber and Mr. Dougherty aren’t back from the hospital yet.”
“Oh, I can watch her,” Mary Anne told me. “I’m just going to stay inside and work on my project.”
“No, no, no,” I said quickly. “That’s okay. You’ll need to concentrate. I better stick with Pinky. We’ll have lots of fun, won’t we, Pinky?”
“It’ll be swell,” said Pinky dispiritedly.
I cringed slightly, remembering that none of the little kids had wanted Pinky for their bunkie. What was wrong with her? I wondered. Oh, well. I couldn’t worry about that. I needed an excuse, and Pinky was a good one.
“Well … okay,” said Kristy. She pushed her plate away. “Come on, everyone. Let’s get going!”
Kids and teachers were starting to file out of the dining hall, so we followed them. Mal and I walked on either side of Pinky, acting as crutches so that she could keep her injured foot off the ground. When we got to the common room, Mal said, “I better go. I’m working on my special project today.”
“Oh, all right,” I replied, suddenly dismayed at having volunteered to entertain Pinky until Miss Weber and Mr. Dougherty returned.
Pinky and I sat on opposite sides of a game table, Pinky’s foot stretched out on a chair.
We looked at each other.
“I’m Jessi,” I said, just in case Pinky hadn’t learned all our names yet.
“I know.”
“Is Pinky your real name,” I asked her, “or a nickname?”
Pinky made a face. “Of course it’s a nickname,” she replied. “What’d you think? My parents wouldn’t be stupid enough to give me a name like Pinky.”
Sheesh. I was just trying to make conversation. “What’s your real name then?” I asked.
“Priscilla.”
“I like Pinky better,” I told her.
“I don’t.”
Whoa. This was one bratty little kid. No wonder none of the other children had wanted her for a bunkie.
“So how many books did you read in the readathon at your school?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m curious,” I answered, trying not to lose my temper.
Pinky sighed deeply. “Sixty-two.”
“Wow! That must be some kind of record. You must really like to read.”
“Duh.”
I had no answer for “duh,” so I kept my mouth shut.
“You know what I don’t like?” said Pinky. “I don’t like nosy people who ask a bunch of questions. So quit asking so many questions. In fact, quit talking to me.”
Quit talking to her? Now who did that remind me of? Oh, yes. The woman across the street from us in Stoneybrook. She will not allow her daughter, who’s only a little younger than my sister, Becca, to talk to me or Becca or anyone in our family — because we’re black. She’s even threatened to move out of her house, saying that a black family in the neighborhood makes the property values on all the houses go down. She says she’ll have to sell quickly before her house is worthless.
I hope she leaves soon.
I eyed Pinky across the table. Was
she prejudiced, too? Would she talk like this to Mal or to Kristy? I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that it was my job to entertain her, and I planned to do just that. Even if it meant talking to her.
“Well,” I said, getting to my feet. “I feel like a game of Candy Land or maybe Scrabble.”
“Do you know how to play poker?” asked Pinky.
“No. Sorry.”
“Oh. I thought you would.”
“Well, I don’t. How about Scrabble?”
“I guess. If we have to.”
“We don’t have to do anything. But doing something beats sitting around all day.”
Pinky sighed. “Okay. Let’s play.” She sounded as if I’d suggested scrubbing floors instead of playing a game.
The Georges keep a big collection of board games and decks of cards in a cupboard near the check-in desk. Mary Anne had shown me where it was before she began her history research in the library. (She had also shown me the library.) I opened the cupboard and found Scrabble, Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Memory, Risk, and a lot of other games. I selected Scrabble and Memory, closed the cupboard, and returned to Pinky.
“Took you long enough,” Pinky greeted me.
I almost said something really nasty to her, but I held my tongue. Insulting a person never helps a bad situation. Besides, Pinky’s foot hurt her, and she’d had a bad scare the day before. I needed to keep things in perspective.
So all I said was, “Look. I brought two games. Have you ever played Memory?”
Pinky studied the box the game came in. “Nope,” she replied.
“Which shall we play first?”
Pinky shrugged.
“Okay, if you don’t care, then I’ll choose,” I said. “Let’s play Memory.”
“First get me a soda,” said Pinky.
“A soda? We just finished breakfast.”
“I know. I’m thirsty anyway. Get me a soda.”
What was I — Pinky’s maid? To keep her quiet, I got her a soda from a machine.
She never thanked me.
We played three games of Memory. I won every round. I have a very good memory.
But … “Cheater!” cried Pinky after the third round. “Dirty cheater!” She threw the cards back in the box.
Well, I did not have to sit there while Pinky called me names and ordered me around. I could keep an eye on her from a distance. I got up, marched into the library, almost bumping into Mary Anne, who was leaving with an armload of books, pulled Matilda, by Roald Dahl, off of the shelf of kids’ books, returned to the common room, and thrust the book into Pinky’s hands.
“Here,” I said. “If you like to read so much, read this.”
Then I sat down next to Mary Anne, who had settled herself near the fire with her books. But right away I left. Mary Anne was looking completely sappy. She was doodling her name and Logan’s all over a piece of notebook paper.
So I borrowed a piece of paper and a pencil from her and chose another seat from where I could keep an eye on Pinky. Then I began thinking up ideas for Talent Night. All morning I worked and Pinky read.
We didn’t speak again until lunchtime.
I could have gone on about Pierre for pages and pages, but I didn’t think Mary Anne needed quite such detailed information. Besides, some of my thoughts about Pierre were personal. But before I start talking about him again, let me go back and tell you about the morning so I can explain how Pierre and I met.
It was still snowing when we woke up, and the first thing Mallory said was, “Do you really think we might get snowed —”
“Shh!” I hissed. I held my hand out to indicate that the children might overhear us. We didn’t want to scare them all over again.
“Sorry,” whispered Mal.
I looked outside at the snow. I happen to love snow. We didn’t get all that much of it when I lived in New York City. My personal theory is that the city is too warm for snow. It’s warm from body heat — millions of people live there. Plus, the sidewalks and streets are warm because so much stuff goes on underneath them — subways, underground stores, and banks. That sort of thing.
There is very little hope for a blizzard in New York City.
I was kind of wishing to get snowed in at Leicester Lodge. We’d have plenty of food and supplies, so we wouldn’t be in any danger. However, I kept that thought to myself. I didn’t think anyone else wanted to get snowed in.
At breakfast, Kristy announced ski practice for the morning. The snow was already letting up a little, so there was really no reason not to hit the slopes.
“Are you coming with us?” Dawn asked as she and Kristy and Claudia were getting ready for a morning on skis.
“I’d like to, but I better not,” I replied. “You guys are too good for me. I’ll have to stick to the beginner trails, at least at first. Plus, I offered to help Ms. Halliday keep an eye on the kids. I’m not going to take a lesson like the children are, but I think I better look in on their class from time to time. Fifteen kids who’ve hardly been on skis are a lot for one teacher and one instructor to handle.”
“Okay,” said Kristy. “Practice hard, though. The Blue Team will need you on Friday.”
“Yes, General,” I replied.
Everyone laughed except Kristy.
I watched Dawn, Claud, and Kristy head downstairs, Claudia lugging her ski equipment. Then I watched Mal pull her journal out from under her mattress (who was she fooling?) and leave the room with it, and I watched Mary Anne find a pad of paper and a pencil and leave with them. Pinky and Jessi had stayed downstairs, I knew. So it was just me, Ms. Halliday, and fifteen kids who needed to dress for snowy weather.
I swear, I have never seen so many clothes. Each kid wanted to put on (over his indoor clothes) a sweater, an extra pair of socks, plastic baggies over the sock layers to keep his feet dry inside the ski boots, two pairs of mittens, a hat, a scarf, and a snowsuit (and boy, are snowsuits complicated things — zippers, buttons, buckles, and snaps everywhere).
It took us a full half hour to get those kids dressed, and wouldn’t you know it, no sooner did we think we’d finished than we started hearing things like:
“Stacey? I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Me, too.”
“Me, too.”
“Stacey, I put my snowsuit on, but I forgot my sweater.”
“Me, too.”
“Bryce, cut it out, you sorehead!” (That was Joey. I’m not sure what he and Bryce were arguing about.)
“Stacey, my mittens don’t match.”
“Neither do mine.”
After another fifteen or twenty minutes we were ready to go.
Sort of.
Have you ever tried to fit fifteen children for skis, boots, and poles?
Probably not. I hadn’t.
I guess you can imagine, though, that it took nearly forever, and I am not exaggerating. By the time the kids were finally ready, and Ms. Halliday and I had our skis, too, I could not wait for a run down one of the beginner trails. But I knew I ought to help the kids get organized in their class, even though Ms. Halliday kept saying, “Go on, Stacey. I’ve got things under control.”
At last I took her advice. I rode the ski lift to the top of one of the beginner trails. A baby trail, Kristy would call it, but I prefer to say “beginner trail.”
I managed to get off the lift without falling, to turn around, and to head slowly down the slope. I tried to remember the few things I’d learned from the lessons I’d taken. I couldn’t remember much, but at least I arrived at the bottom of the trail in one piece — which is more than I can say for Mr. Show-off, Alan Gray, alias Kristy’s Nemesis. He tried to do all this fancy stuff and landed at the end of the trail on his bottom with one leg in front of him, the other behind, and his poles lying about ten feet away. He wasn’t hurt, but he caused three other boys to crash into him, and a fourth to fall over one of his poles.
I shook my head and got on the ski lift again. Then I began my descent to the end of t
he trail, only this time I picked up speed. I could see that Alan and his pals had cleared away from the scene of their accident. Good, I thought, and skied happily until I realized that someone was right behind me and staying there.
I was being tailgated on skis.
“Alan, cut it out!” I yelled into the wind and snow. I was afraid to turn around, though. I was sure I’d lose my balance.
By the time we reached the bottom of the trail, I was completely unnerved. “Cut it out!” I yelled again. Only this time I did turn around, and of course I fell.
Someone fell on top of me.
I looked over my shoulder and right into the eyes of … a gorgeous guy.
It wasn’t Alan at all.
“Oh, no!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be,” said the boy. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I don’t have very good control over these skis yet. I knew I was on your tail, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Well, that’s okay.” I was all out of breath. And I couldn’t tell if it was because of our accident, or because of the amazing face I was gazing at.
Somehow, the two of us managed to untangle ourselves and stand up. As soon as we did, we fell again. We burst out laughing.
“This is like a Laurel and Hardy movie,” said the boy.
“Or a Three Stooges show,” I added. I had to stop laughing so I could catch my breath.
When we were on our feet and had calmed down, the boy said, “My name’s Pierre. Pierre D’Amboise.”
“I’m Stacey McGill,” I told him.
Here is a fact: It is very difficult to shake hands when you’re wearing ski mittens. They’re so puffy and fat it’s like shaking hands with giant marshmallows.
Baby-Sitters' Winter Vacation Page 4
