Dawn and the Surfer Ghost

by Ann M. Martin

  “Simon says walk like a penguin,” said Dean, showing them how to waddle along in the sand. Suddenly, I heard a shriek that sounded serious. Ruby sat down in the sand, holding her left foot and wailing like a fire engine. I rushed to her side.

  “What happened?” I asked, reaching for her foot. I saw a ragged cut on it, and a small amount of blood. Fortunately, the cut wasn’t deep, but it looked like it must hurt a lot.

  “I stepped on something,” sobbed Ruby. “Something awful!”

  While Alyssa cleaned and bandaged the cut, Sunny and I combed the sand where she had been penguin-walking. We couldn’t find anything that might have cut Ruby’s foot.

  The next day, Ruby was back in high spirits. She said her foot hardly hurt at all, and that her mom had given her chocolate pudding as a special treat the night before. That day, everything went smoothly at the children’s program. But after our surfing lesson, when Sunny and I were packing up to leave the beach, we heard sirens. We ran to the parking area to see what had happened, and found a small fire engine and an ambulance pulled up by the concession stand.

  “What happened?” Sunny asked one of the workers.

  “Freak accident,” said the boy. “The grill flared up all of a sudden and burned Brenda’s eyebrows right off! Luckily, she wasn’t hurt aside from that. The ambulance guys just checked her out, and she’s fine.”

  We saw the firemen examining the grill and shaking their heads as if they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. And, as far as we heard in the days after the accident, they never could explain the flare-up.

  A couple of days later, a man returned to the parking lot to get his car and found that all four tires had gone flat, for no apparent reason. Another man said he had been dive-bombed by an angry seagull. And a woman was stung by a jellyfish while she was walking in the shallow water at the edge of the beach.

  Sunny and I tried to make light of each incident, but even though nobody had been seriously hurt, we were scared. Why were all these things happening at once? I mean, I knew that these accidents could happen at any beach, but all in the space of a week? It was seriously weird. We took extra care when we watched the kids at the beach program, making sure none of them went unsupervised for even a few minutes. And Sunny and I stuck together like glue. “I’ll watch out for you if you’ll watch out for me,” she joked.

  I felt most nervous while I was surfing. I still loved it, and I looked forward to my lessons. But accidents were happening to surfers, too. In fact, there had been at least one accident every day for a while. As I’ve said, surfing can be a dangerous sport, and there is always the potential for trouble when you’re out in the water. Waves are not entirely predictable, and even the best surfers can make bad judgments.

  But bad judgment didn’t seem to be the problem. Bad luck did — and lots of good surfers were having it. Paul was hurt when he fell off his board and it was carried toward him by a wave. It hit him on the shoulder, and since then his arm has been in a sling.

  Wanda wiped out and was underwater for so long she almost drowned. And somebody else banged into the old pilings where the pier used to be. Rosemary was caught in the riptide (that’s a strong current that moves away from shore) and the lifeguards had to go after her in their rubber boat.

  T.J. wiped out when his board didn’t respond the way it should have during a turn he was trying to make. Then the same thing happened to somebody else. And that’s when the rumors started.

  “No way were the waves that gnarly,” said Carter one day when Sunny and I were making our usual rounds, talking to the surfers. “I mean, those dudes can handle massive screamers, and those rollers weren’t anywhere near overhead.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Sunny.

  “I’m saying that somebody messed with their boards. Just like somebody messed with Paul’s leash.”

  “What?” I said. I hadn’t heard anything about Paul’s leash. (A leash is a cord that connects at one end to a surfboard and at the other to a band around the surfer’s ankle. It keeps the board from getting lost, and sometimes helps to guard against the board hitting the surfer if he falls off.)

  “Truth, man,” said Carter. “Everybody’s talking about it. They’re saying that some wack wants to win that competition real bad. So bad he doesn’t care if another dude gets hurt. So bad he might mess with a board. Some of the dudes are getting pretty nervous about it. I heard Spanky dropped out of the competition.”

  “He did?” I asked. I was surprised. Spanky is a great surfer, and everybody thought he’d do well in the competition.

  “Sure,” replied Carter. “I mean, Thrash is history, right? Spanky isn’t interested in getting killed, too. So he’s going down to Mexico for a while, to surf where he won’t get hurt.”

  The rumors kept flying, and the accidents kept happening. But Sunny and I continued to surf. You might think we were crazy, but we weren’t ready to give up our new sport. Besides, the good, experienced surfers were getting hurt, not the grommets like us. We were no threat in the competition. Therefore, nobody was going to try to get rid of us. Right? Well, the theory made sense to us. Anyway, Buck said we were really coming along, and that if we stopped practicing now we would never improve.

  Then, one afternoon (it was the day after I wrote that letter to Shannon, as a matter of fact), something terrible happened. Sunny and I had just finished our lesson, and we were standing on the beach with our surfboards. “I’m exhausted,” I said. “Ready to start packing up?”

  “In a few minutes,” said Sunny. “I want to go out one more time. Look at those waves! They’re perfect.” She had a point. It had been a great afternoon, and the waves were still rolling in regularly, looking green and glassy. They were just the right height, too. Five or six people were paddling out on their boards, getting ready to ride back in.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. For a second, I thought about going back in with Sunny. But then I felt a wave of tiredness roll over me, and I knew I shouldn’t. Buck says it’s dangerous to surf when you’re not feeling your strongest. “You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll watch and give you a report on your form.”

  Sunny grinned. “You better give me high marks,” she said. She tossed her hair back, grabbed her board, and ran into the water. She put the board down, lay on top of it, and started to paddle out. When she reached the spot where the other surfers were waiting, she turned and watched the rollers coming in. In turn, each of the surfers caught one. It’s bad surfing manners to take somebody else’s wave, so Sunny waited patiently until everybody else was already riding in. Then she got ready for the next wave. When it came, she turned her board toward shore, and as the wave rushed along, she climbed onto it and began to ride.

  “Looking good!” I called, even though I knew there was no way she could hear me over the booming surf. Sunny stood with her arms out, balancing carefully. Even from a distance, I could tell she wore a big smile on her face.

  And then, Sunny disappeared. “Oh, my lord!” I cried, as soon as I saw that she was down. I ran to the edge of the water and scanned the waves, waiting for her head to pop up. It seemed like hours until I saw first her board, and then her head and shoulders, riding in toward shore on a gentle wave. I ran to meet her and helped her out of the water and onto the sand. She was gasping for breath and coughing.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know,” she said, still coughing. “I think the nose went under.”

  I knew just what she was talking about. Once the nose goes under the water, there’s almost no way to keep from falling off your board.

  “My elbow is killing me,” said Sunny. “And my shoulder, too. I really got tossed around.”

  By that time a crowd had gathered, and one of the lifeguards was checking Sunny for broken bones. “Looks like you’ll survive,” he said, “but you better head to the hospital and get a real exam.”

  Sunny spent that night at the hospital. She was bruised badly, an
d the doctors wanted to keep her for observation. Her mother called me the next morning and told me she’d asked Sunny to quit surfing, at least for a few weeks. “But that means she can’t be in the competition,” I said.

  “That’s right,” replied her mother. “And she’s very disappointed about it. But she asked me to tell you not to give up. And she said not to give up on ‘the other thing,’ either. Whatever that means.”

  I didn’t tell Mrs. Winslow, but I knew exactly what Sunny meant. “The other thing” was our mystery, of course. Now it was more important than ever to get to the bottom of it.

  That was only part of a long letter that Stacey sent me, explaining the Marilyn-and-Carolyn situation in detail. Basically, the twins had been stuck together like glue, and it had been driving everybody in the BSC crazy. Especially Stacey, who had been sitting for them more than anybody else.

  During the week before she wrote to me, she sat for them three times. On Sunday, she was at their house in the afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold had gone to the christening of a friend’s baby, leaving the twins with strict instructions about their chores. They were both to clean their rooms, Marilyn was supposed to load the dishwasher, and Carolyn was supposed to dust the furniture in the living room.

  Stacey was glad to see that Carolyn was feeling a lot better. Her ankle had healed, and she didn’t have to wear the ace bandage anymore. Her crutches were propped by the front door, waiting for Mr. Arnold to return them to the hospital the next day. Stacey was relieved. She figured the twins would be back to normal, and that Marilyn would feel all right about letting Carolyn out of her sight. But Stacey was wrong. Marilyn was still taking her promise very seriously. The twins were inseparable.

  Stacey had hoped that she and the twins could have some fun once the girls finished their chores, but their chores filled up the whole afternoon. Why? Because neither of them could or would do anything alone. Marilyn had to watch while Carolyn vacuumed her room. Marilyn made sure Carolyn was close by while she cleaned her room. (Which wasn’t too messy, since Marilyn was still sleeping in her sister’s room.) After that, they both headed for the kitchen, where Carolyn hovered around while Marilyn loaded the dishwasher. Then they went to the living room, and Marilyn watched Carolyn dust. Stacey was exasperated, to say the least.

  On Tuesday, Stacey met the twins after school and spent the afternoon with them. They were both doing gymnastics in the basement again, now that Carolyn was well. But they were being very careful. Very, very careful. Marilyn watched every single step that Carolyn took, even when she wasn’t doing anything dangerous. And Carolyn was equally zealous about watching Marilyn. “It was like ultra-ultra spotting,” Stacey wrote me. “I mean, Carolyn couldn’t take a breath without Marilyn trying to help her. Ridiculous!”

  On Thursday, Stacey saw the same pattern. The twins were never out of each other’s sight. They were driving Stacey crazy, and she knew she had to do something about it. But what? She thought about it all night Thursday and all day Friday, but she couldn’t come up with a solution. She had another job booked at the Arnolds’ on Saturday afternoon, and she was dying to figure something out before then. Finally, at Friday’s BSC meeting, she told the others what was happening.

  “It can’t be healthy for them to be together all the time like that,” said Mary Anne. “I mean, especially since they’re twins. They need their separate identities.”

  “I know,” replied Stacey. “That’s exactly the problem. And I have a feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Arnold think so, too. They seem a little impatient with the twins.”

  “They’d probably be grateful if we could help,” mused Kristy.

  My friends thought about the problem for a while, but nobody came up with any suggestions. And then the phone began to ring, and they were busy setting up jobs.

  By the time the phone stopped ringing, it was almost six o’clock. “Phew!” said Shannon, hanging up after the last call. “We’re booked solid for the next week.”

  Mary Anne looked at the record book. “No kidding,” she said. “If anybody else calls, we’re going to have a problem. I mean, every single one of us has a job tomorrow afternoon!”

  Stacey had been deep in thought while the others were booking jobs. But Mary Anne’s comment seemed to wake her up. “That’s it!” she cried. She grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from Claudia’s desk. “Okay, who’s sitting where tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I’ll be at the Pikes’,” said Kristy. “Mal and I will be sitting together. We’re going to do quiet, indoor activities.” That was the deal the Pikes had made with Mal. While she was recovering from mono, she could sit for her own brothers and sisters with another club member, as long as she stayed inside.

  “Great,” said Stacey, scribbling notes.

  “I have a job at the Papadakises’,” said Shannon.

  Claudia was taking Charlotte Johanssen to the art museum, and Mary Anne would be bringing Logan’s brother and sister to watch one of his basketball games.

  “I’ll be at the Braddocks’,” added Jessi. “But why are you asking?”

  “I have a plan!” said Stacey, her eyes gleaming. “Ready for this?” She leaned forward and told them her idea.

  The next day, Stacey headed for the Arnolds’, feeling much more optimistic. She was almost positive that her plan would work.

  Mrs. Arnold answered the door when Stacey knocked. “Oh, I’m glad to see you!” she said. “Am I ever ready for a break from the twins.” She laughed and shook her head. “I know it’s just a phase, but I sure hope they’ll get over it soon.”

  “I know what you mean,” replied Stacey.

  “The girls are downstairs,” said Mrs. Arnold. “They’re working on a new gymnastics routine in which they can perform at the same time. They call it ‘twin-nastics.’ ”

  Stacey laughed. “Great name,” she said. “Maybe it’ll be an Olympic event someday.”

  “Hi, you guys!” she said, as she ran down the stairs.

  “Hi, Stacey!” said Marilyn.

  “Want to see our new routine?” asked Carolyn.

  “Sure,” said Stacey. She sat on the bottom step and watched as they performed. As she explained in her letter, they had worked out their routine very neatly. One twin would be on the balance beam, for example, and the other would be spotting her but also performing similar moves, on the floor. “Looks great, girls,” said Stacey. “What does your gymnastics teacher think of this?”

  “She hasn’t seen it yet,” said Carolyn.

  “We just started to work on it,” explained Marilyn. “But I’m — we’re — sure she’ll like it.”

  Stacey nodded. The girls returned to their practicing, and Stacey played audience. Once in awhile she sneaked a glance at her watch. At precisely two o’clock, the phone rang. “All right!” Stacey said under her breath. She ran upstairs to answer it. It was Kristy, as she had known it would be. The plan was in motion.

  “Hi, Stacey,” said Kristy. “I’m at the Pikes’, and I brought over the new Flying Horses tape. Margo wants to know if Marilyn would like to hear it, too.”

  Good. Kristy was sticking to the script. “Hold on,” said Stacey. “I’ll get Marilyn.” She called down the stairs, and both girls came running up.

  Marilyn got on the phone. “Hello?” she said. Kristy had put Margo on the other end, and Margo repeated her invitation. Marilyn listened, and broke into a smile. “I’d love to hear it,” she said. Then she caught herself. “I mean — if Carolyn can come, too. She listened again, and frowned. Then she looked up at Stacey. “Margo is only allowed to invite one person over today,” she said.

  “So. You can go by yourself.”

  Marilyn shook her head. “No, I can’t,” she said reluctantly. “Sorry, Margo, but I guess I can’t come.” She hung up and shrugged. “Oh, well,” she said. She and Carolyn headed back to the basement.

  Stacey followed them, checking her watch again. At exactly two-fifteen, the phone rang again. This time, it was Jessi, callin
g from the Braddocks’. Haley wanted Carolyn to come play with her new video game. When Carolyn got on the phone, a grin spread across her face. “Princess Power?” she squealed. “I’ve been dying to play that!” She paused. “Can Marilyn come, too?”

  Haley said the game was meant for only two players. Carolyn looked hopefully at Marilyn, but Marilyn shook her head, and Carolyn had to say no to Haley.

  The girls, downcast, trudged back to the basement. Stacey stood in the kitchen, timing them. Exactly seven minutes later, Marilyn and Carolyn pounded back up the stairs.

  “We changed our minds!” exclaimed Carolyn.

  “We decided it was okay to be apart — for a couple of hours, anyway,” said Marilyn.

  Carolyn called Haley, and Marilyn called Margo, and soon they were ready to go. The girls decided they would all walk to the Pikes’ first, and then Stacey and Carolyn would continue to the Braddocks’. Stacey wrote Mrs. Arnold a note, explaining where they had gone, and then they were off.

  Stacey smiled to herself as she and the twins headed down the sidewalk. “I knew it was only a little step,” she wrote to me that night, “but it was a step. That’s good enough for me.”

  I wrote that letter to Mary Anne one night after a long — and exciting — afternoon at the beach. I was there for the kids’ program, but I wasn’t working with Sunny or Alyssa. I had a special assignment: a one-on-one sitting job with Stephie Robertson. See, the beach program was involved in rehearsing for this play to be put on for the parents. It was a special production of Alice in Wonderland, which Alyssa and Sondra had adapted so that it took place on a beach. It was called Alice at the Beach, and the kids were having a great time with it. But Stephie is incredibly shy. She didn’t want to be in the play, and Alyssa didn’t want to force her. Instead, Alyssa had arranged for Stephie to be my responsibility during rehearsal times.

  We had been enjoying our time together, Stephie and I. She’s a great kid. In fact, she reminds me more than a little bit of Mary Anne, and it’s not just because they’re both so shy. It’s also because, like Mary Anne, Stephie is an only child. And she’s growing up without a mother, just the way Mary Anne did. Stephie’s mom died when Stephie was just a baby. Her dad has raised her, and I know he tries hard, just as Mary Anne’s dad always did, but it’s not always easy for a man to raise a daughter by himself. He has help — a nannie lives with them — but I can tell that Stephie misses having a mom. She doesn’t talk about it, but I can just tell anyway, maybe because I’m so close to Mary Anne.