To tell the truth, the whole Spier family has changed. Mr. Spier got married — to Dawn Schafer’s mother!
You see, Dawn’s mother and father divorced, and Mrs. Schafer moved from California back to her old hometown of Stoneybrook with Dawn and Dawn’s younger brother Jeff. Then Dawn and Mary Anne became friends. (Dawn became Mary Anne’s other best friend, which was a problem for Kristy at first, but that has worked out because a person can have more than one best friend, right?) Anyway, Mary Anne persuaded Kristy that Dawn was a perfect candidate for the BSC. Then Mary Anne and Dawn were looking through these old yearbooks and discovered that Mr. Spier and Mrs. Schafer had been high school sweethearts! So they got their parents together and Mr. Spier and Mrs. Schafer fell in love all over again. This time they got married. Unfortunately, Jeff had become very homesick, and decided to move back to California to live with his dad. So now Mary Anne and Tigger and her father live with Dawn and her mother in this great old farmhouse that even has a haunted (maybe) secret passage!
Which is perfect for Dawn. Dawn has long, long pale blonde hair, two earrings in each ear, a genuine love of health food (ick), and an equally genuine dislike of junk food (eek!). Dawn is about as no-nonsense and straightforward and laid-back as you can get — but she loves ghost stories. I think she really believes in ghosts.
Still, maybe it is sort of laid-back to believe in ghosts, and at the same time live calmly in the same house with one!
Calm and tough are two words I’d use to describe Stacey McGill. She’s my best friend, the first real best friend I’ve ever had, and I naturally think she’s pretty terrific. Like Mary Anne, Stacey is an only child. And like Kristy and Dawn, her parents are divorced. Like Dawn and Jessi, she moved here from some place else (New York City). And like me, she appreciates the subtleties of fashion. And of course she’s also a math whiz. Plus, she has the most tremendous will power, because like Dawn, she doesn’t eat junk food. But that isn’t because Stacey doesn’t like it. She’d love to dig into a bag of Mallomars, or polish off some Twinkies. Only she can’t.
Stacey is diabetic. That means her body doesn’t handle sugar very well. She has to be very careful about what she eats, and give herself shots of insulin every day or she could get really, really sick.
When Mr. and Mrs. McGill found out Stacey had diabetes, they became as overprotective as Mary Anne’s father. Stacey had to prove to her parents that she could handle her illness responsibly. And she did. Things are less tense now. But she still has to be careful.
In terms of appearance, Stacey emanates this New York aura. She’s blonde and blue-eyed, and very sophisticated looking, and probably a little more mature than the rest of us. She’s totally into clothes, and almost as wild as I am about trying out different styles. Sometimes she’ll get her hair permed just to check it out. Her style is different, though. For example, she’s allowed to wear makeup, and does, but in an understated way that really works. And while I’m dedicated to never wearing the exact same outfit twice (even if that only means wearing different earrings), Stacey has these great pulled-together looking outfits that are wardrobe staples. But she doesn’t wear the same clothes all the time. She likes to experiment with new looks, too.
Mallory Pike and Jessica Ramsey, who are in sixth grade at SMS and who are our junior officers, are also the youngest members of the BSC. In fact, Mallory used to be one of our baby-sittees. She’s the oldest of eight children (even more kids than in Kristy’s family), three of whom are triplets! We noticed while baby-sitting that Mallory was more like another baby-sitter than one of the kids, and when our business grew enough so that we needed more baby-sitters, we asked her. She and Jessi can only sit during weekend days and in the afternoons after school, but that’s fine, because it frees us for other jobs.
Like Mary Anne and Stacey, Mallory has had to give her parents a little nudging to convince them to treat her like the responsible person she is. She finally convinced them to let her have her ears pierced (one hole in each ear) and she’s working on getting contact lenses so she won’t have to wear glasses.
Mallory was practically the first person Jessi met when she moved to Stoneybrook. They have some basic things in common: They’re both the oldest kids in their families, they both love to read, particularly horse stories and especially the ones by Marguerite Henry, and they both are talented. But like Kristy and Mary Anne, they’re pretty different, too.
How? Well, Mallory has lived in Stoneybrook all her life, but Jessi moved here from New Jersey. Mallory wants to be a children’s book writer and illustrator. Jessi, on the other hand, is passionate about ballet. She wants to be a prima ballerina some day. She takes special ballet lessons in Stamford and has already danced the lead in several productions. Other differences? Mallory’s from a huge family and Jessi’s from a smaller one. Jessi has two parents, one little sister, Becca, one baby brother, Squirt (whose real name is John Philip Ramsey, Jr.), and her aunt Cecelia. Also, Jessi’s black and Mallory’s white. That’s fine with them and with everyone else, but when Jessi first moved to Stoneybrook, some people in Stoneybrook minded.
Sad. And disgusting.
Our associate club members are Logan Bruno and Shannon Kilbourne.
Logan is Mary Anne’s friend and boyfriend. Logan’s a southerner, and Mary Anne thinks he looks just like her favorite star, Cam Geary. I admit, Logan is cute. And nice. And a good athlete and a good baby-sitter. He’s pretty special, which is the only kind of guy that would be right for Mary Anne. You want the best for your friends, after all.
Shannon Kilbourne is Kristy’s neighbor and the person who gave Shannon-the-puppy to the Brewer-Thomas family. And yes, Shannon-the-puppy is named after Shannon Kilbourne. At first Kristy thought Shannon was an awful snob, and Shannon didn’t think too much of Kristy, but they settled that and have become friends. Shannon goes to a different school, and is pretty busy (although she comes to some of our meetings, and we’re getting to know her better), but she’s a good BSC associate. I’m glad she’s there in a pinch …
“Claud? Claudia, are you in there?”
“Oh! Um …” Daydreaming at the BSC meeting. This was really bad.
“Dues,” prompted Stacey.
“Right,” I said. I handed my money over and Stacey made a check mark on some account she was keeping.
Kristy finished arranging a sitting date for Dawn, and Mary Anne entered that in the record book, which is where Mary Anne keeps track of all our schedules: our appointments, our jobs, and our afterschool activities, so we can tell right away who’s free for what job. And please, don’t confuse the record book with the club notebook. The notebook is where we write about our various jobs: who our clients are, what happened, how we handled whatever happened, and anything else we think might help us be better baby-sitters. We’re supposed to read the notebook as well as write in it, too.
Kristy forked over her dues and the phone rang again.
“Baby-sitters Club,” said Kristy.
“It’s Mrs. Rodowsky,” she told us, after she’d noted the information and told Mrs. Rodowsky she’d call her back to tell her who would be taking the job. “You know, Shea’s been having trouble at school lately.” (We nodded — we’d read the club notebook.)
“Well, they’ve done some tests and found out he has a reading disorder called dyslexia. So …”
“The resource room,” I blurted out. “Poor Shea! I bet he has to go to the resource room.”
Kristy gave me an odd look and Mary Anne said reasonably, “It’s not so bad, Claudia. It’s probably a lot better than Shea thinking he is just plain stupid. Now he knows what the problem is and how to work to fix it.”
“Yes, but people think you’re dumb anyway,” I argued.
“Shea’s not dumb,” said Dawn gently. “Just the opposite, I’d say.”
“And he’s lucky he can learn,” said Kristy with surprising vehemence. Then I realized why she was so vehement. She’d baby-sat for awhile for a little girl named Susa
n, who was autistic. That meant that Susan probably would never change, that she’d always be a withdrawn kid who didn’t make contact with other people. Susan was a brilliant pianist, but the rest of the time, she was locked inside herself, as if other people didn’t even exist.
Kristy had tried to reach Susan. But all her determination and great ideas couldn’t change what couldn’t be changed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”
“Anyway, Claudia,” said Kristy, “Shea feels the same way you do, I guess. Mrs. Rodowsky says even though he’s getting remedial help at school, he also needs help with his homework. But he’s so resistant to adults right now that she thought maybe she could hire us to help him out from time to time, since we’re more his own age. Or at least, not adults.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Stacey thoughtfully. “We had a kids tutoring kids program like that in my school in New York. I was going to be a math tutor if I had stayed. It was pretty cool, actually.”
Jessi nodded. “When I dance, it does help to see someone close to my age working on the same exercises and routines, for some reason. It’s not as intimidating, I guess.”
“Mrs. Rodowsky would like to try out her idea starting this Wednesday afternoon,” Kristy went on.
Mary Anne ran her finger down the pages of the record book. “Claudia and I are both available.”
“Count me out on tutoring, guys,” I said. I didn’t add that I was practically in the resource room myself.
“You’re sure? Okay.” Carefully, Mary Anne entered her name in the book. (Did I mention that she has never, ever made a mistake in the records?)
Stacey zeroed in on me. “Why not, Claudia? You did okay with Rosie Wilder.” (She was referring to a baby-sitting client of ours who was a genius, and had made me feel big-time stupid — until I realized that underneath she was as human as the rest of us, and that what she really wanted was not to be a genius-at-large, but an artist. That I could help her with.)
I sighed. I should have known my best friend would sense that things were not going too well for me. “Why not? Well, this is the deal. Mrs. Hall told me that if I don’t get a good grade, a really good grade, on the English test coming up two weeks from this Wednesday, I’m going to flunk English.”
“Oh, no!” gasped Mary Anne.
“You need to get some help,” said Kristy briskly.
“No kidding,” I said, depression washing over me. “Especially since a big part of the test is going to be spelling and vocabulary.”
“How about the resource room?” said Dawn neutrally.
“No! I mean, I don’t have to go, yet. But if I don’t pass this test …”
“Wait a minute!” Stacey leaned forward. “What about us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What about you?”
“Tutoring you! We’re tutoring Shea. Why couldn’t we tutor you?”
“Practice,” said Jessi. “She’s right. What you need is practice!”
See what I mean? Friends. I didn’t get a lump in my throat, but it really meant a lot, and I said so.
Kristy waved her hand as if to brush all that sentimentality aside. “What about it, Claudia? Are you going to let us tutor you?”
“I’d like to. Let me check with my parents and let you know after dinner.”
“Okay,” said Kristy. She looked at her watch. “Oh, lord. It’s nearly six o’clock! I better call Mrs. Rodowsky back.”
Shea was one lucky kid, to have the Baby-sitters Club on his side, I thought, relaxing and letting my thoughts drift. And so, for that matter, was I.
“Um,” I said.
Neither of my parents, who were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, looked up.
It was after dinner. I’d decided to be responsible and mature about the English test and talk to my parents as soon as the time was right. Of course, the time never seems right to give people, especially parents, bad news. But some times are better than others. For instance, I didn’t bring up the subject at the dinner table with my sister the genius there. Janine is not mean, but she’s not exactly sensitive the way Mary Anne is either.
I closed my eyes for a minute and imagined the scene. Janine would finish talking about brussels sprouts as a cruciferous vegetable. (I think that means they are definitely not junk food. Whatever they are, they aren’t my favorites.) Anyway, I’d mention, casually, that I was having a little trouble in English. My father, who is a partner in an investment firm and a fanatic about accuracy, would say immediately: “Define what you mean by ‘a little trouble,’ Claudia.” So I’d begin explaining and my mother, who is the head librarian at the Stoneybrook library and therefore very good at English, would look puzzled and then serious. How could she have a daughter who didn’t love school? Especially English?
Then Janine, who doesn’t understand how someone can even make a “B” in a subject, much less be in danger of failing, would say, “Your mental capacities, Claudia, are more than adequate to surmount any difficulties in the average middle school subjects. Are you addressing yourself to the subject in question as you should?”
Which would mean, “Claudia, you’re not stupid. So you must not be trying.”
Unfortunately, Janine would only be saying what my parents and teachers and everybody believes: that I’m an underachiever.
They don’t understand how hard it is not to be bored out of my mind by school. I don’t understand it myself.
“Claudia?”
I opened my eyes. Both my parents were looking at me.
“Oh! Hi.”
“Hello, Claudia,” said my mother. She smiled.
“I have to talk to you,” I blurted out.
My mother patted the seat of the chair next to her, still smiling a little. “Sit down then. Would you like something to drink?”
“Milk,” I said quickly. “I’ll just pour me a glass of milk.” (It seemed like a more mature choice than soda.) Having a glass of milk in my hand also gave me something to hold on to.
With the glass of milk clutched in my hand, I sat down.
“Well, Claudia?” asked my father.
I took a gulp of milk. “The good news is I’m not failing English …”
My parents waited.
“… yet,” I finished weakly.
The little smile left my mother’s face. But she said calmly, “Perhaps you better explain a little more.”
So I did. I told them about the conversation with Mrs. Hall, and about the conversation with my friends in the BSC.
“So,” I concluded. “I can study really hard, and with the help of my friends, I feel I can handle the test.”
I stopped and suddenly realized I had a milk mustache. So much for looking mature and responsible. I quickly wiped it off while my parents had a conversation with their eyes (you know how parents do that).
Finally my mother said, “It does sound like you have thought this through. We’re willing to let you handle it in your own way.”
“Oh, good!”
“But there are conditions.”
Uh-oh. I started to take another nervous gulp of milk, then realized I had finished the whole glass.
“We will talk to Mrs. Hall, find out what material the test will cover. Someone will continue to check your homework every night.” (I forgot to mention this is one of the rules in our house.) “And we will also periodically check on the work you are doing on your own and with your friends. Deal?”
“It’s a deal,” I said happily. I stood up, rinsed the glass, and put it in the sink. “Thank you, thank you,” I said.
“Don’t thank us. It is up to you,” my father reminded me.
“I know. I have to go call everyone and tell them,” I said. I added quickly, “And set up tutoring dates.”
My father’s eyes twinkled a little I think. “Yes,” he said. “You better do that.”
I’ve tutored people before. I’m the one who taught Emily Michelle her shapes and colors. And I’ve been tutored, of cours
e, in the resource room. But I’ve never been tutored by someone who is my own age and who is my friend. Particularly my best friend.
So I’m not sure what I expected the next afternoon at my first tutoring session with Stacey. One thing I wasn’t expecting was that she would be so strict. She came over to my house right after school. I was trying to clean up my room. (It’s usually a little — well, a lot — messy.) But I’d gotten sidetracked by the discovery of a package of gourmet coconut macadamia nut cookies, and was finishing one off when Stacey came into the room.
“Pretzels?” I said, offering her the bag of sourdough pretzels.
“No, thank you,” said Stacey.
“Where do you want to sit?” I asked. “I’ve cleared off my bed. But I can move all the junk that’s on my desk to the floor. Or we can work on the floor.”
Stacey shook her head. “No.”
“No? No, we’re not going to work? No, you’ve changed your mind?” I grabbed my hair and pretended to pull it out in horror.
Stace didn’t even crack a smile. “No, we’re not going to work on your bed or on the floor or at the desk. We’re not going to work in your room.”
“We’re not?”
“Where’s your English book? Please get it, your notebook, and whatever else you need and come with me.”
Mystified, I did what Stacey told me and followed her meekly down the stairs into the kitchen.
“Good. No one’s around.” Stacey went over to the table and pulled out a chair. “You sit here.”
I sat. I watched in amazement as Stacey cleared off the kitchen table, unplugged the telephone, and turned the clock radio so it faced the wall and I couldn’t see what time it was.
“You forgot the timer clock on the stove,” I pointed out. “I can still see that.”
Even my sarcasm didn’t faze Stacey. She shifted a stockpot so it was in front of the stove clock. Then, hands on her hips, she surveyed the rest of the kitchen with a little frown.
“Okay,” she said finally.