Contents
Cover
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
Letter from Ann M. Martin
About the Author
Scrapbook
Copyright
“Old Ben Brewer was crazy. As crazy as anything. He ate fried dandelions, and after he turned fifty, he never left his house … except to go out in the yard to get dandelions. When he died, his ghost stayed behind. I’m telling you, he haunts our attic.”
Karen Brewer looked at me with wide eyes. “Honest, Kristy. He haunts our attic,” she repeated. Karen loves to talk about witches and ghosts. She thinks her next-door neighbor, old Mrs. Porter, is a witch named Morbidda Destiny.
Karen’s four-year-old brother, Andrew, turned to me with eyes as round as an owl’s. He didn’t say a word.
“I think you’re scaring your brother,” I told Karen.
“No, she’s not,” whispered Andrew. I leaned over to him. “Are you sure?” I whispered back.
“No.” I could barely hear him.
“I think that’s enough talk about ghosts,” I said.
“Okay,” replied Karen. Her tone of voice implied that it was foolish of me not to arm myself with information about old Ben. “But when you move into our house, you’ll wish you knew more about my great-great-grandfather. Especially if you get a bedroom on the third floor.” Karen made “the third floor” sound like Frankenstein’s castle.
I couldn’t help giving a little shiver. Why was I letting a six-year-old get away with this?
Karen looked at me knowingly.
Karen and Andrew are the children of Watson Brewer, who is engaged to my mother, the divorced Elizabeth Thomas. This means that when they get married, Karen and Andrew will become my little stepsister and stepbrother. It also means that my brothers and I will be moving out of our house on Bradford Court, where we grew up, and into Watson’s house.
There are pros and cons to this situation. The pros are that Watson is rich. In fact, he’s a millionaire. And his house isn’t just a house, it’s a mansion. Charlie and Sam, my older brothers, who have shared a room for years, will each have his own bedroom at Watson’s. They could probably each have a suite of rooms if they asked nicely. And David Michael, my little brother (he just turned seven), will finally have a room bigger than a closet.
I don’t benefit at all where bedrooms are concerned since I already have my own and I think the size is fine. The main drawback to moving to Watson’s is that he lives across town. I have never lived anywhere but right here on Bradford Court. All my friends are here. Mary Anne Spier lives next door, Claudia Kishi lives across the street, and Stacey McGill and Dawn Schafer live nearby. The five of us make up the Baby-sitters Club (I’m the president), and it won’t be nearly as easy to run the club when I live clear on the other side of Stoneybrook, Connecticut.
The other “con” is that Watson is mostly okay, but sometimes he can be a jerk.
“Kristy? Karen? Andrew?”
“Yes, Mom?” It was a Saturday evening, and my mother had invited Watson and his kids over for dinner.
Karen and Andrew and I were crowded into a lawn chair in our backyard. They’re good kids. I like them a lot. And I know them well since I’ve been sitting for them off and on for about nine months, since the time the Baby-sitters Club began. Watson and their mother are divorced, and while they live with their mother, they do spend every other weekend and certain vacations with Watson, and some in-between time, too, if they want. The arrangement is pretty loose.
“Dinner’s ready!” called Mom.
“Come on, you guys,” I said. “You know what we’re having?”
“What?” asked Andrew cautiously. He’s a very picky eater.
“We’re having spaghetti.”
“Oh, yum!” cried Karen.
“Pasketti?” Andrew repeated. “Jody Jones said pasketti is dead worms.”
“Ew, ew, ew!” exclaimed Karen.
“Well, Jody Jones is wrong,” I told them. “Spaghetti is … noodles. That’s all.”
We entered through the back door of our house and went into the dining room. The table was set for eight. Candles were burning and the lights had been dimmed. A bottle of red wine stood next to Watson’s place. The dining room had been transformed into an Italian restaurant.
“This looks great, Mom,” I said, “but it’s June. We should be eating outside. We’re wasting the nice weather.”
“Oh, honey,” my mother replied. “Eat spaghetti on our laps? That sounds like the start of a Tide commercial. We’ll be much better off in here.”
I laughed. Ever since Mom got engaged to Watson, she’s been in a great mood.
My brothers crowded around the table. (They’re never too far off when food is about to be served.)
Karen and Andrew approached them shyly. (Yes, even Karen gets shy sometimes.) I think she’s shy around Charlie, Sam, and David Michael because she knows they’re going to become her stepbrothers and she wants to make a good impression on them. She knows me a lot better than she knows them because of all the babysitting I’ve done for her and for Andrew.
“Hi, Charlie. Hi, Sam. Hi, David Michael,” Karen addressed each one solemnly.
“Hi, kid,” replied Charlie. (Charlie is my seventeen-year-old brother. He just got his driver’s license.)
Sam, who’s fifteen, couldn’t answer Karen because he was busy scarfing up olives from a little dish my mother had set on the table next to the pepper grinder.
“Hey, Mom!” I called into the kitchen. “We need an olive refill.”
Sam gave me a dirty look.
While we kids stood around waiting for Mom and Watson, who were doing last-minute spaghetti things in the kitchen, Karen and David Michael eyed each other. Mom is afraid there’s going to be some trouble between the two of them after the wedding. David Michael is used to being the baby of the family. He’s not just the youngest, he’s the much-youngest. There’s a ten-year difference between Charlie and him. There’s even a five-and-a-half-year difference between him and me. (I’ll be thirteen in August.) But suddenly he’s going to acquire a part-time six-year-old sister and four-year-old brother.
Meanwhile, Karen is used to being the oldest. And she’s going to acquire three part-time older brothers, plus me.
Furthermore, Karen and David Michael are so close in age that Mom is sure they’re going to be competing for things—toys and privileges and stuff. She wonders whether David Michael will feel cheated because he’ll be in public school, while Karen goes to private school. On the other hand, she thinks David Michael would feel resentful if she switched him out of the school he’s used to.
Things could get pretty messy.
Karen broke the silence in the dining room by gazing around and saying, “Yikes, after Daddy and Elizabeth get married, I’m going to have four brothers.”
“And me,” I reminded her. “You’ll be my very first sister.”
“We better stick together,” said Karen. “We’re the only girls.”
“Oh, yick, yick, yick,” said David Michael. “Pew, pew, pew. One sister’s enough. Now I’ll have two.” He made a horrible Halloween face.
“Hey!” exclaimed Karen. “You said a poem, David Michael!”
“I did?”
“Yeah. Say it again.”
David Michael tried to repeat his nasty remark but cou
ldn’t remember it.
“Serves you right,” I said. “What’d I ever do to you?”
David Michael looked puzzled. Then he smiled. “Nothing!” I shook my head.
Through all of this, Andrew did not say a word.
Mom and Watson came into the dining room then, Mom carrying a pot of tomato sauce, Watson following with the spaghetti. When everyone had been served, Watson poured wine for Mom and himself.
“Can I have some?” asked Charlie.
Watson looked at Mom. We all knew what the answer would be, but I liked the fact that Watson let Mom say it. For the time being, she was still our boss. The Thomas boss. And Watson knew it.
“When you reach the drinking age,” replied Mom pleasantly, “then you may drink.”
“But, Mom, a year from now I’ll be going to college. All the kids—” Charlie stopped. Mom isn’t too partial to any sentence that begins with “all the kids.”
Charlie gave up. He looked like he might sulk for a while, though.
“Well,” Mom said cheerily, “we’ve set the date.”
“What date?” I asked. I twirled a huge mound of spaghetti onto my fork, raised it, and watched the spaghetti slide off.
“The date of the wedding.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Sam. He sucked a mouthful of spaghetti in through pursed lips. Andrew watched with interest. Sam never looked up from his plate. “When’s the big day?” he asked.
“The third Saturday in September,” Mom answered proudly. She was about to make goo-goo eyes at Watson. I’ve gotten so I can tell when this is going to happen.
“What’s a wedding?” asked Andrew suddenly. He had not touched his pasketti.
Mom’s goo-goo eyes changed to surprised eyes. She looked from Andrew to Watson and back to Andrew.
“You know,” Karen told Andrew. “I showed you a whole wedding. Remember when I put on the long white dress and kissed Boo-Boo?” (Boo-Boo is the Brewers’ cat.)
Andrew nodded.
“We’ve talked about the wedding, Andrew,” Watson added. “And everyone here is going to be a part of it.”
It was my turn to act surprised. “We are? I mean, I am? I’m going to be in the wedding?”
“If you want to be,” said Mom. “I’d like you to be my bridesmaid.”
“Your bridesmaid?” I whispered. “Really? Like in a long, fancy dress with flowers in my hair?” I was awed.
“Since when do you like long, fancy dresses and flowers?” asked Sam.
“Since right now,” I replied. “Oh, Mom!”
“Is that a yes? You’ll be my bridesmaid?”
“It’s a YES-YES-YES!” I jumped up and ran around the table to hug my mother.
When I was sitting down again, she went on. “And Charlie, I’d be honored if you’d give me away.”
“Sure,” said Charlie eagerly. (He must have forgotten about the wine.)
“Sam,” Watson spoke up, “I’d like you to be my best man.”
“And David Michael to be the ring bearer,” said Mom.
“What about me?” cried Karen.
“How would you like to be the flower girl?” asked Watson. “You’d walk up the aisle in front of Elizabeth and me, carrying a basket of rose petals.”
“Oooh,” breathed Karen.
“And Andrew can escort you,” said Mom. “That means he’ll walk beside you.”
“What does that make him?” asked Sam. “The flower boy?”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Andrew. When we calmed down, he said softly, “I don’t want to be in the wedding. And I mean it.” (I wasn’t too surprised. Andrew is terribly shy.)
Watson and Mom looked at each other. “When he means it, he means it—usually,” said Watson.
He turned to Andrew. “Well, think it over. We’d like you to be in the wedding, but it’s up to you, okay?”
“Okay.”
I didn’t give another thought to Andrew all evening. The only thing I could think about was the wedding. I, Kristin Amanda Thomas, was going to be a bridesmaid.
I have usually found that, in life, good things are followed by bad things. One day you get an A-plus on a spelling test, the next time around you get a C (or worse). A run of good luck is followed by a run of bad luck. Good news is followed by bad news.
It was that way with the wedding.
On Saturday we had all that good wedding news. Mom and Watson had settled on the September date. They’d asked us kids to be part of the ceremony. Mom had even told me later that my wedding shoes could be my first pair of shoes with heels. I couldn’t believe it.
That was Saturday.
On Wednesday, just four days later, came the bad stuff. The whole wedding fell apart. In one glump.
My first clue that something was wrong was that Mom was at home when I got there after school. She’s almost never home before six o’clock. She has this important job with a big company in Stamford and she works very hard. My brothers and I are used to looking out for ourselves after school.
Needless to say, I was surprised to find Mom sitting at the table in our kitchen at three-thirty in the afternoon. She wasn’t doing anything—just sitting there.
“Mom?” I said as I set my bookbag on the counter. “Are you sick?”
“No, honey, I’m fine,” she replied.
“How come you’re home? Is David Michael sick?”
“No, no. Everyone’s fine. But, well, I just can’t believe what happened today.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “What?”
“For starters, the company wants to send me on a two-week business trip to Europe.”
“Europe!” I shrieked. “Europe? What’s wrong with that? London! Paris! Rome! Oh, Mom, can I come? Please? Are you going over the summer? I promise I’ll be good. I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t ask you to buy souvenirs or anything. Just food. Please?”
Mom gave me a wry smile. “I’d like nothing better than to take you to Europe, sweetie,” she said, “but unfortunately the trip is scheduled during the school year.”
It was June. There wasn’t much left to the school year. “You mean you’re going now?” I cried. “Who’ll stay with us?”
Mom shook her head. “I’m not going now. The trip is scheduled for September.” She let that sink in. “I’m supposed to be in Vienna on the day of the wedding.”
“Oops,” I said.
“Oops is right.”
“So have an October wedding,” I suggested. “Think of it—a fall wedding with the leaves turning. It would be really pretty.”
“I did think of it, actually,” said Mom. “I was sitting at my desk, mentally adding sleeves to our gowns and changing the flowers from roses to chrysanthemums, when the phone rang. Guess who it was.”
I’m not good at guessing games. “I’ll never guess, Mom. Who was it?”
“The real estate agent. And guess—wait, I won’t make you guess again. Believe it or not, she’s already got a buyer for our house.”
“Already! You just put the house on the market two days ago. You thought it would take months to sell it. That’s great news, Mom!”
“Sort of great. The buyer is desperate. He’s in a rush. He’s willing to pay what we asked for, which is more than we thought we’d actually get for the house. Here’s the catch: He’s in such a big hurry that he wants to move his family in by July fifteenth.”
“Mom, no! That’s next month. It’s impossible. Sell the house to someone else.”
“I don’t think anyone else will pay us this much money.”
“Well, what do we need money for? You’re marrying Watson.”
“Honey, Watson and I and Watson’s ex-wife and your father all have various ideas about how to spend our money. It’s quite complicated, but for the time being, let’s just say that I don’t want Watson to feel obliged to finance four extra college educations. The money from the house, half of which, first of all, is your father’s, goes toward college for you and your brothers. So the more we make, the
better.”
“Mom, I’m trying as hard as I can to follow all of this, but what exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Watson and I are going to have to get married at the end of the month so we can move into the Brewers’ house two weeks later.”
I was stunned. I stared at Mom with my mouth hanging open. David Michael came home, let Louie (our collie) in, sat down in Mom’s lap, and still I was openmouthed and speechless.
The phone rang. Mom answered it. It was a friend of hers. They had a long, chatty conversation, which ended with Mom saying, “So the upshot is that the wedding will be in two and a half weeks.”
“Two and a half weeks,” I moaned.
“What’s going on?” asked David Michael.
“It’s a long story,” I told him.
Mom hung up the phone. She seemed awfully calm—too calm.
The next thing I knew, she was going crazy. She leaped to her feet (David Michael jumped out of her lap just in time), held her hands to her head, and cried, “Oh, my lord! How can I plan a whole wedding in two and a half weeks? Two and a half weeks! Planning a wedding is like having a baby. You need time to prepare things! You have to talk to the florist, the minister, the dressmaker, the caterer. You have to tell the relatives. You have to rent chairs! I can just picture the caterer when I order crab crepes for three hundred. He’ll say, ‘And what month is the wedding? December?’
and I’ll say, ‘No, it’s this month,’ and he’ll laugh at me!”
“Mom—” I started to say.
David Michael tiptoed across the kitchen and held my hand. He stared at Mom, fascinated. Louie hid under the table.
“A tent! We have to rent a tent!” she cried.
“Rent-a-tent, rent-a-tent,” chanted David Michael, giggling.
“Mom—”
“We’ll hold the wedding in Watson’s yard. We’ll never be able to rent a hall somewhere for the reception. What if it rains?!”
“Mom—”
“Oh, lord—decorations!”
“Mom, why don’t you call Watson?” I managed to say.
“I better call Watson,” said Mom. (She hadn’t heard me.)
Good. I hoped he could calm her down.
Mom went into her bedroom and called Watson privately. When she returned, she looked saner. Sort of. But then she opened up a cabinet and began pulling pots and pans and things out of it. She seemed to be sorting them into piles.