Maybe I better tell you how our club works, before things get underway. Kristy, Mary Anne, Dawn, Mal, Jessi, and I meet Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons from five-thirty until six. We have done a lot of advertising (mostly with fliers and in the newspaper), so people know that these are the times we meet. When they need baby-sitters they call us at those times. We provide the sitters — and get tons of jobs this way.
The club started back at the beginning of seventh grade when Kristy saw how hard it was for her mom to find a sitter for David Michael (who was six then) at a time when neither Kristy nor her older brothers, Sam and Charlie, could watch him. Mrs. Thomas (well, she was Mrs. Thomas then, but now she’s Mrs. Watson Brewer) had to make call after call trying to find an available sitter. And Kristy thought to herself, Wouldn’t it be great if Mom could make one phone call and find, like, a whole nest of sitters?
That was the beginning of the Baby-sitters Club. She asked Mary Anne, me, and Stacey (who was my new friend then), to join her, and we started advertising to let people know what we were going to do, and when they could reach us. We began receiving calls at our first meeting. We were amazed!
Here’s how we run the meetings: officially. As president, Kristy insists on that. She is always a take-charge person, and usually a no-nonsense person. At the beginning of every meeting, she puts a visor on her head, a pencil over one ear, and plunks herself down in my director’s chair. (The meetings are held in my room because I have my own phone and my own phone number.) Then she asks Dawn to collect club dues if it’s a Monday, and then she just, well, runs things. She makes us keep a club notebook in which each of us is responsible for writing up every job we go on. Once a week, we’re supposed to read the past week’s entries so that we all know what’s happened at the houses where our friends have sat. Plus, we often find good solutions to sitting problems in the notebook. I look at it this way: Kristy deserves to be the president. She’s good at being a boss (when she’s not actually being bossy), she’s a natural leader, and besides, the club was her idea.
I’m the vice-president mostly because of my phone. If we held our meetings in anyone else’s room we’d have to tie up some adult’s phone line three times a week — and get calls for people who aren’t club members. Actually, there’s a little more to my job than just owning a phone. A lot of times, baby-sitting calls come in while we’re not having a meeting. Then I have to take down the information about who needs a sitter when, for how long, and for how many kids, and call my friends to see who’s available to take the job.
As secretary, Mary Anne has the most complicated job of all. She’s perfect for it, though, because she’s organized, precise, and has terribly neat handwriting. What does she do? She keeps our record book up-to-date and in order, and schedules all of our jobs. This includes keeping track of the club members’ personal schedules, too — dance lessons, art classes, dentist appointments (or in Mal’s case, orthodontist appointments). The record book is the most important feature of our club. It’s very official, so of course it was Kristy’s idea. Apart from the appointment pages where Mary Anne does our scheduling, it has pages where she records our clients’ names and addresses, the number of children they have, and vital information, such as children who have food allergies or special fears. Also in the record book is space for recording the money we earn, and for keeping track of our treasury. That’s Dawn’s job, though, so on to Dawn.
Our poor treasurer has the awful job of collecting dues from us club members every week. We hate parting with any of our money, but Dawn (being Dawn) just does her job and isn’t bothered by our griping. The money in the treasury is used for several things. First of all, fun stuff — throwing slumber parties or pizza parties from time to time. Our club isn’t all work. Secondly, to pay Charlie Thomas, Kristy’s oldest brother, to drive her to and from meetings now that she lives across town. The third thing we spend the money on is toys for our Kid-Kits. Kid-Kits are boxes that we decorated ourselves (we each have one) and filled with our old games, toys, and books. We take the Kid-Kits with us sometimes when we baby-sit, and the kids love them — which makes us popular baby-sitters! Anyway, most of the stuff in the kits, like books and games, never wears out or gets used up. But we do have to replace crayons, activity books, soap bubbles, and things like that. The treasury money is supposed to cover those expenses.
Mallory and Jessi, our junior officers, don’t have real duties the way the rest of us do, but they sure help take the pressure off of us. Our club is very successful. We get so many jobs, in fact, that when Stacey (who was our first treasurer — Dawn took over after she left) moved back to New York, we decided to replace her with two new club members. It’s kind of a pain that Jessi and Mal are too young to sit at night, but at least when they cover more of the afternoon jobs, it frees the rest of us up for the evenings.
Okay, now I’ll tell you about Logan Bruno (the love of Mary Anne’s life) and Shannon Kilbourne, our two associate club members. They don’t come to meetings, but they are good sitters whom we know we can call on if a job comes in that none of us is free to take. That might sound unlikely, but it does happen. Just last week, someone needed a sitter on an afternoon when Mallory had an orthodontist appointment, I had an art class, Jessi had a dance rehearsal, and the rest of us were going to be baby-sitting. Whew! Shannon took that job, thank goodness.
Anyway, after some searching around my room on that Wednesday afternoon, I found a new package of Double Stuf Oreos and handed them to Kristy in the director’s chair. While she was opening them, Jessi, Dawn, and Mary Anne came in. Mallory moved off the bed to sit on the floor with Jessi, while Mary Anne and Dawn and I settled ourselves in a row on my bed. These are our usual spots for club meetings.
No sooner had Kristy asked if anyone had club business to discuss, than the phone rang.
“I’ll get it!” exclaimed Kristy. “First call of the meeting!” Kristy picked up the phone. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club…. Yes? … Yes?” She sounded puzzled. Then she handed the phone to me and said, cupping her hand over the receiver, “It’s Mrs. Addison. Remember her? And she wants to talk to you.”
This was not standard club procedure. Usually, whoever answers the phone (and it isn’t always Kristy), takes down the information about the job, and then hangs up to give Mary Anne a chance to study our schedule. When we’ve found someone who’s available for the job, we call the client back to tell him or her who the sitter will be.
But our club had baby-sat for the Addison kids only a couple of times, so maybe Mrs. Addison had forgotten the procedure.
I took the phone from Kristy, feeling curious. “Hi, Mrs. Addison?” I said. Then I listened to her for a long time. When I hung up the phone, I turned to the other girls and said, “Guess what? She doesn’t want a baby-sitter, she wants an art teacher.”
“Huh?” said Kristy.
“Oh, don’t tell me. For Corrie. Or Sean. Right?” spoke up Dawn, who’s the only one of us who has sat for the Addisons.
“Yeah, for Corrie,” I replied. “How did you know?”
“Because all Mr. and Mrs. Addison want is time for themselves, so they shuttle poor Corrie and Sean from class to class on weekends and after school. Corrie’s only nine, and Sean is ten, and I bet they’ve both already taken basketball, dance, drama, creative writing, football, baseball, and anything else the Addisons can think of.”
“Well, now Mrs. Addison’s thought of art, and she knows that I’m pretty good at art and that I like kids, so she’s wondering if I’d give Corrie an art lesson once a week. I guess that would be sort of like a baby-sitting job…. Wouldn’t it?”
“Sure,” replied Kristy. “You’d have to charge more than usual because you’d need to provide materials, but I don’t see why —”
“Hey!” I cried, interrupting Kristy. I couldn’t help it. For once, I’d had a great idea. “Maybe I could start a little art class. Like on Saturdays in our basement. Gabbie and Myriah Perkins love art projects. So does Jam
ie Newton. That would be fun. And good experience for me, in case I ever want to be an art teacher.”
“And,” said Kristy slowly, “it would show people that our club can do more than just baby-sit. I think it would be good for business.”
“I’d need some help, though,” I said slowly. “I don’t know if I could manage a class alone.”
“If you hold the class on Saturdays, I could help you,” spoke up Mary Anne. “We’ll split the money sixty-forty, since you’ll be in charge.”
It seemed like a great arrangement. If Mrs. Addison agreed, then all systems would be go.
Mrs. Addison did agree. The meeting ended on a happy note.
Sometimes when my friends leave after a club meeting, I feel a little let down. Suddenly my room is quiet again. And it’s funny, but that’s when I miss Stacey the most. Knowing that my only best friend is all the way in New York City makes me feel bad — but just for a few moments. Then I remember that Mimi is home and I can run downstairs and help her fix dinner.
That was just what I did after the meeting when Mary Anne and I decided to hold art classes. Only lately I haven’t been just helping Mimi fix dinner, I’ve pretty much been doing it for her, or at least directing her, if she insists on doing things herself. She’s just not too trustworthy in the kitchen anymore. Her hands shake, so I worry when she’s using knives or the vegetable peeler. And (I know this is gross, but it’s true) she’s not very sanitary anymore, either. She’s always forgetting to wash her hands before she begins cooking. She doesn’t remember to wash food either, like raw chicken pieces or lettuce. And I’m afraid she’s going to give us all food poisoning sometime by thawing out a piece of meat, deciding not to serve it after all, and then refreezing it without cooking it first. That’s a wonderful way to get salmonella. Plus I worry about matches, the stove, the oven, you name it. Of course, I only need to worry on her bad days. On her good days, no problem. Which is why my parents haven’t banned Mimi from the kitchen yet. They know it would take away her sense of usefulness and independence — and that on the bad days, I’ll cook or supervise.
“Mimi!” I exclaimed as I entered the kitchen. “I’ve got a good idea! Let’s have a fancy candlelight dinner tonight. You set the table in the dining room with our good china and put out candles and everything.”
“Yes. Fine,” replied Mimi vaguely.
I was glad she agreed to that. After the business with Mallory that afternoon, I could tell she was having a bad time, and I wanted to make the dinner myself.
During the next hour, my parents came home from their jobs, and Janine returned from her college course called Advances and Trends in Computerized Biopsychiatry. (Or something like that. I don’t know the meaning of any of those words except “and” and “in.”)
Everyone was surprised and pleased by our formal dinner. Mimi and I exchanged a secret smile as Mom exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely!” and Janine cried, “Candlelight!” and Dad said, “Chicken and rice, my favorite.” (So it wasn’t fancy food. At least the meal looked fancy.)
My family took our usual places at the table.
I said grandly, “I will serve the first course.”
“First course!” repeated Dad.
“Yup,” I replied, and then added casually as I was walking around the table with the soup tureen, “By the way, I got a B-plus on my history composition.” (I failed to say anything about the math test.)
“Gosh,” said Janine, and I couldn’t tell whether she was more impressed by the grade or the pea soup, which she was looking at through her thick, round glasses.
I served Mom, then stepped over to Mimi (whom I probably should have served first, but oh, well). Just as I was dipping the ladle into the tureen, Mimi kind of slithered down in her chair.
“Mimi?” I said, hastily setting the hot tureen on the table where it left a mark that we’ve never been able to get off.
“Do not … do not … no feel well.” Mimi slumped sideways and Dad and Mom both jumped out of their chairs. Dad caught Mimi just before she hit the floor.
“Call the paramedics, Claudia,” said Mom in a tone you don’t ignore.
I didn’t even look back at Mimi. I just raced for the kitchen phone and made the call. The paramedics reached our house in ten minutes. I was waiting outside for them and led them into the dining room, where Mom and Dad had laid Mimi on the floor and covered her with a blanket.
“Is she dead?” I whispered to Janine, who was hovering nearby, not knowing what to do.
“No,” replied my sister, sounding surprised. “Listen.”
I tried to, over the commotion of the paramedics and their equipment. Mimi wasn’t dead. She wasn’t even unconscious. She was talking. But she was all confused. I heard her mention everything from “the old country” to shopping with Mallory. Sometimes her eyes were closed, sometimes open. She was disoriented and probably embarrassed.
“Low blood pressure,” I heard one technician say. Then, “Semiconscious. Doesn’t know where she is.”
A few minutes later the ambulance drove off with Mimi in it. Mom rode with her. Dad and Janine and I followed them in our car. Nobody said a word on the way to the hospital.
What happened next is pretty boring, so I won’t even go into it. All you need to know is that Mimi was admitted to a hospital room (it seemed to take a long time), but since she no longer acted too sick, we just stayed with her until she fell asleep, and then we went home. Before we did that, one doctor did give her a shot of something after he examined her briefly, but he didn’t hook her up to any machines and no one was rushing around wringing their hands or calling, “Code blue!” So even with Mimi in the hospital, I felt relieved.
* * *
Janine and I even went to school the next morning, and Dad went to his office, but Mom took a personal day off from work to be with Mimi at the hospital. And, of course, I went straight to the hospital from school that afternoon. I’d had a baby-sitting job lined up, but Mallory was able to take it over for me.
I peeked into Mimi’s private room, carrying a small teddy bear behind my back that I’d bought at the hospital gift shop. I figured everyone would be sending Mimi flowers, and that flowers are nice to look at, but that she might want something to hug, especially when she was getting a shot, so I bought the bear.
I tiptoed into the room because Mom had her finger to her lips, signaling to me that Mimi was asleep. I nodded. Then I set the bear on her bed, and Mom and I silently left the room.
Out in the hallway, Mom kissed me and smiled. “How was school?” she asked.
“Fine,” I replied. “How’s Mimi? What’s wrong with her?”
Mom shook her head. “The doctors aren’t sure. She had some tests today and they think it’s a problem with her blood, but they don’t know just what.”
“Leukemia?” I whispered, terrified.
“No,” said Mom. “And not plain old anemia, either.”
“Hemophilia?”
My mother smiled. “You have to be born with that.”
“Oh.” I paused. “You know, if you want to go to work for awhile, you can. Mallory took my baby-sitting job for me. I can stay with Mimi for the rest of the afternoon.”
“We-ell …” After some hemming and hawing (Mom’s term), she took me up on my offer.
So I spent the afternoon with Mimi.
She slept. I held her hand.
* * *
Two more days went by. No one could figure out what was wrong with Mimi’s blood. They did test after test, and Mimi talked about weirder and weirder things. They even tested her for something called toxoplasmosis, which you get mainly from cats. I told this one doctor that we’ve never had a cat, but he didn’t care.
I spent the afternoons at the hospital with Mimi, since my family all thought my activities were less important than theirs. I didn’t mind much, though. I guess. And I was pleased to be the one who was at Mimi’s side when the doctors, as a last resort, decided to give her a couple of pints of fresh,
healthy blood. Boy, did that do the trick! Soon we had a new Mimi on our hands, one who wasn’t dizzy or faint, whose appetite came back, and who started talking like a normal person again.
The next day they gave her some more blood.
“I think I would take little walk,” Mimi said.
“You want to take a walk?” I asked her. (Of course, I was the one there that afternoon. I was missing an art class.)
“Not outside. Just in hospital. Okay?” said Mimi.
I checked with a nurse. It was okay. Guess where we walked? To the nursery! We stood outside a big glass window and looked at eight babies in their cribs or isolettes or whatever they’re called.
“I see Asian baby,” said Mimi, pleased.
“Look at all his hair!” I exclaimed. “Or her hair. It stands straight up.”
“You look like that. When baby,” Mimi told me.
“No, I didn’t!” I cried.
“Yes. Yes.” Mimi smiled fondly at the memory. She squeezed my hand, and I felt bad for even thinking about missing art classes and stuff.
* * *
The next day, Thursday, Mimi went home. She’d been in the hospital for just over a week, and no one had a clue as to what was wrong with her, but she wasn’t faint or dizzy or weak. She was her old self. Maybe she was like a car that just needed its oil changed.
Maybe.
But I still thought it was weird not to know what was wrong. I think the doctors thought so, too, because they told Mimi to stay in bed as much as possible for awhile. If she was well, why did she have to stay in bed?
So Mimi was home with us again. She could be on her own for short periods of time, but Mom and Dad took turns staying home with her for part of every day, and guess who got to watch her in the afternoons? Me. Janine had a big biopsychiatry test coming up, and my parents let her study for it all she wanted.
One Wednesday afternoon, Mimi asked for special tea. I fixed it and served it to her in bed.