Claudia and the Lighthouse Ghost

by Ann M. Martin

  Don’t worry. Wealth hasn’t changed Kristy. It’s just given her more people to boss around. Watson’s two children from his first marriage, seven-year-old Karen and four-year-old Andrew, live in the mansion during alternate months. Watson and Kristy’s mom have a child of their own now, too — they adopted Emily Michelle, a two-year-old who was born in Vietnam. Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, moved in to help take care of her. The Brewer/Thomases also have lots of pets, so it’s a pretty full house.

  “The problem is,” Kristy was saying, “where’s the best place to see the comet?”

  Rrrring!

  A phone call cut off our astrowhatever discussion. Abby snatched up the receiver. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club? Veehoff vhat you need … No, Mrs. Hobart, it’s just me, Abby. No, I’m not having allergies, just temporary insanity. Sorry … okay, thanks, I’ll call you back.” She hung up the phone and announced: “The Hobarts, this Tuesday!”

  “Who winds you up in the morning?” Kristy grumbled.

  Mary Anne ran her finger along the BSC calendar. “You’re available, Abby.”

  “I vood be honored,” Abby replied. “I vill call her back!”

  Vell, that’s how the BSC operates. We run all job requests past Mary Anne, our secretary and keeper of the official BSC record book. She’s responsible for knowing exactly who is free to sit. Sounds simple, right? No way. She has to mark a calendar with all our conflicts: dentist appointments, after-school activities, family commitments, rehearsals, practices, lessons, the works. Then, when requests come in, she tries to assign jobs evenly among us. In the back of the record book she maintains a client list with addresses, phone numbers, hourly rates, and house rules, along with their kids’ special likes and dislikes, allergies, bedtimes, and so on.

  I could never do her job. Just thinking about it gives me heart palpitations. To Mary Anne, though, it’s no sweat. At a beach she could organize grains of sand by size.

  She gets that ability from her dad. (We call him Richard, which is kind of a joke, since he’s so formal.) According to Mary Anne, he lines up his socks, new to old, so they’ll wear out evenly. When we were kids, I thought he was kind of mean. Boy, was he strict with Mary Anne. If you ask me, the problem was that he didn’t have a wife to tell him to chill. (Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was a baby.)

  Anyway, Richard’s a lot looser these days. Especially now that he’s married again — to his old high school sweetheart, Sharon Porter Schafer, who happens to be the mom of another BSC member. Okay, okay, I’ll backtrack. First, a girl named Dawn Schafer moved to Stoneybrook from California after her parents divorced. Dawn ended up joining the BSC and becoming good friends with Mary Anne. Together they discovered the secret history of Dawn’s mom and Richard. So they played matchmaker and — tssss! — the old feelings were still hot. Wedding bells rang, and Mary Anne and her dad moved into the Schafers’ rambling old farmhouse.

  Happy ending? Not entirely. Dawn’s younger brother hated Stoneybrook and moved back to California, and then Dawn became homesick and moved back, too (which is why she’s now our honorary member).

  Mary Anne was pretty broken up about Dawn’s move. Mary Anne can be very sensitive, and shy, and sweet, and caring. She cries a lot. You might not expect someone so quiet to have a steady boyfriend, but she does. (His name is Logan Bruno.) You also wouldn’t expect her to be best friends with Kristy the Mouth, but she is. Actually, Mary Anne and Kristy kind of look alike. Both are petite with brown hair and dark eyes. But Mary Anne cares a little more about fashion. She has a short, trendy hairstyle and wears preppier clothes than Kristy.

  Our club treasurer is my best friend, Stacey. She collects dues and keeps the money in a manila envelope. Then, at the end of the month, she pays our expenses: my phone bill, Charlie Thomas’s gas money (he drives Kristy and Abby to our meetings), supplies for Kid-Kits, and expenses for special events such as the comet party. If any money is left over, we sometimes have a pizza party for ourselves.

  You would easily pick out Stacey in a BSC meeting. She’s the only blonde, she wears the most stunning clothes, and she’s the one member not stuffing candy into her face.

  Sweets and Stacey are a very bad mix. She has a condition called diabetes. Don’t ask me the biology of it, but it means her body goes ballistic over refined sugar. Too much sugar and she could become seriously ill, even pass out. Stacey can lead a normal life, as long as she eats at strictly regular times, stays away from sugar, and gives herself daily injections of something called insulin. I know, that last part sounds gross. Stacey says it isn’t at all, though. (I think the no-sugar part is much worse.)

  Stacey’s incredible fashion sense comes from the streets of New York City. Well, not from the streets themselves. Mostly from boutiques and department stores. She actually grew up in the Big Apple, just a short subway ride from some of the greatest art galleries in the world. Do I sound jealous? I am. I happen to think NYC is the number one coolest place around (with the possible exception of the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory in Vermont). Stacey visits New York often, because her dad still lives there (her parents are divorced).

  Have you ever noticed that New York City is called “New York,” but everywhere else in New York State is also called “New York”? I find this very distressing. For example, what does “native New Yorker” mean? Another of our members, Abby, was born and raised in a Long Island suburb, not far from New York City. So does that make her a “native New Yorker”? Or does that phrase refer to New York as in New York City New Yorkers, as opposed to New York as in New York State New Yorkers? If you know the answer, please tell me.

  Anyway, Abby is our newest member. Everything about her is wild. Her hair, for one thing. It’s curly and dark and thick and always all over the place. Her sense of humor, for another. Her Ricky Ricardo imitation puts mine to shame. Her imitation of me puts me to shame. Honestly, she has so much talent and energy she could be a stand-up comic.

  Well, maybe not. The stage would have to be dust free. Abby is allergic to dust — and pollen, and shellfish, and strawberries, and fur, and about a million other things. She also has asthma, for which she carries around inhalers. Despite all this, she is the BSC’s most talented athlete. (Don’t ever tell Kristy I said that; Kristy’s a little jealous of her.)

  Abby, her twin sister, and their mom moved into a house near Kristy’s, soon after Dawn moved to California. It was great timing. We badly needed another sitter by then. We were hoping Abby’s sister, Anna, would join us, too, but she turned us down. She’s a serious music student who practices her violin every day for hours.

  The Stevensons are Jewish. Recently all us BSC members attended Abby’s and Anna’s Bat Mitzvah. That’s a coming-of-age ritual thirteen-year-old Jewish girls go through, and the ceremony was very moving. They had to recite in Hebrew, and they didn’t even make one mistake. (At least they said they didn’t.) The only sad part part was that their dad couldn’t see them. He died in a car accident when they were nine. Abby never talks about him. I guess the memory is still too painful.

  Abby, by the way, is our alternate officer. That means she substitutes whenever another officer is absent. She became president for a while, when Kristy was on vacation in Hawaii with her family. Right away Abby abolished dues and loosened up the rules. That didn’t last long, but when Kristy found out, she nearly had a heart attack. (Ask me if I think Kristy will ever go on vacation again.)

  All of the BSC members I’ve mentioned so far are thirteen. All are in eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School … except me, of course. Boy, do I miss having them in my classes. But I try to look on the bright side. If I’m left back again, then next year I’ll be in the same grade as our two junior officers, Jessica Ramsey and Mallory Pike.

  Jessi and Mallory are eleven. Their parents will not let them baby-sit at night, unless it’s for their own siblings. Jessi and Mal grumble about this all the time. They call it Oldest Child Syndrome, meaning that parents are strictest with oldest childr
en and more lenient with younger ones. (Ha. They should live in my house for a while.) Maybe the “syndrome” explains why they’re both great sitters: they have lots of practice at home. Jessi has two younger siblings, and Mal has seven (yup, seven, including triplets).

  Anyway, the grumbling is one of the many things that keeps them close friends. Another is reading horse books (they’re both absolute fanatics). And each of them is incredibly creative. Mallory likes to write and illustrate her own stories, and Jessi’s a phenomenal ballet dancer.

  Mallory has white skin and thick, reddish-brown hair. She wears glasses and braces (both of which she absolutely hates). Jessi has chocolate-brown skin, is thin and graceful, and usually wears her hair pulled back tightly in a bun.

  Jessi’s family moved to Stoneybrook from a racially mixed neighborhood in Oakley, New Jersey. As African Americans, they discovered how prejudiced some people can be in a mostly white place like Stoneybrook. (Boy, could I relate to that. I mean, most Stoneybrookites are cool, but it only takes a few to make life miserable.)

  Now you know all our regular members. We have three irregular members, too. Our two associates, Logan Bruno (Mary Anne’s boyfriend, remember?) and Shannon Kilbourne, fill in for us when we’re overloaded with jobs. They’re not required to attend meetings or pay dues. Logan has blondish-brown hair, speaks with a slight Kentucky accent, and is involved in tons of after-school sports. Shannon goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, where she belongs to every extracurricular group ever invented.

  Dawn Schafer, our honorary member, belongs to another baby-sitting group in Palo City, California. It’s called the We ♥ Kids Club, and because it’s Kristy-less, it’s much more casual than the BSC. I miss Dawn a lot. She’s really independent and outspoken, especially about her interest in health foods and ecology. These things are not exactly at the top of my priority list, but I admire Dawn for sticking to her guns and not caring what anyone thinks.

  Okay, back to the meeting. Our leader, Kristy, was at sixes and sevens about the comet party. (Did you ever wonder why “at sixes and sevens” means confused? Why not “twelves and thirteens,” or “math in general”?)

  “Brenner Field would be a good viewing spot for the comet,” Kristy said, “except it might not be dark enough, with all the streetlights surrounding it.”

  Mary Anne nodded. “The darker it is, the better you can see the comet.”

  “The Sound is really dark at night,” Mallory suggested.

  “The lighthouse!” I blurted out.

  “Right,” Kristy said. “We’ll cut the razor wire, pry off the lock, then saw through the planks on the window.”

  “Boy, is that place ugly,” Stacey remarked. “It sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  Mallory grimaced. “More like a severed thumb.”

  “Severed thumbs don’t stick out,” Abby said. “I think they just lie flat.”

  “Gross,” Mary Anne said.

  “I hear it’s haunted,” Jessi volunteered. “The ghost of some murdered kid, I think.”

  “Well, the people who own that lighthouse are coming to stay with us,” I went on. “The Hatt family.”

  “I know them,” Abby said, nodding solemnly. “Porkpie, Slouch, Stovepipe, and Top.”

  “Ha-ha,” Kristy snapped. “I remember them, Claud. They used to visit your house when we were little. Whatever happened to them, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “They moved away. I overheard my mom and dad talking about them, and it sounds like Mr. Hatt got into some trouble. Something about the lighthouse. All I know is, Mom really didn’t want the Hatts to stay with us.”

  “They were probably chased out by the Stoneybrook Beautification Society,” Stacey commented, “for owning a hideous eyesore.”

  “My dad says it was nice once,” Mary Anne said. “It was only closed down after the bad stuff happened.”

  “What bad stuff?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Mary Anne replied. “But I remember driving by there with my dad one night when I was little. We hit lots of traffic, and we started singing ‘Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night.’ As we went past the lighthouse, I saw flashing lights everywhere — all these police cars and ambulances. Dad stuck his head out the window and talked to a policeman for a while. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but boy, did Dad’s mood change. After they finished talking, his face was so stiff and gray and serious. He totally forgot about our song.”

  “Did you ask him what had happened?” I said.

  Mary Anne nodded. “I sure did. And he refused to tell me. But I kept asking, ‘Was it something bad?’ over and over. Finally he answered, ‘Yes, Mary Anne, very bad. Not something for a little girl to know about.’ Well, of course, that made me even more curious. But I was kind of frightened, too. You know me. At that age, I couldn’t even watch Disney cartoons. So I asked, ‘Was it something scary, too?’ And I’ll never forget his reaction …” Mary Anne’s voice trailed off. She bit her lip, frowning.

  We were all leaning toward her, like paper clips around a magnet. “Well?” I asked.

  “All he said was, ‘Mary Anne, you must never, ever go someplace where you know you’re not supposed to be, no matter how old you are.’ ”

  “What did that mean?” I asked.

  Mary Anne shook her head. “I was so scared, I didn’t ask. Neither of us ever talked about it again.”

  My throat felt like beach sand on a hot day. I gulped and nearly choked.

  Parts of my parents’ argument floated in my brain: We know Alex did nothing wrong … I wonder if it’s wise for them to come back to Stoneybrook … they were driven out of town …

  I looked at my doorknob. I wondered how much a big, heavy-duty lock would cost.

  “Pass the brown stuff,” I said.

  My mom handed me a steaming platter. “Beef teriyaki,” she reminded me, with a raised eyebrow.

  Dad spooned himself some green beans from another platter, then held it out to Janine. “Your favorite, beans sautéed with garlic.”

  “Not tonight,” Janine said. “I’m going out with Jerry. The last thing I need is halitosis.”

  “I’m sure Mom washed them beforehand,” I said.

  Janine gave me a Look. “Excuse me?”

  “Besides, I think that only happens with, like, undercooked pork,” I went on.

  “That’s trichinosis,” Janine said. “Halitosis is bad breath.”

  I handed her the beef. “Here. This smells great.”

  Janine shook her head. “Too heavy. It’ll make my stomach flutter. I’ll stick with plain rice.”

  “Since when did you become so boy crazy?” I asked.

  “Someday you’ll know how this feels,” Janine replied.

  Oh, puh-leeze.

  I ladled globs of food onto my plate. “Mmmm, Mom and Dad. This dinner is sooooo delicious. Yum yum.”

  I know, I was being cruel. But think of it. Janine was lucky enough to be going out on a Friday night date. The least she could do was not fuss about it in front of me.

  “Well, girls,” my dad said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I have some news. Today I spoke on the phone with Alex Hatt. Does that name ring a bell?”

  Gulp.

  It sure did. An alarm bell.

  “Claudia was talking about him earlier,” Janine piped up. “She said —”

  “I said I wondered what ever happened to him!” I interrupted her. Leave it to Janine to tell my parents I’d been eavesdropping. I glared at her, but she was looking at her watch.

  “Um, may I be excused?” Janine asked.

  “Jerry’s not going to be here for twenty minutes,” Mom said. “Calm down, sweetheart. Your father has something important to say.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, as you both know, the Hatts are old, dear friends. Since their move to Arizona, I’ve stayed in touch with Alex. The bad news is that his business hasn’t gone well, and his wife has been laid off from her job. The good new
s is that the family would like to move back to Stoneybrook. They have real estate here and have always loved the area. They’ve even arranged places for their children in the schools. However, staying in a hotel while they look for a place to live would be a big financial strain. So, taking into account the fact that their kids are about your age, I thought we’d help them out. Your mother and I have invited them to stay with us for a couple of weeks. They’ll be arriving on Sunday —”

  “Sunday?” I repeated. “That’s in two days!”

  “Your math is improving,” Janine murmured.

  “What happens if they can’t find a house?” I asked.

  Mom shrugged. “We’ll host them for a month, if that’s what it takes. We’ve agreed that if things become uncomfortable, they’ll move to a hotel. They are friends in need, after all …”

  “But that’s … five people!”

  “Excellent, Claudia,” Janine interjected.

  “Will you stop it?” I snapped. “Where will we put them?”

  “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Hatt will sleep in the den,” Mom replied. “Your aunt Peaches and uncle Russ were quite comfortable there when they were visiting.”

  “Their boy, Steve, will stay in Mimi’s old room,” Dad added.

  I felt a tug in my chest, picturing a toothless, smudge-faced kid in my grandmother’s bedroom.

  “I’d like to put Laura and Caryn in Janine’s room,” Mom went on.

  “Wait a minute,” Janine said. “Where will I sleep?”

  I grinned. Poor Janine, without a room. “The kitchen table’s comfortable,” I said, “or maybe there’s a spare attic room at Jerry’s.”

  “I thought you two would stay together in Claudia’s room,” Mom said cheerily.

  I felt as if I’d been hit over the head with a baseball bat. “Whaaaaaat?”

  Dad smiled. “You have to promise, no latenight chitchat!” he said with a chuckle.

  “You can’t —” I sputtered.

  “I can’t —” Janine added.

  “I know, it’ll be tight,” Mom said. “Claudia, you’ll have to clear out a corner for Janine’s computer —”