Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
“Okay, guys, you’re history,” said my math teacher, looking at the wall clock. “See you mañana.”
It was the end of a long school day. I chatted with friends as I left class, then got some books from my locker. As I walked outside, the midwinter breeze felt warm and wonderful.
Time out. What’s wrong with this picture?
Number One: no obnoxious bell at the end of school.
Number Two: no coat.
Number Three: no cold weather.
Welcome to California!
I, Dawn Schafer, was back in my home state — the land of beaches and surfing and palm trees and year-round tans. Well, that’s an exaggeration. It’s a stereotyped idea of California. Nevertheless, it was a different life.
Different from Stoneybrook, Connecticut, that is. That’s where I live, technically. This trip to California is sort of an extended visit.
Confusing? Not really. I am a child of divorce. My mom lives in Stoneybrook and my dad lives here in Palo City, California. (Once upon a time we all lived in Palo City. I was born here and so was my younger brother, Jeff.)
The divorce happened when I was in the seventh grade. Mom whisked Jeff and me off to her hometown, Stoneybrook, mainly because her parents — my Granny and Pop-Pop — still live there.
I liked Stoneybrook right from the start. We moved into a rambling old farmhouse built in 1795, where I found a secret passageway from the barn to my bedroom! I made some great friends at my new school, and I joined a group called the Baby-sitters Club (I’ll tell you about them later).
As for Jeff, well, he was miserable. He was rude and difficult at home, and he even started getting into trouble at school. Eventually Mom and Dad agreed he’d be better off back in California. Boy, was it hard to see him go. Our house seemed so empty.
But not for long. Mom got married again — to the widowed father of my best friend, Mary Anne Spier. It turned out Mom used to date him in high school. (Isn’t that so romantic?) Mary Anne and her dad moved into our house, and suddenly I had a nice, cozy, new family. My life couldn’t have been better.
Except when I started thinking about Dad and Jeff.
And thinking. And thinking.
And missing them more and more.
Imagine if your dad and your only brother lived three thousand miles away. Let me tell you, it feels awful. I’d visited them a couple of times, but that just wasn’t enough. I felt as if they were in another world, floating away from me. I needed to spend some time out West. A lot of time.
Mary Anne cried when I told her how I was feeling, but she understood. Poor Mom — she took it personally at first. When she phoned Dad about it, they argued. But that didn’t stop them from exploring my idea. They had to consult guidance counselors at Stoneybrook Middle School and at Vista, my California school, to make sure I wouldn’t screw up my education if I moved. Then, finally, they agreed I could live with Dad for six months or so.
Which is how I became bicoastal. (I love that word. It sounds so glamorous.)
To be honest, it isn’t very glamorous at all, but you know what? Coming out here was definitely the right thing to do. That aching feeling is gone. It’s fun to be around Dad, and I no longer miss Jeff (honestly, I want to throttle him sometimes).
“Hey, Dawn!” a voice called from behind me.
I turned. Our school is actually a bunch of small buildings grouped around a courtyard filled with flowering bushes and juniper trees. Walking across the courtyard were two of my best California friends, Sunny Winslow and Maggie Blume. Sunny was holding out an open bag of vegetable chips.
“Hi!” I called back.
“Want some?” Sunny asked.
“Sure!” Yum. Vegetable chips are the best. They’re like potato chips, except they’re made with carrots and parsnips and sweet potatoes and other great stuff.
Okay, stop gagging. I just happen to like natural foods. That’s one thing you should know about me. Luckily, most of my friends here share my tastes, too. (Most of my Stoneybrook friends don’t. Mary Anne’s boyfriend says I go around gathering nuts with the squirrels, but that’s typical boy humor, and I ignore it.)
Having best friends on both coasts is pretty fantastic. Not to mention belonging to two great baby-sitting clubs.
That’s right. I am a bicoastal baby-sitter. Here in Palo City, I belong to the We ♥ Kids Club (pronounced “We Love Kids Club”). Sunny started the club while I was living in Stoneybrook, after I’d told her about the BSC.
Maggie’s a member of the club, too, along with one other girl, Jill Henderson. (Jill lives pretty far from school, so she takes a bus home.) All four of us have blonde hair. Actually, my hair is the lightest (it’s almost white). I suppose we could call ourselves the BSC, too, for “Blonde Sitters Club.”
Or maybe OFEC, for “Organic Food Eaters Club.” Sunny, Maggie, and I tore into those chips on our stroll down Palm Boulevard. It was one of those breezy, warm days when you just feel like doing nothing, and slowly. The sun beamed down and the air was full of familiar southern California scents: flowers, salt air, and car exhaust. (Oh, well, I guess no place is perfect.)
“You guys want to have a meeting today?” Sunny asked.
Maggie nodded. “We haven’t had one in a week.”
“I can’t make it,” I said. “I have to sit for Stephie. How about tomorrow?”
“Sounds cool to me,” Maggie replied.
“I’ll call Jill,” Sunny offered.
Pretty casual, huh? That’s the We ♥ Kids Club — no rules, no regularly scheduled meetings. Much different from the BSC. If Kristy Thomas, the BSC founder, had heard that conversation, she would have had a heart attack. She’s a real rules freak. The Baby-sitters Club is run like a business, with strict meeting times, officers, and record-keeping.
I have to admit, at first I had trouble getting used to the easy-going W♥KC style. Now I find it kind of refreshing.
Anyway, we yacked and munched for about ten more minutes, until we reached Stephie Robertson’s house. I said good-bye to my friends and rang the bell.
“Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Dawn!” Stephie screamed from inside.
Stephie is an only child and her dad is a widower. Her regular nanny, Joanna, usually sits for her. But tonight Joanna was leaving early, to celebrate her birthday.
The screen door opened and out Stephie flew. “Come on!” she said, pulling me inside. “You have to see Joanna. She looks so beautiful!”
Joanna came in, dressed in a short fringed skirt and a tight-fitting beaded top, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek, elegant style. She did look great, but also a little embarrassed, as we oohed and aahed over her. Joanna and I quickly went over some last-minute details. Before long, a car pulled up to the curb, with a very handsome man behind the wheel.
As Joanna climbed in and waved good-bye, Stephie said, “That’s her boyfriend. He’s a hunk.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Stephie, where did you learn that word?”
“Dawwwn,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I am ei
ght years old.”
“Oh.”
“It does mean something good, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, well, sure … I guess.”
“Like what?”
I have to say, Stephie is another reason I like being in California. She is the sweetest, smartest girl I have ever sat for. She used to be painfully shy, but as you can see, she’s starting to come out of her shell.
Since she was little, Stephie has suffered from asthma. Emotional stress can send her into a scary fit of wheezing. Fortunately that seems to be getting better, too.
Halfway through my explanation of hunk, Stephie lost interest. “Let’s bake,” she said. “Dad and I got a cake mix for Joanna’s birthday. To surprise her when she gets back later. I want it to be huge. Like, nine layers!”
Fortunately the box had enough mix for two layers (which was plenty). So we spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Stephie had the best time. Me? I was grossed out. Do you know how much refined sugar goes into a cake? Tons! I mean, humans were not made to consume that much.
Sigh. Try telling that to an eight-year-old. Stephie thought I was out of my mind.
When we were done, the house smelled … well, sweet.
I hope Stephie was able to keep her dad away from the cake. You should have seen his face when he came home. He was practically drooling.
As for me, I couldn’t wait to get to my house and make a fruit smoothie in the blender.
My dad’s house is about a fifteen-minute walk from Stephie’s. It’s beautiful — airy, open, and shaped like a square-edged U around a yard. Almost all the rooms have glass skylights. I love coming home to it.
I ran up the front walk and through the door. “Hi! I’m home!” I called out.
“No you’re not. You’re Dawn!”
That was my brother, Jeff. He had decided the week before that he wanted to be a stand-up comedian. I’d heard that joke five times already. I vowed to myself I would never say “I’m home” again.
“Hi, Jeff,” I replied, not encouraging him.
But he barged into the living room, determined to continue the act. “Dawn, what do you call a Smurf in math class?”
I walked around him toward the kitchen. “I give up.”
“A Smurf bored!” he said triumphantly, cracking up. “Get it? Like a surfboard!”
Our housekeeper, Mrs. Bruen, was preparing a salad in the kitchen. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Just be glad he’s not doing those knock-knock jokes —”
Too late. “Knock-knock!” Jeff said.
“Who’s there?” I asked wearily.
“Kook.”
“Kook who?”
Jeff looked at his watch. “Only one o’clock? Hmm, my watch must be wrong…. Get it? You said cuckoo, like a cuckoo clock!”
(Ugh. Brothers. Sometimes I wonder why I ever left Stoneybrook.)
This went on for a while, until Dad got home from work. “Hello, everybody!” he called as he came inside. “I’m home!”
He did it on purpose. I know he did. He wanted Jeff to give his dumb response.
“No, you’re not —”
I put my fingers in my ears.
Dad is one of the nicest guys in the world. Too nice sometimes. He thinks Jeff’s new joke habit is just terrific. He laughs at the same lines over and over. (But I love him anyway.)
“How’s my Sunshine?” he asked, giving me a kiss. “Ready for my award-winning vegetable chimichangas tonight?”
Without waiting for an answer, he bounded away to change clothes. I guess I would have said yes to the question. Dad is a great cook. But I do have mixed feelings about his chimichangas. You see, they happen to be the favorite dish of his girlfriend, Carol. When he makes them, it’s a sure sign she’s coming over.
Have I mentioned Carol? Maybe not, but I guess I should.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like her. She has many good qualities. She’s young and tries to be hip, she has tons of energy, and she pays lots of attention to Jeff and me.
Her bad qualities? Well, she’s young and tries to be hip, she has tons of energy, and she pays lots of attention to Jeff and me.
What I mean is, she tends to go overboard. Sometimes she tries so hard to be cool it drives me crazy. I just want to tell her to act like a grown-up.
When Dad returned to the kitchen, we all set to work. Mrs. Bruen chopped veggies, Dad seasoned the sauce and made refried beans, I fixed a salad dressing, and Jeff cooked the rice.
Sure enough, at six o’clock on the dot, Carol’s voice called from the front door, “Chimichangas! Mmmm, that smells soooo bodacious!”
Bodacious? Now you see what I mean.
“Hi, honey!” Dad said. “We need your expert taste buds.”
Carol bustled into the kitchen. “Oh, you know I have good taste. I met you, right?”
She giggled. Dad laughed. They kissed.
Me? I managed to hold on to my appetite. But it wasn’t easy.
Between Jeff’s jokes, Dad’s encouragement of him, and Carol’s constant giggling, I didn’t say too much at dinner. Which was just as well. The meal was fantastic.
But afterward I felt a little down. I guess I’d been hoping for a nice, quiet dinner.
I knew one thing that would cheer me up. “Dad, can I call Mary Anne?” I asked.
“If it’s not too late,” he said.
I looked at the clock: 7:03. That meant 10:03 at night in Connecticut. I raced into Dad’s bedroom and tapped out my Stoneybrook number.
“Hello?”
I was in luck. Mary Anne was up. “Hi!” I said. “It’s Dawn! Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m reading,” Mary Anne replied. “How are you?”
“Fine. What are you reading?”
Mary Anne laughed. “Is that why you called?”
“No. I guess I just wanted to, you know, talk.”
“Okay. Well, it’s the coolest book. It’s called Julie of the Wolves.”
Mary Anne went on about this book, which is the story of a girl lost in the wilderness of Alaska. I’d read it already, but I listened anyway. It was so great to hear her voice. She is the kindest, most sensitive, and most wonderful person in the world.
I don’t know exactly why, but I was missing her — and my Stoneybrook family — more than ever that day. And the phone call was only making it worse.
“Bend your knees, Jill. Like this.” Sunny got on her surfboard and demonstrated proper body balance.
No, we weren’t at the beach. We weren’t even outdoors. Sunny was giving a surfing lesson on the carpet of her own bedroom.
The We ♥ Kids Club had finally gotten around to holding a meeting. It was Tuesday, five days after I’d sat for Stephie. I had arrived right on time, at 4:30. Jill was next at 4:36, Maggie at 4:40.
No one complained. (If this happened at a BSC meeting, Kristy would be furious.)
“Go ahead, try again,” Sunny insisted.
“This is ridiculous,” Jill mumbled. She stepped on the board, which began to wobble left and right. So she flapped her arms wildly and gave us her version of the theme song from Hawaii Five-O.
We howled. “Perfect!” Sunny exclaimed.
Sunny is my oldest friend in the whole world. Well, she’s not old. She’s thirteen and in eighth grade, like me. What I mean is, I’ve known her the longest. We have lots in common. First of all, we’re both outgoing, fun-loving, and independent. Second, we both have blonde hair, although Sunny’s hair is strawberry-blonde and mine is almost white. Third, we share the same name, sort of (by pure coincidence, “Sunshine” happens to be my dad’s nickname for me). Fourth, we like to surf. And fifth, we adore ghost stories.
The Winslows live down the block from us. Their house is like my second (I mean, third) home. You should meet Mrs. Winslow. She’s a potter who makes the most beautiful stoneware — plus she’s one of the warmest people I’ve ever met.
Sunny’s full name is Sunshine Daydream Winslow. Yes, I am serious. (Mr. and Mrs. Wi
nslow were hippies. Their friends in Oregon, the Johnstons, have two sons named Vernal Equinox and Lunar Eclipse.)
Hey, don’t ask me.
Jill Henderson is actually quiet and serious when she’s not carpet-surfing. Of all of us blondes, she has the darkest hair, and deep, chocolatey brown eyes. She’s the only one who doesn’t live in the neighborhood. Her house is tucked away in the hills at the edge of town. Her parents are divorced, so she lives with her mom and her older sister, Liz. They have three dogs — all boxers — named Spike, Shakespeare, and Smee. (Jill loves them, but boy, are those dogs ugly.)
I guess Maggie has the most glitzy life of us all. Her dad is in the movie business. I’m not exactly sure what he does, but it must be important. You would not believe their house. It’s enormous, with a screening room, a gym, and a landscaped pool that looks as if someone lifted it from a tropical island and plopped it in their backyard. But you know what? Maggie hates talking about celebrities and movie gossip. Keanu Reeves has actually had dinner at her house, but she didn’t tell us until weeks later. To her, it just wasn’t a big deal. (Sunny, on the other hand, insisted on touching the fork and plate he used.)
Maggie has the coolest look (which is constantly changing). Her hair is short and punkish, with a thin tail in back. She usually streaks it purple or green or black. Her fashion sense runs toward leather bomber jackets and lace-up black boots.
What happens at a W♥KC meeting (besides surfing)? Well, we talk, snack, and answer some phone calls for baby-sitting. Neighborhood parents can count on us whenever they need an experienced and reliable sitter.
Great idea, huh? Little do any of the local parents realize that they have Kristy Thomas to thank.
That’s right. As far as I know, no one had ever dreamed up a baby-sitters club before Kristy did. She’s amazing that way. Ideas burst out of her all the time.
She invented the BSC to help her mom, who was a single parent trying to raise four kids. Since then Mrs. Thomas has gotten remarried, to a really rich guy named Watson Brewer, who had two kids from a previous marriage. Now the family lives in a mansion — with an adopted little sister, a grandmother, and several pets.
Kristy has brown hair and brown eyes, is great at sports, and always dresses casually. Although she’s the shortest BSC member, she has the strongest personality. In case you haven’t guessed, she’s the club president.