Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
The postcard I held in my hand should have made me smile. At least a little.
It was pretty funny. And cute.
The card showed a chimp dressed in a frilly, flower-print bathing suit searching through a pile of maps. Above her was the sentence Without you, I’m lost.
Only for some reason it didn’t make me happy.
I remembered exactly when I’d mailed it to my boyfriend, Logan Bruno. It was when I’d worked as a mother’s helper in Sea City, New Jersey. Logan was stuck back here in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, working as a busboy at the Rosebud Café.
It was the longest we’d been apart since we first started going out together. I’d sent the card to let him know how much I missed him.
I put the card back in the box and picked up another one, a birthday card.
A photo fluttered out from it. It was a picture of me.
I remembered when my best friend, Kristy Thomas, took the shot. It was the day I’d cut my long brown hair into a chin-length style.
In the picture, my brown eyes looked worried. I had been nervous, hoping Logan would like the haircut.
He did, and he even asked for the picture so he’d have a photo of the new me.
This October afternoon I was sitting in a chair near my bedroom window, looking at that card and at all the other letters, cards, and postcards I’d ever sent to Logan. They were photocopies, actually. Logan had made them for me and given them to me in a shoe box, like the one in which he kept the originals.
I called it my bedroom, but somehow I just can’t think of the room as mine.
I try to make it feel like home, but it isn’t working. I miss my real house so much it hurts. Not just because it was a great old farmhouse (it had been built in 1795). But mostly because it was my house.
This house feels so not like home that it might as well be a motel.
The reason we’re here is that not long ago, our house burned to the ground in a horrible fire.
I still can’t believe it happened.
All my life I’ve heard of people losing everything in fires. I always thought, How terrible! But until it happened to me, I had no idea how truly awful the experience is.
I’m not even talking about the fire itself. I mean, that was certainly terrifying. When I think about what might have happened if my kitten, Tigger, hadn’t awakened me, I start to shake all over. I still have nightmares about it.
In the dreams I’m standing in my nightgown, outside in the darkness, watching the flames blaze as if they were eating my house.
They aren’t particularly imaginative nightmares. That’s what really happened.
But, terrible as the fire was, the emotions — sadness, anger, fear — that came after were far worse than the fire itself.
You might say, Who cares? Stuff can be replaced.
The only thing is, some stuff can’t be replaced. Things like pictures and journals. Scrapbooks. Old invitations. Saved letters. Sentimental things like that.
They matter a lot to me. Partly because, as my friends will tell you, I’m a very sentimental person. And, also, because “stuff” is all I have of my mother, who died when I was a baby.
It’s almost as if I’ve lost her completely now. In fact, it feels as though my past — all thirteen years of it — has suddenly disappeared.
As I sat looking through the box, Sharon knocked on the frame of the open door and stepped in.
Sharon is my stepmom. I’m not exactly sure if I think of Sharon as my mother. (That may be because I don’t really know what it feels like to have a mother.) But she’s definitely a great person.
She’d pushed her hair back with a velvet head-band, and it looked good. “The headband’s nice,” I said.
Sharon smiled and sat on the end of my bed, across from the chair I was sitting on. “Thanks. It’s not too stylish but I’m overdo for a haircut. I forgot to keep the appointment I made the other day. I won’t be able to get another one for weeks.”
Forgetting an appointment is so Sharon. She constantly forgets things, loses things. She misplaces everything she touches.
Sometimes it drives me nuts, because I’m like my father — very organized. I try not to let Sharon’s spaciness bother me, though, since she’s so terrific in other ways.
“What do you have there?” she asked, nodding toward the box on my lap.
“Everything I’ve ever written to Logan,” I told her.
She frowned, confused. “Why do you have them?”
“He loaned them to me so I could re-create my journal. It was his idea. Can you believe he’s kept everything I’ve ever sent him? Isn’t that sweet?” I gazed down at the box. “It looks like it’s all here.”
“That’s extremely sweet,” Sharon agreed. “Logan is so tenderhearted.”
“Definitely,” I said.
“I’m glad you found someone who’s so much like you.”
As I said, I am sentimental. And sensitive. I cry easily.
“Do you think I’m wimpy?” I asked. This question had been on my mind and I needed to talk to someone about it.
“No,” Sharon replied, looking surprised. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
I shrugged, not sure how to put it into words.
“Mary Anne, look what you’ve survived. You’ve grown up with just your father. I know he’s wonderful, but he was very strict. You’ve handled becoming part of a new family. And I’m so proud of how you’ve been dealing with things since the fire.”
It was nice to hear her say that, because in my mind I was not handling the fire well at all. At least I seemed all right to other people.
“What makes you think you’re wimpy?” Sharon asked again.
I gazed down at the shoe box on my lap. “I was just looking over all these cards and letters,” I said. “The more I read, the more it seemed to me that I never do anything without running it by Logan first. Isn’t that wimpy?”
“I don’t think so. We all bounce thoughts and ideas off of our friends and families. There’s nothing strange in that.”
“I was terrified that he wouldn’t like my hair when I cut it,” I pointed out.
“That was a big change.”
“Maybe.”
Sharon stood up and checked her watch. “Well, you are definitely not wimpy. Listen, I almost forgot, I came in to tell you it was five-twenty and it’s now five-twenty-five.”
“Five-twenty-five!” I cried. “Oh, my gosh!”
I jumped up and the shoe box slid from my lap. Sharon and I grabbed for it at the same time. She caught it first.
“You’d better hurry,” she said, handing the box back to me. “I know you don’t like to be late for your meetings.”
She’s right — I don’t.
My Baby-sitters Club meeting would begin in five minutes. I’m the secretary, so I need to be on time. Besides, Kristy, our president, hates when anyone is late.
The only good thing about our temporary house is that it’s right next door to Claudia Kishi’s house. That’s where the meetings are held. Even with just five minutes left, I could be on time.
Sharon left, and I set the box down. But as I headed for the door, I noticed a lett
er on the floor. I scooped it up.
I didn’t mean to read it, but the first line caught my eye. I recognized it right away. It was a letter I’d written to Logan when we got back together after the one and only time we’d broken up.
Somehow, I just had to give it a quick look.
Breaking up was the stupidest idea either one of us has ever had, I’d written. I can’t imagine being without you. You’re so important to me. I feel like I’m only half a person when I’m not with you.
Half a person?
Had I really written that?
Had I meant it?
I must have. And it must have felt wonderful and romantic to write it then. But do you know how it felt to read it now? It felt … wrong.
Half a person. I certainly didn’t feel like half a person without Logan now.
For some reason being part of a couple with Logan didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure why. And I wasn’t sure what that meant.
But I didn’t have time to think about it any longer. If I aimed for some new girls’ track record, I could still make the meeting on time. I tossed the letter back into the box and raced out the door.
“Whoa, Mary Anne, who’s chasing you?” Kristy asked as I burst breathlessly into Claudia’s bedroom. Kristy sat in her usual spot, Claudia’s director’s chair, her baseball cap pulled down low on her forehead.
I was panting too hard to talk. I think maybe I really had set a new speed record. “What do you mean?” I asked after I caught my breath. “Look at the clock. It’s five-thirty. I just made it.”
Kristy shrugged. I looked at her hard. This was crazy. Kristy is practically a maniac, a fanatic about being on time.
I gazed around the room. No one but Kristy was there. What was going on? “You don’t care if we’re on time anymore?”
“Nah. You can come whenever you want.”
I stared at her. Kristy is the shortest kid in the eighth grade. She has shoulder-length brown hair, and brown eyes. She usually wears a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. It’s her look. The person in front of me looked like Kristy, but she certainly didn’t sound like her.
Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Psych!” she hooted. “Got ya! You should have seen your face!”
“Very funny,” I said, smiling. “I thought I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.”
That sent her into another burst of laughter.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Claudia’s downstairs getting a snack for Stacey. And in half a minute Stacey’s about to be late.”
I slid onto Claudia’s bed. “That’s nice that Claudia’s thinking of Stacey,” I commented. “Are they friends again?”
Kristy shook her head as her smile faded. “I can’t believe they’re still fighting. And over a boy too. Of all the dumb things to fight over.”
“But Claudia’s fixing her a snack,” I pointed out. “That’s a good sign.”
“No, it’s not. Claudia told me that since it’s part of her club job to provide snacks, she’s simply doing her duty.”
“Oh,” I said glumly. Claudia and our other club member, Stacey McGill, have been best friends ever since Stacey moved to Stoneybrook. Recently, though, they’ve been fighting over a new guy in school named Jeremy Rudolph.
Since there are only four of us in the club now, it makes things pretty uncomfortable.
Stacey walked in then. She looked sophisticated and pulled together as always. Today she wore a fuzzy aqua sweater, which made her eyes appear even bluer than usual.
It was 5:32.
“Sorry,” Stacey said to Kristy. “Jeremy called just as I was walking out the door.”
This was not a smart thing to say. To be late for a meeting was bad enough in Kristy’s eyes. To be late because you were gabbing with a boy — double trouble.
But before Kristy could say anything to Stacey, Claudia entered with a tray of carrots and celery sticks. Stacey has to eat healthy snacks like that because she has a condition called diabetes. To keep it under control, she has to give herself injections of insulin every day and stick to a strictly scheduled, balanced diet.
“This is for you,” Claudia said, practically shoving the tray at Stacey.
“Thank you,” Stacey replied icily.
Kristy and I exchanged glances. How long could they keep this up?
Claudia tossed her dark hair behind her shoulders and walked to her bed. She reached under her pillow and pulled out a cellophane bag of potato chips.
None of us thought this was odd. Claudia is crazy about junk food, but her parents aren’t. She hides treats all over her room so her parents won’t find them. We’re used to seeing her retrieve them.
The phone rang and Claudia reached for it. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” she said. “Hi, Mrs. Rodowsky…. Next Saturday at five? Sure. I’ll call you right back.”
Bending forward, I reached under Claudia’s bed and pulled out the club record book. As secretary, I’m in charge of scheduling.
Mr. Rodowsky is a regular client. We sit for her three boys, Shea, Archie, and Jackie, a lot, so I didn’t need Claudia to give me any extra information.
But gazing down at the book, I frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Kristy asked.
“No one is free,” I informed her. “We’re all busy.” We keep everyone’s schedule listed in the record book so there’s never any mix-up assigning a job.
“That’s right,” Claudia said. “I have a Mural Club meeting that afternoon.” Claudia loves art. Although she’s not much of a student, she shines when it comes to anything artistic.
She even looks artistic. Today she was wearing white painter’s coveralls decorated with a wild daisy pattern she’d created herself. Claudia’s outfits look great on her, though I don’t think I could wear them. But with Claudia’s beautiful hair, her sparkling almond-shaped eyes (she’s Japanese-American), and her natural grace, it all works.
“You have Mural Club, Kristy is sitting for the Newtons, I’m sitting for the Hills,” I explained, “and Stacey is, um, busy.”
I knew what she was doing — going bowling with Jeremy. She’d asked me to put it in the record book last week. I didn’t want to say this in front of Claudia, though.
It didn’t matter. Claudia shot Stacey an angry look anyway.
“We’ll have to call Logan,” Kristy said.
Logan, in addition to being my boyfriend, used to be an associate member of the BSC. (BSC is what we call the Baby-sitters Club for short.) We used to call him if we had a sitting job no one could handle, like this one. Over the summer, he’d said he wanted to focus on other things, but I was hoping he’d make an exception.
“Logan,” I repeated, mixing his name with an unhappy sigh.
Everyone turned and stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“The way you just said Logan,” Stacey explained.
“It was the same way a person might say liver,” Kristy put in.
“Or homework,” added Claudia.
“So what’s the matter?” Kristy asked me.
I sighed again. “It’s just that …” My voice trailed off. It was so hard to put this into words. “Things don’t seem to be … the way they were.”
“In what way?” Stacey asked.
“I don’t know. I used to feel so happy when I knew Logan was coming over or that I’d see him in school. Now I just feel like — Is he here again?” I couldn’t believe I was saying these things. But they were true.
“Things went flat like that for Josh and me,” Claudia said.
“But you and Josh have stayed friends,” I replied. “I wonder if Logan and I could.”
“Hold on!” Kristy cried, leaning forward in her chair. “What do you mean ‘if Logan and I could’? Are you seriously thinking of breaking up with him?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I am.”
My friends stared at me as if they couldn’t believe what they’d heard.
“I always thought of you
and Logan as together forever,” said Claud.
“Me too,” I replied.
“You two have been through this before,” Kristy reminded me. “Remember when we all went to Hawaii and you and Logan tried that TBI thing?”
“Together But Independent,” I said. I remembered it very well. It was after Logan and I had broken up and gotten back together. We had been trying to prove to our friends (and maybe to ourselves) that we didn’t have to do everything together.
“It made you both miserable,” Claudia recalled.
“I know. But things have changed since then.”
“I think you’re just in some kind of weird mood because of your house,” said Kristy.
“You can’t exactly blame her for that,” Stacey said.
Kristy rolled her eyes. “I’m not blaming her. I’m only trying to say that Mary Anne might be feeling unhappy for other reasons. She’s blaming Logan, when maybe it’s not Logan who’s bothering her at all.” But Kristy and I both know this wasn’t true. We had talked a lot about Logan over the summer.
“Thank you, Sigmund Freud,” I teased.
“Well, Kristy might be right,” Claudia said as she dug into the bag of potato chips. “Are you sure Logan is really what’s bugging you?”
“Oh, who knows?” I muttered. “He and I are going out together tomorrow. I guess I’ll see how I feel then.” But I already knew how I felt. I’d known for a long time. I was just too chicken to do anything about it.
While Kristy phoned Logan to see if he could sit for the Rodowskys, I thought about my date with him — and realized I was not looking forward to it, even a little.
Logan was still Logan. It wasn’t as if he’d changed in any way. I didn’t think that was the problem.
We stood on the corner of Rosedale and Essex Roads in downtown Stoneybrook that Saturday evening. It was only six o’clock. We were still surrounded by dusky light.
I looked up at him. (Logan’s taller than I am — most people are — so I’m always looking up.) His face was in shadow. Then a streetlight suddenly snapped on and I saw his face more clearly.
Curly, brownish-blond hair. Same old eyes. He stood with the same easygoing posture as always. He smiled the same. He even sounded the same, with his Kentucky twang. (That was where he lived until his family moved here.)