If you read one of Mallory’s stories, you’d know how mature she really is. Mature and talented. Her dream is to be a children’s book writer and illustrator someday. I personally hope she becomes the next Marguerite Henry or Bonnie Bryant. (Mal and I both adore horse stories.)
I could go on and on with the things Mallory and I have in common. One of the few things we don’t have in common is our looks. Mal’s skin is pale white and freckly. Her hair is reddish-brown and super-thick and she wears glasses. (I don’t.) And you would never mistake her for a dancer. I keep telling her to straighten her posture, but she never listens.
At the BSC meeting that Friday, she was gently pushing my ankles upward, helping me do leg lifts. Mary Anne and Stacey were lifting their feet because Claudia needed to look under her bed for something. Shannon Kilbourne, who had been standing at the foot of the bed, was scrunched up against the wall. Abby was dancing to a tune coming through the radio. Kristy was sitting in her director’s chair, tapping a pencil on Claudia’s desk.
“Any new business?” Kristy called out.
“Yes,” Claudia said, yanking out a huge bag of candy. “Snickers! To celebrate Jessi’s last meeting before she goes to New York. They were half price all week. I got the last nine bags.”
Abby looked around the room curiously. “Nine bags?”
“Well, we don’t have to eat them all now,” Claudia explained.
“This is not business,” Kristy snapped. “I asked for new business!”
Rrrrring! went the phone.
Claudia snatched up the receiver. “Baby-sitters Club, Incorporated. Your kids are our business.”
Kristy cringed. The rest of us cracked up.
“No, Mrs. Kuhn, just joking,” Claudia said. “Next Thursday night? Okay, I’ll get right back to you.”
As she hung up, Mary Anne began checking the BSC record book.
That’s how we handle our job requests. First stop is always Mary Anne, our club secretary. Inside the record book she keeps a master calendar. She marks all our jobs and conflicts in it — medical appointments, after-school activities, family trips, and so on. She knows at a glance which of us is available. Not only that, she distributes the jobs evenly among us. Plus she keeps an updated client list in the back of the book. It includes addresses, phone numbers, rates charged, and important information about our charges (such as their birthdays and favorite foods).
If Kristy is the queen bee of the group, Mary Anne is the number one worker bee. She makes sure everything runs smoothly. Actually, Kristy and Mary Anne have been best friends practically since birth. They even look a little alike — same height, same dark brown eyes and hair. But you would never mix them up in a million years. Mary Anne is quiet, for one thing, and she hates sports. She’s also a good listener and cries at the slightest thing. Her boyfriend, Logan Bruno, takes along a jumbo box of tissues when they go to sad movies together.
Mary Anne’s life would make a sad movie. Her mom died when Mary Anne was a baby. Her dad, Richard, fell apart. He had to let Mary Anne’s grandparents raise her while he recovered. Then, when he said he was ready to take her back, they refused to give her up. They didn’t believe he could raise her alone. He finally convinced them, but he thought he had to become the world’s strictest parent, to prove he could do the job. He raised Mary Anne with tons of rules — early curfews, strict homework hours, phone call limits, no pants to school, conservative hairstyles.
Eventually, he loosened up. Even better, he got married again — to his old high school sweetheart, who happened to move back to Stoneybrook after divorcing her husband in California.
Even better than that, his old high school sweetheart happened to be the mother of Dawn Schafer, a BSC member! Now, that’s a romantic story. Around the time Dawn joined the BSC, she and Mary Anne found out about the long-ago Lost Love. They played matchmaker, and the rest is history. Mary Anne gained a sister, a brother (Jeff Schafer, who’s ten), and a mom. She also got to move into the Schafers’ cool two-hundred-year-old farmhouse.
I wish I could say it all had a happy ending. But first Jeff decided to return to Mr. Schafer in California. Then Dawn did. That really broke up Mary Anne (the rest of us were also pretty devastated). Dawn does manage to visit a lot, though. And Mary Anne loves having a stepmom. Sharon (Mrs. Schafer Spier) is fun-loving and absentminded, just the opposite of Richard. Mary Anne can look and dress the way she wants to. (Her style is a conservative, preppy look, which Claudia calls “L.L. J. Crew Bauer.”)
Claudia, by the way, is our vice-president. But a better title might be Snack Czar. She is devoted to junk food. Her parents, unfortunately, don’t allow it in the house. So Claudia hides it wherever she can.
Which is not hard. Her room has lots of nooks. It’s a total mess. For each meeting, she has to push aside sketchbooks, canvases, sculptures, and all kinds of artworks-in-progress. You see, art is Claudia’s other love. Even her outfits are like collages. She puts them together from stuff she finds in thrift shops and at yard sales. That day, for example, she was wearing a leopard-skin jumpsuit with a black silk shirt tied at the waist with leather strips; black, steel-tipped combat boots; and rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye glasses perched on her head. (Claudia doesn’t actually wear glasses.) If I wore that outfit, people would laugh. But on Claudia, it looks right.
If you met Claudia’s family, you wouldn’t believe they are related to her. Mr. Kishi’s a banker and Mrs. Kishi’s a librarian. Claudia’s sister, Janine the Genius, is in eleventh grade but she takes college courses. They’re all super-conservative and dedicated to high achievement. Claudia, on the other hand, has always had trouble with academics. For a while, she even had to be sent back to seventh grade.
Claudia used to have a soul mate in the family, her grandmother, Mimi. Mimi seemed very “old country” (the Kishis are Japanese-American), but she appreciated Claudia’s creativity. After Mimi died, Claudia put a photo of her on her bedroom wall. It always inspires her when she’s feeling confused or lonely.
Claudia’s best friend is Stacey McGill. When it comes to junk food, they’re like Jack Sprat and his wife. Stacey cannot eat sweets. She has a condition called diabetes. Her body doesn’t produce the proper amount of an important hormone called insulin, which is like a traffic cop for sugar. When a nondiabetic person eats something sweet, the insulin lets some of the sugar into the bloodstream, while holding back the rest until later. In a diabetic, all the sugar rushes right into the blood, which is not a good thing. Fortunately, Stacey can lead a normal life as long as she eats at regular times, monitors what she eats, and injects herself daily with artificial insulin. It sounds gross, I know, but Stacey says it’s as painless as brushing your teeth.
Looking at Stacey, you’d never imagine she has any kind of health condition. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is golden blonde and her smile is about, oh, five hundred watts. If you spot a new fashion trend, chances are Stacey’s discovered it already. She loves sleek, urban clothes, and black is her favorite color.
Stacey likes to say she grew up on the cutting edge of fashion (otherwise known as New York City). She lived there until seventh grade, when her dad’s company transferred him to Connecticut. Stacey adjusted to the suburbs, joined the BSC, and then — whoosh — another transfer back to the city. We thought we’d lost her forever. But soon she was back again, this time with only her mother. Yup, divorce. Mr. and Mrs. McGill hadn’t been getting along for a while, and they finally split up. (Stacey’s dad still lives in the city, so she gets to visit a lot.)
Stacey’s our treasurer, mainly because she loves math. Each Monday she collects dues. At the end of the month she pays Claudia for the phone, allots some money to buy Kid-Kit stuff, and gives Kristy’s brother Charlie a gas allowance for driving Kristy and Abby to meetings.
Abby lives way over in Kristy’s neck of the woods. She moved to Stoneybrook from Long Island with her twin sister, Anna, and their mom. Just in time, too, because Dawn had left and we were overloaded wi
th baby-sitting jobs. We asked both girls to join, but Anna said no. She’s a serious musician who dedicates her free time to practicing violin.
Abby is so different from her quiet sister. She’s, well, big. Not physically, but personality-wise. She’s outgoing and friendly and athletic, and she can find the humor in anything. Even her hair is big. It flows to her shoulders in thick, uncontrollable ringlets. Sometimes Abby calls it “the Beast.”
Since Abby joined the club, Claudia has tried to keep her room dust-free. That’s because Abby’s allergic to dust — as well as to dogs and strawberries and a thousand other things. She has asthma, too, and always carries a set of inhalers with her.
Lately Abby has been reading about the connection between illness and the mind. She thinks her asthma might be affected by the sadness she feels. You see, her dad was killed in a car crash when she and Anna were nine. Whenever she talks about that (which isn’t often), you can see the pain in her eyes.
Abby’s spiritual side really came out at her Bat Mitzvah. That’s a coming-of-age ceremony held for Jewish girls when they turn thirteen. She and Anna invited all us BSC members to theirs. Even though I didn’t understand the Hebrew they recited, I found the ceremony very moving.
Abby, by the way, is the BSC’s alternate officer. She takes over for any officer who’s absent.
The BSC has two associate members, Logan and Shannon. They aren’t required to pay dues or attend meetings, but they help us out whenever they can. Logan, as I mentioned before, is Mary Anne’s boyfriend. He’s friendly and outgoing, but he’s way too involved in after-school sports to be a regular member. Besides, his teammates tease him about being in the BSC, and that bothers him (even though he denies it). Shannon, who lives across the street from Kristy, goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School. (The rest of us attend Stoneybrook Middle School.)
Shannon had made a special appearance at Friday’s meeting, just to say good-bye to me. “So, are you going to come visit us on weekends?” she asked.
“Puh-leeze. Would you?” Claudia cut in. “She’s going to be going out every night. Clubs, parties, shows. Besides, she can see that guy — Clint? What was his name?”
I was thinking, Clubs, parties? Is Claudia crazy? But all I said was, “Quint.” I could feel myself blushing. Quint Walter was a boy I’d met in the audience of a New York City Ballet performance. He’s a dancer too. He lives in Manhattan and studies at Juilliard, which is a famous school for dance, music, and drama in New York City. We kind of liked each other. Well, more than liked. He’s the only boy I’ve ever kissed. We wrote and called for a while, but it was just too hard to keep up a long-distance relationship. Besides, I wasn’t ready to have a steady boyfriend. We agreed to stay friends, but eventually we lost touch.
“Anyway, Shannon,” I said, quickly changing the subject, “I won’t be home next weekend. Dance New York has planned activities for us on Saturday and Sunday.”
“What about the weekend after?” Mary Anne asked.
I shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Uh-oh, she’s forgetting us already,” Abby murmured.
“We’ll keep a candle burning in the window,” Stacey added with a dramatic sigh. “Maybe someday you’ll return.”
“Oh, you guys are worse than Becca. She acts like I’ll never see her again.”
“Will you?” Claudia asked.
The phone rang before I could respond.
Which was just as well. I was tired of these jokes.
Of course I wasn’t going to stay in NYC.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
“Jessi! Mal’s here!” yelled my mother from downstairs.
“Come … on … up!” I said, yanking my suitcase zipper.
I plopped down onto my bedroom floor. No way was that suitcase going to close.
Should I have packed the Saturday night before I had to leave? Of course. Did I? No-o-o-o.
Now it was Sunday. I’d spent all morning throwing things into two suitcases, a garment bag, and a backpack. No one was helping me. Mama and Daddy were busy getting ready for the drive to New York. Becca was having a tantrum. Aunt Cecelia was clattering around after Squirt.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. My door opened and Mal walked in. “Hi.”
“They told me to pack light!” I said. “How do you pack light for a winter in New York City? You need sweaters, a raincoat, a down vest, boots, plus the ballet stuff.”
Mal knelt down and began looking through my clothes. “Well, you only need a few shirts, really. You’ll be dressed in your ballet clothes most of the day and you can do laundry …”
One by one, Mallory removed items of clothing and put them on the bed. Then she zipped the suitcase right up.
“Will you come with me?” I asked. “I need a personal assistant.”
Mal adjusted her glasses and gave a funny little half smile. “Mm-hm.”
Together we brought all but one suitcase downstairs and to the front door. “I would help you,” Aunt Cecelia said, walking the opposite way, “but my ankles are acting up.”
I gave Mallory a Look. An I’ve heard that excuse before Look.
I thought she’d smile. But she just walked past me.
Daddy rushed into the front hall, buttoning up his coat. “I’ll take that, Jessi. Can’t do ballet with a strained back. Hi, Mal!”
He and Mallory headed outside. I headed for the stairs to get the other suitcase.
“Yes, you are going, Rebecca Ramsey!” came my mother’s voice from the den. “I cannot leave you here alone!”
“I don’t care!” Becca retorted.
Uh-oh.
I zoomed upstairs. Fortunately, my other suitcase was smaller, so I quickly ran it out to the car.
By that time, Mama was calling Daddy into the den to talk to Becca. Mallory and I were alone by the car.
I was so excited, I wanted to scream. Mallory was staring at the sidewalk.
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “this is it, I guess.”
Mallory took a deep breath. When she looked at me, her eyes were brimming with tears. “This is so ridiculous. You’re only going for a few weeks, but it feels as if you’re moving away forever.”
“Oh, Mal, is that why you’re so quiet?”
Mal’s face turned red. I put my arms around her, and she started giggling and crying at the same time. “I am so embarrassed.”
I heard the front door open, and I turned to see Becca stomping out in an open down coat.
“Becca, zip up that parka this minute!” Aunt Cecelia called from behind her.
“No!” Becca snapped. She didn’t even look at me as she climbed into the backseat of the car.
Mama bustled out after her, holding Squirt. Daddy followed, holding the collapsible stroller. Then came Aunt Cecelia, holding nothing. I hugged Mallory again and we exchanged a flurry of good-byes and I’ll-miss-yous.
Into the car I went. I helped Mama strap Squirt into his car seat and zoom — we were off.
“Onward to superstardom!” Daddy cried, honking his horn for no reason at all.
“Beebeeeep!” yelled Squirt.
Mama smiled and waved out the window. “Mallory looks upset.”
“Why can’t she come, and I’ll stay with the Pikes?” Becca grumbled. “I don’t want to go to stupid Brooklyn.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said gently. “It means we can spend more time together. I’m going to miss you, you know.”
Becca looked out the opposite window. “So?”
“So we can try to enjoy this time together.”
“So?”
Daddy flicked on the radio. “Let’s hear something sweet,” he said.
“Feet,” answered Squirt. He began squirming and whining, trying to kick off his sneakers.
I could tell it was not going to be an easy ride.
* * *
I do not remember going over the Throg’s Neck Bridge in New York. (Which is too bad. I’ve never
seen a throg.) I don’t remember the crowded buildings and congested highways. In fact, I can’t recall much of the ride at all. I must have fallen fast asleep on I-95.
I was awakened by a sharp bump. I thought we’d crashed. I uncurled from my sleeping position and sat up.
We were on a street lined with thin trees. Behind them were elegant three- and four-story brownstone apartment buildings. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper on either side. Daddy was trying to angle into a teeny parking space, going back and forth inches at a time, bumping the car behind us.
“Don’t hit the car, John,” Mama said.
“It’s only a love tap,” Daddy replied.
“How can people live like this?” Aunt Cecelia grumbled. “All crowded up, no privacy …”
Frankly, I loved the neighborhood. Especially the filigreed iron railings that ran up the stone steps of each building. And the huge, carved wood doors.
“Too many stairs,” Becca remarked.
After a few more love taps, the car was finally in. We all climbed out and took my luggage from the trunk.
Michael’s house was three blocks away. Three long blocks, through New York City slush. Then up a steep stoop to Michael’s front door.
“With all the money he makes, he can’t find a nice elevator building with a doorman?” Aunt Cecelia said.
Daddy pressed the buzzer labeled PARKER.
“Hello?” came a female voice.
“It’s John Ramsey!” Daddy announced in this booming radio-announcer’s voice.
EHHHHHHHHHH! went an extremely loud noise — the sound of the buzzer, which unlocked the front door. Daddy pushed the door open.
We walked into a small vestibule, carpeted with thick Persian rugs. A mirror hung on the wall, which was covered in gorgeous Laura Ashley-style wallpaper.