Baby-Sitters' Winter Vacation

by Ann M. Martin

  But there was Pinky sobbing over one of the sinks.

  “Pinky! What’s the matter?” I exclaimed. “Why are you crying? Your skit went perfectly. Everyone loved it. They especially loved you.”

  Pinky shook her head. “It’s not that.”

  “It isn’t? What’s wrong?”

  Pinky paused. Finally she said, “Just homesick, I guess.” Then she added, “I know I was really mean to you this week, Jessi. I’m sorry.”

  I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say. Pinky must have thought I was angry, because she rushed on, “I’ve been mean to everyone, and I know it. I’m really sorry.” She looked pleadingly at me.

  “Oh, Pinky,” I said. “That’s okay. I mean, I did think you didn’t like me, but I’m not angry. Not anymore.”

  Pinky began talking to me again, but I had a little trouble paying attention to her. I was remembering something that Mallory had said to me, something about Pinky’s not being prejudiced. And I was remembering Pinky bossing the other kids around and the kids then excluding her from things.

  Why was it that I had overlooked all that and focused on what Pinky had said and done only to me (like ordering me to get her a drink)? Was it because of the bad experiences I’d had in Stoneybrook with our neighbors? Probably. But did that mean I was prejudiced in some way now? I hoped not. But I knew I would need to have a long talk with my parents when I returned from Leicester Lodge.

  “Come on, Pinky,” I said, holding my hand out to her. “It’s late. We should go to bed.”

  Pinky sighed softly. “Okay,” she replied.

  Hand in hand, we went upstairs to our dorm.

  The ski competitions. I’d been waiting for them all week. For me, they would be the highlight of the trip. They always are, especially downhill. And this time, Guy would be there to cheer me along. He had promised so on Thursday after giving me a private lesson. Note that I said private. How that happened was that on Thursday morning after I took a class with him I said, “Will you be teaching another class late this afternoon? The ski competitions are tomorrow and I could use some extra help.”

  What do you think Guy said? He said, “No, I do not have a class scheduled, bot for you I weel make an exception. How about a priveet lesson at sree-sirty?”

  Sree-sirty? Oh, three-thirty.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  So I had a private lesson with Guy. He was very helpful. But I have to say that I was having just a little trouble concentrating. At one point he positioned my body for the perfect ski stance. As soon as his mittens touched my parka, my mind went into orbit. It was flying around in outer space. All I could think of was Guy and me sitting in a darkened restaurant together. The maitre d’ has given us a quiet, intimate table in the back with a candle in a glass holder in the middle of the table. By the flickering light, Guy takes my hand in his and says —

  “Zat eez very goode. You are ready for your ron now.”

  No, no. That wasn’t what he said in the daydream. That was what he said during the lesson.

  I let myself fly. Down the mountain I went. And off into outer space went my mind again. This time, Guy and I are walking along a beach at sunset. In that lighting, the sand looks pink. To our right are palm trees with fat coconuts hanging from them. To our left is the ocean reflecting the setting sun. Guy and I are holding hands. We’re laughing. We’re —

  Coming to the bottom of the mountain! I put on the brakes, but I knew the end of my run had been sloppy. Guy confirmed that when I got off the ski lift.

  “If you want to be zee best tomorrow,” he said, “you most not let your mind wander. Do you onderstand? You deed well, bot you can do moch better.”

  I nodded and took another run, this time allowing myself only a brief fantasy about sitting in a boat on a canal in Venice with Guy before dragging my mind back to skiing. I was later rewarded with an ear-to-ear grin from Guy and a pat on the back. Or was it a small hug? I couldn’t be sure.

  * * *

  Anyway, by Friday morning I knew I was ready for the downhill ski competition. It would be my best event, and I was pretty sure I could win it for my team. This is how the competition would work: The members of each team had been assigned to a beginner group, an intermediate group, or an expert group. (That was so beginners could be in the event without having to compete against experts. By the way, Kristy and I were in the expert groups on our teams, Dawn was in an intermediate group, and Stacey asked to be in a beginner group, although I think she could have competed with the intermediates.)

  Each kid in each group, starting with the advanced skiers, would take a run downhill. They would be judged on both speed and performance by the head ski instructor at the lodge. The winning beginner would earn five points for his or her team, the winning intermediate seven points, and the winning advanced skier nine points. Therefore it was possible for one team to cream the other by winning all three categories, or for a race to be as close as one team earning nine points and the other twelve.

  At breakfast on Friday, Kristy was impossible. “We’re going to beat the pants off you guys,” she said to me. “And then we’ll beat you in cross-country so we’ll have won the war!” She looked jubilant at the very thought.

  “Big deal,” I replied. “So you’ll each get a piece of pizza. We’ve got frozen pizza at our house all the time. I can have it whenever I want.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean,” said Kristy.

  “Yeah, all you think about is winning,” I told her sarcastically.

  “That’s right.” Kristy stuffed a piece of toast in her mouth. “Ishm mat the pot?”

  “What?” I said.

  Kristy swallowed. “Isn’t that the point?”

  Before the discussion could get any testier, Mal changed the subject. She turned to Pinky and the other little kids. “Who wants to go ice-skating this morning?” she asked.

  “Me! I do!” cried most of them — including Pinky.

  “You better start getting them dressed as soon as breakfast is over,” Stacey whispered to Mal. “It could take hours to get them ready.”

  Not much later, the downhill skiing competition was about to begin. The advanced skiers had gathered at the top of the nearest mountain, the intermediates were further down, and the beginners were at the head of one of the baby trails. A big crowd of people was waiting at the bottom of the mountain. This Winter War event got more attention than any other, so we had a pretty good audience.

  The most important member of the audience for me, however, was … Guy, of course. And he wasn’t just milling around with the crowd below. He was standing at the top, still giving me pointers and an occasional pat on the back. (Hug?)

  The advanced skiers were to take their runs first, and everyone knew that the real competition would be between Kristy and me, since each of us was the best skier on our respective teams.

  The event began. The lodge’s head ski instructor, Ms. Olsen, tossed a coin. My team had called heads — and we won the toss. Rick chose Lindsay McManus to lead, and off she went. She was good, and reached the bottom with a fast time. The next skier was Miranda Elliot from Kristy’s team. She was even better and faster.

  One after another the advanced skiers whipped down the slope. Finally, only Kristy and I were left. Kristy poised herself at the top of the run. I could almost see her gathering her concentration and shutting out everything but the slope and her skis.

  Kristy earned the fastest time yet. When she heard the news she let out a yell. “All right! This event is in the bag for the Blue Team!”

  I’ll admit it. She was psyching me out. But just before I poised myself for my run, Guy touched my arm and whispered in my ear, “Concentrate.”

  I concentrated.

  I also beat Kristy. I had earned nine points for our team! “You’re wrong, Thomas!” I cried. “This event is in the bag for the Red Team!”

  But as it turned out, I was wrong. I couldn’t believe it. The Blue Team won in both the interm
ediate and the beginning competitions. They beat us twelve to nine.

  “We’re tied! We’re tied!” Kristy shouted. “And the Blue Team is going to beat the Red Team in cross-country.”

  “How?” asked Rick. “Hardly anyone entered the event on your team. We’ve got all the good cross-country skiers.”

  “Do not,” replied Kristy, which is a surefire way of letting people know that suddenly you’re not so sure of yourself.

  I looked at my watch. Lunchtime — and I was starved. The SMS kids made their way into the dining hall to fuel up before the last event of the Winter War. Although we had lost in downhill skiing, I felt like I was walking on air.

  “Guy really likes me,” I told the BSC members as we ate our lunch.

  “But he’s too old for you,” said Mary Anne.

  “Age doesn’t matter,” I replied, trying to sound as wise as my grandmother Mimi would have sounded if she’d still been alive.

  “How can you be sure he really likes you?” asked Jessi.

  “Oh, just by the way he looks at me. By the way he gives me encouragement, pats me on the back, wants to spend time with —”

  I stopped talking. My eyeballs almost shot out of their sockets. I had looked away from Jessi and seen Guy approaching me. He was carrying a baby in one arm, a little girl was holding his free hand, and a beautiful woman was with him.

  “Hello,” said Guy. “Claudia, I wanted you to meet my family. Zees baby here eez Jean, zees leetle won eez my daughter, Marie, and zees eez my wife, Domitille. Domi, zees eez Claudia, zee wonderful skier I woz telling you about.”

  I don’t know how I got through that conversation, but I did. I even managed to smile. When Guy and his family left, our table was silent. No one said a word, not even Kristy. In fact, she put her arm around me for a moment.

  I tried to tell myself, It would never have worked out anyway. He really is too old. And then I thought, Thank goodness for Will. I’ve still got Will.

  But my feelings had been wounded.

  I wish I’d had a camera with me in the dining hall so I could have captured the look on Claud’s face when Guy walked over to her with his wife and kids. No, scratch that. I don’t wish that at all. It would have been mean. Claud’s feelings were really hurt. I think I’ll remember the look on her face even without a camera.

  And although I honestly did feel bad for Claudia, I guess I’m slightly mean (maybe everyone is, I don’t know), because some teeny-tiny part of me couldn’t help thinking, “If Claud is upset, maybe she won’t do well in cross-country skiing this afternoon and her team will lose.” Isn’t that awful? But that’s how I felt. I just wanted to win so badly. And the Blue Team was so close.

  That was only the beginning of how I went win-crazy that afternoon, though. Next, I waited until Claudia had composed herself, and kids were starting to finish their lunches, before I tapped on my glass to make an announcement.

  “Attention, Blue Team members!” I said. “Attention, please! As you know, this afternoon is our last chance to beat the Red Team. As you may not know, we don’t have nearly enough good cross-country skiers signed up for this event. Come on, you guys! It’s not too late to join the team. How many of you out there are willing to join so we can win the war?”

  I thought I sounded like a coach giving his team a good pep talk, but instead of enthusiastic shouts, I just heard some murmurs and saw a couple of heads nod.

  Cross-country skiing is not the most popular event to enter.

  Oh, well. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  So first I asked Dawn to participate in the event. I received a flat-out no. She’d gotten through the snowball fight and downhill skiing (doing well, by the way), but wasn’t about to risk trying a new sport. So I began walking from table to table. At each one I personally asked the Blue Team members to join the final event of the war.

  “Anyone can cross-country ski,” I said to Shawn Benedict. “Have you even been on regular skis?”

  Shawn shook her head.

  “Oh. Well, that doesn’t matter,” I went on. “If you can walk, you can cross-country ski. So join up, okay? We really need you.”

  “All right,” said Shawn uncertainly. “If you promise it’s that easy.”

  “I promise,” I told her. I looked at Jay Marsden, who was sitting across from Shawn. “What about you? If you can walk, you —”

  “I know, I know. If I can walk, I can ski,” he said.

  “So?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Kristy.”

  “Come on. For our team. For the war. Where’s your spirit?”

  Jay looked embarrassed. “All right. I’ll join.”

  “Great!”

  I approached another table, but the kids there must have overheard my conversations with Shawn and Jay because before I could even open my mouth, three of them said, “We can’t walk yet!”

  “Spoilsports,” I muttered as I headed for the next table. There I talked two more kids into entering the event. By the time lunch was over, the Blue Team had gained thirteen new contestants in cross-country skiing. Now we had twenty-eight contestants and Rick’s team had twenty.

  Since there was a full hour before the competition was to begin, I took all the novice skiers to the rental shop, helped get them fitted with cross-country skis, and gave them a fast lesson. I’m not much of a cross-country skier myself, but I figured I knew more than they did. Besides, all they’d be required to do in the event was ski a short trail.

  This is how the competition would work: Groups of four kids — two from my team, two from Rick’s — would ski similar-length trails at the same time. The kid who crossed the finish line first would score a point for his or her team. Since Rick’s team now had fewer members than mine, some of his skiers would go twice. Rick would pick the best ones, of course … if they weren’t too tired. I had a hunch that sheer numbers would make up for talent.

  Our practice hour was, well, let’s just say it was not ideal. Shawn couldn’t stay up on her skis. I have never seen one person fall down so often in such a short period of time. She’d be up on her feet, then BOOM! in the snow, up on her feet, then BOOM! in the snow.

  “Kristy,” she said at last, “in case you care, I am not enjoying myself.”

  “Just try one more time,” I begged her.

  Shawn struggled to her feet. Her face was beet-red. But at least she stayed up. She seemed to be getting the hang of things.

  Before I knew it, the hour was up and it was time for the competition to begin.

  “Kristy,” Jay said to me nervously, “I can stay on my feet all right, but I sure can’t go very fast. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “No one’s much good at this event. Honest.”

  I was half right. No one on my team seemed to be much good. At least not in the beginning. I hoped, though, that was because I was sending my most inexperienced team members out first, so they could get things over with and we would catch up later.

  We lost race after race.

  The lodge’s cross-country ski instructor would stand by the line of kids who were competing in each round, shout, “Take your marks, get set, GO!” and my team members would barely get themselves moving while the other two kids would be halfway to the finish line.

  I put Shawn in the first race so she could quit looking so uncomfortable. Suddenly, she seemed to be back in our practice session. The instructor shouted, “GO!” and immediately Shawn was sitting on her bottom. I felt pretty bad for her, especially when a few kids around us started snickering. Poor Shawn didn’t even try to catch up with the others. She just removed her skis and watched Rick’s team win the race.

  I put Jay in the fourth round. He actually skied about three quarters of the way to the finish before he fell. But when he landed we all heard the snap and his agonized cry.

  “Oh!” he shouted. “Help! I think I broke something.”

  In the blink of an eye, two teachers and the lodge do
ctor raced to Jay. The doctor and the other Blue Team member in the race (who was coming in last, of course) collided, but neither of them was hurt.

  Jay wasn’t so lucky, though.

  “Don’t move him,” the doctor told the teachers. Then he said to the kids who were crowding around, “Stand back. Let him have some air.” And he sent Mr. Cheney to call for the paramedics while he and Mr. George eased Jay onto a stretcher and moved him to the lodge.

  Jay had broken his ankle. No one could really concentrate on the race after that. Rick’s team halfheartedly beat mine.

  The Blue Team had lost the event and the entire Winter War.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “This didn’t happen,” I said to Stacey when it was all over and we were walking back to the lodge. “We didn’t lose.”

  “I’m a little more concerned about Jay than the war,” Stacey replied crisply.

  “But you barely know Jay,” I pointed out.

  Stacey gave me a Look.

  The truth is, I was worried about Jay myself. I just didn’t want to admit it. I knew the accident was my fault. I was responsible for it. If I hadn’t pushed Jay so hard, he would never have entered the cross-country ski event. But I had pushed, and Jay had entered, and he had fallen and broken his ankle. I guessed that everyone blamed me for it.

  All of a sudden I knew I was going to do something I don’t do very often — cry. I quickened my pace, pulled ahead of Stacey, and rushed into the lodge.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Stacey called after me.

  I couldn’t answer her. I just kept going, moving faster and faster toward our room, all the time thinking what a horrible person I was.

  By the time I reached our room, a huge lump had formed in my throat, and my eyes were brimming with tears. I sincerely wished that no one would be in the dorm.