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schoolyard with a loose, easy stride, an occasional cheery bounce punctuating her steps. Everywhere she went, she talked. Lewis was surprised—shocked even—at the way she talked to anyone at all. First-graders. Boys. Mrs. Reber. He couldn’t hear what she said, but they all answered. When she reached the swings, she dropped into one and began pumping, her skirt riding up to show thin bare legs and scuffed black boots, higher and higher till she was almost even with the top frame. A sixth-grader, on a swing! When Mrs. Reber scolded her—the playground was crowded, she could hit someone—she just grinned. “Sorry,” she yelled, dragging her feet to slow herself down.
    Lewis was so busy watching, he didn’t hear Seth approach.
    “That your girlfriend, Dearborn?”
    The boys in white laughed.
    “Oh, wait, I forgot. You have to
talk
to get a girlfriend. Even a weird one like that.”
    Lewis swallowed. He opened his mouth to say—he didn’t know what. Nothing came out.
    “Duh,” said Seth. “Come on, Lewissssser, you can say it. Duh! Your mouth’s already open.”
    More laughter.
    “How about ‘Ma-ma’? I bet you can say ‘Ma-ma.’ ”
    Lewis felt heat shoot through his body. Luckily, at that moment, Mrs. Reber strolled by. The boys in white scattered.
    Lewis looked up. Abbie’s swing had stopped. She was staring at him—at his tomato face.
    He ran inside.
    There was another surprise waiting for Lewis that day—when he got home from school. His father was wearing an apron! A giant white chef’s apron, crisp and new.
    It wasn’t a total surprise. More and more, when Lewis came home, he’d been finding his father in an odd place—the messy, cluttered kitchen. Mr. Dearborn, it seemed, was helping Mrs. Binchy cook. How this had come about, Lewis didn’t know. But the first time he saw his father bent over a cutting board, he could hardly believe his eyes. His father
never
cooked.
    Seeing Lewis’s face now, Mr. Dearborn waggled the knife he was holding above a pile of chopped walnuts. “Just making myself useful,” he said cheerily.
    Lewis glanced around. Mrs. Binchy was stirring a huge, steaming pot on the ancient stove. Her cat Patsy lay curled on a stack of newspapers. Fiddle music blared from a radio on the counter, half hidden under a pile of potato peels, while from the oven rose a rich baking smell.
    Mrs. Binchy held out a wooden spoon. “Have a taste, dear. It’s chowder.”
    Lewis blinked in surprise. She was offering him the spoon from the pot. He
never
ate from the pot spoon. It was unsanitary. His mother said so.
    But his mother wasn’t there. She was teaching. She wouldn’t be home till six.
    “Go on,” said Mrs. Binchy, pushing the spoon at him.
    Lewis glanced at his father. Mr. Dearborn grinned.
    Obediently, Lewis took a slurp. The chowder was rich and creamy, thick with potatoes and seafood. He closed his eyes in wonder. Like everything Mrs. Binchy cooked, it was the best he’d ever tasted.
    “There,” said Mrs. Binchy. “I knew you’d like it. Want to help?”
    “I … um, homework,” said Lewis.
    “Here,” she said, “take a cheesy biscuit.” She handed him two, still warm from the oven.
    Biscuits in hand, he headed up to Libertalia.
    He was feeling more at home in the tower room allthe time. The pirates had kept their word about leaving him alone. Every day after school, he climbed the stairs to Libertalia and stayed till dinnertime. And what did he do there? Anything. Everything. Whatever he wanted. There was neither a whiff nor a whisper from the ghosts.
    And because they were so quiet, there was only one thing Lewis
didn’t
do during his time in Libertalia. He didn’t think about the pirates. Not once.
    It wasn’t that difficult, really.
    Lewis was good at
not
thinking about things.

S everal weeks later, on a dull, wet Thursday, Lewis’s parents went out to a special dinner at his mother’s college. It happened to be Mrs. Binchy’s night off.
    “We’ll