Baby-Sitters at Shadow Lake

by Ann M. Martin

  Andrew frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  I tried to explain “starving artists” to him while he and Emily and I walked along the shore of Shadow Lake in the direction of the dock. I guess I wasn’t doing a good job (or maybe I was just being boring) because Andrew interrupted me in the middle of “… so artists do not usually work for companies. They are freelancers. That means —”

  “Hey, Claudia, look!” Andrew cried.

  “Yook!” Emily added.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Over there! A turtle is on that rock. He’s just sitting there.”

  “I think he likes the sunshine,” I said.

  “Is he getting a tan?”

  “Well, probably not. He’s snoozing.”

  The turtle made me think of other animals I had seen at the lake, which made me think of Noah’s Ark which made me think of boats, which made me think of the boat show. Noah’s Ark would be a good theme for decorating a boat. In fact, it might be a good theme for Faith Pierson — or not. Not, I decided. Where was I going to get thousands of pairs of animals? Okay, if Noah’s Ark wouldn’t work, what could work? As Andrew and Emily and I sauntered along, I thought about other “costumes” for Faith Pierson. How else could I dress her up?

  “Claudia?” said Andrew. “You are frowning. What are you thinking about?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to frown. Sorry, Andrew. I was thinking about the boat show, the one on Saturday. Kristy explained it to you, remember? The boats will be in a parade on the lake.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And I am going to put Faith Pierson in the show.”

  “Our boat? You are?”

  “Yup. Kristy is going to drive her. But first I have to figure out how to decorate her. I have to do something extra good.”

  “Decorate her for Christmas!” exclaimed Andrew.

  “Well, I —”

  “No, for Thanksgiving. Wait — make Faith Pierson look like a turkey!”

  “Andrew!” I giggled.

  “Or you could decorate her like a pirate,” Andrew went on. “That’s what I want to be for Halloween.”

  A pirate. Hmm. Maybe a pirate ship? That would be fun, but hard to do. I’d need an awful lot of people to play pirates, and the boat does not hold many people.

  “Keep thinking,” I told Andrew.

  “Okay,” he answered. And he did think. By the time we reached the boat dock he had suggested decorating Faith Pierson as a crayon, a hobo, Gumby, and a Hershey bar.

  I liked that last idea, but knew it would not work, and neither would the others. Meanwhile, I didn’t come up with any good ideas of my own. A lot of other people had good ideas, though. How did I know? Because about half of the boats at the dock were being decorated for the show. Really decorated.

  “Wow!” cried Andrew. “That boat is going to be New York City, I think.” (He was pointing.) “And that one looks like a western movie. I see a cactus and a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and one of those rope things.”

  “A lasso,” I murmured, not really paying attention. I knew I should start working on Faith Pierson right away. Maybe I would get an idea if I sketched for awhile. That sometimes helps.

  I sat on a wooden bench and pulled my paper out of the tote bag. “Emily? Andrew?” I said. “I’m going to draw.”

  “Good,” replied Andrew. “Then so are we.”

  Excellent. I had just realized I couldn’t let them go wandering around by themselves. They weren’t wearing life preservers.

  The three of us sat in a row. Idly, I sketched whatever I saw while Andrew drew a red sailboat floating on a blue sea, and Emily drew a design of scribbles using every single marker in the box.

  “Lovely,” I said to her. “Can you tell me about your picture?” (That’s a safe question when you don’t know what a kid’s picture is of, and you don’t want to hurt any feelings.)

  “Teddy bear,” said Emily clearly. (Good imagination.)

  The three of us returned to our drawings. Emily finished her scribbles and painstakingly wrote the letter E in the lower left corner of the paper. I am teaching her to write her name. (The E is a good beginning.) Sometimes I tutor Emily Michelle to help her catch up with other kids her age. I might seem like a funny choice for a tutor since I can barely spell, but the thing is, I was the one who taught Emily how to match, to name colors, and of course to write that E. Emily is proud of her accomplishments. And I’m proud to be able to help her with her accomplishments. Now if I could just get a good idea for the boat show.

  I glanced up from my sketches in time to see Emily hand her drawing to Andrew. “You,” she said.

  “For me?” Andrew replied.

  Emily nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No, I say thank you,” Andrew told her.

  “I say thank you,” Emily repeated obediently.

  “No!” Andrew looked frustrated. Then he said pointedly, “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” said Emily. She smiled.

  “You say you’re welcome.”

  “You say you’re welcome.”

  “No, I say thank you.”

  “I say thank you.”

  “Claudia!” complained Andrew.

  “Let’s move on to a different subject,” I suggested.

  “Okay. I know. The boat show. Maybe you could decorate Faith Pierson like, um, like —” (Andrew looked across the lake) “— like the lake.”

  “Well … we’re already at the lake,” I pointed out. “These other boat themes don’t have anything to do with the lake. Hmm. Maybe I could just put flowers all over the boat. I could call it the Flower Garden.”

  “Maybe,” said Andrew.

  “Or maybe a beach theme. I could make a palm tree, and Kristy and I could wear jams and our new extra-dark shades.”

  “Do something more fun,” said Andrew. (That’s one reason I like kids. They’re so honest.) “Do something big. I like that New York boat. And the cowboy boat. You do a cowboy boat.”

  “I don’t want to copy,” I replied. “Besides, I don’t think I can decorate Faith Pierson with a theme like New York or the Wild West. Faith Pierson is too small.”

  Emily capped the marker she’d been using to scribble her second picture. She tossed it back into its box. Then she jumped to her feet. “Go?” she said. “Go?”

  “Do you want to look at the boats again?” I asked her.

  Emily shook her head. “Home.”

  “Emily. Stoneybrook is miles away,” said Andrew witheringly.

  “I think she just wants to go back to our cabin,” I told him. “Are you ready to go, too?”

  “Okay,” replied Andrew.

  So we packed up our gear and walked along the dock. This is another thing about kids (little ones, that is). Their attention spans are not very long.

  On our way to the cabin we ran into Stacey and Dawn. They were wearing their bathing suits and walking in the direction of the dock, towels rolled up under their arms. Stacey was frowning furiously.

  “Hey, you guys,” I greeted them. “Where are you going?”

  “Away from Sam,” Stacey snapped. “As far as possible.”

  “Sam is bugging her,” added Dawn. “He will not leave her alone. Poor thing, she can’t even swim by our own dock.”

  “Oh. Well, wherever you’re going, see if you can think of a theme for the boat show.”

  “Okay. And you keep your eyes peeled for the Lake Monster,” replied Dawn.

  Lunacy! I was living with lunacy!

  Friday was a typical day for Charlie and me. I mean, a typical day at Shadow Lake, which is not typical of too much else. We slept as late as possible, for starters. At home, alone in my room, I could have slept until nine-thirty easily. But here in the boys’ dorm, I woke up just a little after seven.

  Someone was singing.

  And someone was singing a really stupid song. It went like this: “Woop, woop, woop. Gummity, gummity, woop, woop. Woop-de-doop-de-doop-de-doop. Gummity, gummity, woop.”r />
  For a moment, I thought Karen had somehow wound up in the wrong bedroom. That song was just the kind that little sister of mine would invent. And then sing until she drove everybody up the wall. Maybe she’d gotten up to use the bathroom during the night and had found her way into the boys’ … No. Not very likely.

  I heaved myself onto one elbow and peered around from my place on a top bunk. All I could see was us boys. The singer was Andrew.

  Oh, no! It was a hereditary problem. Andrew was going to wind up just like Karen. I wasn’t sure I could take two of them.

  “Andrew!” I hissed. “Shh! It’s not even seven-thirty. This is vacation. People are trying to sleep.”

  “Not me.”

  “Not I,” I corrected him. “But you aren’t the only one here.”

  “Too late,” mumbled Charlie from the next bunk over.

  “Much too late,” added David Michael.

  Since we were awake, we decided to get up and get going. Charlie and I waited until the little kids had used the bathroom. Then we went in together. While I brushed my teeth, Charlie shaved.

  I don’t need to shave yet, but the day is coming. I can feel it. And I’ll be prepared when it arrives. I’ve been paying close attention to shaving-cream commercials. I think they’re fascinating, which should tell you something. I mean, ordinarily, who could care less about any commercial? But when I turned fifteen, car commercials suddenly became mesmerizing, and then bam! Three weeks later, so did shaving-cream commercials. Also commercials for razors. I have been doing some research on shaving stuff — like, what does the best job and is the least expensive? What smells the best? What do most of the senior boys at SHS wear? Does anyone my age use aftershave?

  Now I’ve bought a razor and some cream, and instead of after-shave, a miniscule bottle of men’s cologne. I’m just waiting for whiskers.

  Charlie’s got whiskers. (Sort of.) He’s been shaving for a few months now. I watch him as often as possible so as to be able to use his shaving style from the start.

  “Want to go parasailing today?” I asked Charlie, as I screwed the top back on the toothpaste and hung my brush in the holder.

  “Hmm.” Charlie considered the suggestion. “How about waterskiing? We only tried that once so far.”

  “Okay. Great.” Charlie and I have lived in or on the lake pretty much since we arrived here last weekend.

  Charlie patted his face dry. Then he left the bathroom. I followed him to the door, checked to make sure no one was around, then closed the door. I crept to the sink and examined my face in the mirror. Not one whisker yet. Not one. How long am I going to have to wait? I wondered.

  Oh, well. Even if I didn’t need to shave, there was nothing wrong with smelling like I needed to shave. Carefully, I applied a little of that cologne to my face. Then I sniffed my hands. Ah. Manly.

  Maybe now Stacey would pay attention to me.

  Breakfast that morning was as noisy as ever. And we were even eating outside on the porch where the trees could absorb some of the sound. Think how noisy we would have sounded if we’d been indoors. Mostly, we were talking about our plans for the day.

  “The Three Musketeers are going to play in our wonderful playhouse,” said Karen. “And tend the garden,” she added, sounding as if she were repeating something she’d read in a book.

  “Well, us boys are going to work on our fort,” said David Michael, “which is going to be a much funner place to play.”

  “I have to think of what to do with Faith Pierson today,” spoke up Claudia.

  “Who’s Faith Pierson?” asked Charlie.

  “Our boat, dummy,” answered Kristy.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Charlie and I had been so wrapped up in our water sports that we had barely paid attention to anything else. Now Charlie said to Kristy and her friends, “You mean you guys are entering that little thing —” (he meant Faith Pierson) “— in the parade with all those yachts and houseboats?”

  “Yes,” Claudia answered defensively. “So what?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Charlie.

  I glanced discreetly across the table at Stacey to see what her reaction to the discussion was. When I couldn’t tell, I snapped my spoon back and fired a wet Cheerio at her. It landed on her toast.

  “Gross, Sam!” she cried. “Would you cut that out? What a pest!”

  I am not sure I’m a pest, but I do admit I make pretty good goof calls. My favorite one is to keep calling somebody’s number and saying, “Hi, is Joe there?” (You can use any name.) Then, when whoever has been answering your calls is good and annoyed, you phone one last time and say, “Hi, this is Joe. Have there been any calls for me?” Another one I like, and this is really simple (and not actually a goof call, which should sit well with parents), is just to answer the phone by saying, “Thomas summer home. Some are home, some are not.”

  Okay, so maybe I do have a reputation as a … well, I’m not sure as a what. But why can’t Stacey treat me like something more than a pesky fly? I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d gotten dressed in Mallory’s bug outfit and chased me with a flyswatter.

  Did I remember to mention that I like Stacey? I don’t mean I just like her, the way I like most people. I mean I like like her. Even if I am in high school and she’s still in middle school. I can’t help it. What’s not to like like about Stacey? First of all, she seems older than she is. Hard to believe she and Kristy are the same age. Second, Stacey is gorgeous, but that isn’t why I like her. I know plenty of gorgeous girls I don’t like like — because of what’s inside. Stacey’s beautiful smile and great hair are just icing on the cake. (Her clothes are decorations on the icing, I guess.) No, there’s something about Stacey’s spirit or whatever. It appeals to me, even when she’s calling me a pest or rolling her eyes or actually running away from me, like she did yesterday. When that happened, by the way, I decided that if I accomplished only one thing on this vacation, it would be to let Stacey know how I feel about her. I’d been trying, but I guess I hadn’t gotten the point across to her.

  I said so to Charlie later that morning after we’d been waterskiing.

  “Sam,” said Charlie, “I’ve been watching you this week. I know what’s going on. Have you actually told Stacey how you feel about her? Or have you just whistled at her and shot Cheerios onto her toast?”

  “Well … mostly it’s been, you know, the Cheerios and stuff.”

  “Then talk to her.”

  “Okay.” I paused. “You mean talking to her is the next step? I was going to try accidentally running into her and knocking her down. If that didn’t work, I was going to sort of push her into the lake and then dive in and save her.”

  “Believe me, she wouldn’t appreciate either one. Besides, she can swim. If you toss her in the lake, you’ll just ruin her watch or something, and then she’ll be mad at you. Again.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day swimming, tanning, and eating. I did not find a single opportunity to talk to Stacey alone (which shouldn’t surprise you). When dinner was over and everyone had returned from the lodge and was beginning to flake out, I decided to take a walk. I thought maybe I should prepare a speech for whenever I did get to talk to Stacey.

  So I crossed the path to the dock — and there she was. Her back was facing me. She was sitting at the end of the dock, swinging her feet in the water and watching the clouds turn from pink to gold to gray as the sun set.

  “Stacey?” I said.

  She didn’t even turn around. She just buried her face in her hands and moaned, “Oh, no.” But after a few moments she did look at me. “What? You’re not going to whistle at me? Or tell me I look impeccable or something?”

  “Nope.” I walked along the dock until I was standing behind Stacey.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she said. “Go ahead. Push me in.”

  “And I wasn’t going to push you in the water, either.”

  “Oka
y. I know. You’re making a sort of person-to-person goof call.”

  “No! Look, I understand why you’d expect something like that, but … Stacey, do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  She sighed. “No. Not if that’s all you’re going to do.”

  “I just want to talk to you,” I told her as I sat down. I swung my feet in the water, too. “The sky’s really pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. You know something? Whenever I see a gorgeous sunset like this, I wonder how I could ever have felt I never wanted to leave New York. But when I’m in the city, in the middle of the action and excitement, I wonder how I could ever have moved to Connecticut.”

  I smiled. “I know what you mean. At least, I think I do.”

  “So what did you want to talk about?” Stacey still looked suspicious.

  “Well, actually I wanted to talk about us.” (Stacey raised her eyebrows.) “I guess I might as well just say it. I like you, Stacey.” Before she could plunge in and say, “I like you, too, Sam,” I went on, “I mean, I don’t just like you. I like like you.” I glanced at her.

  At first I couldn’t see any reaction. She continued to gaze across the water. Then after a few moments, she turned to me slowly. “You have a funny way of showing it. You tease me, you embarrass me —”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I broke in.

  “Sam, you know what? You play so many jokes on people that I don’t know whether to believe you even now. For all I know, this is just another big joke. David Michael’s probably hiding somewhere nearby recording our conversation on a tape player.”

  “He is not!” I exclaimed, sounding more like someone Andrew’s age than a high school student.

  “You know, I liked you once,” said Stacey. “I did. I’m not sure if you remember the time. It was more than a year ago, when I was in seventh grade and I’d just moved here from New York. I had a crush on you, Sam. And I don’t care who knows,” she added, glancing around. (For spies and hidden tape recorders, I guess.)

  “Really? How do you feel about me now?”

  Stacey frowned. “Confused,” she said finally.

  “Oh.” Me, too. We must have been on different timetables.