Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
“Ugh,” groaned Stacey McGill.
“Oh, no,” Jessica Ramsey added.
“Not again,” Mary Anne Spier complained.
Claudia Kishi shook her head. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Grimly I stared out the front door of Stoneybrook Middle School. It was snowing. Thick, swirling snow, already deep enough to show footprints.
“Guys,” I said with a heavy sigh, “we’ll just have to deal with this.”
We all trudged outside.
Call me Ebenezer. Ebenezer Scrooge Thomas. Or maybe Kristy the Grinch. I’m sorry, but I was not in the mood for snow. As you can tell, neither were my friends.
Back in December, I couldn’t wait for winter. The first snowstorm was great. So were the second, third, and fourth. Then came the ice storm in January. Then a few more snows. By mid-February, my arms were tired from shoveling, my boots were starting to smell, and the snow on the sidewalk had turned an interesting shade of gray-brown.
Now it was March. We’d had a whole week of warm, springlike weather. My down coat was at the cleaners, and I was already thinking about softball season.
And flowers.
And spring vacation.
But did the weather cooperate? Noooo. Here we were, two and a half weeks from spring, caught in a blizzard.
It just didn’t seem fair.
Outside, the snow soaked up the bus engine noise like a gigantic muffler. We huddled together against the wind. The flakes seemed to be shooting upward from the sidewalk.
“In like a lion, huh?” Abby Stevenson said.
“Brrrr.” Claudia shivered. “Very leonine.”
“Leonine?” I repeated.
“It means, ‘like a lion,’ ” Claudia explained.
“How do you know that?” asked Stacey.
Claudia raised her eyebrows. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“Uh, g-g-guys,” said Mallory Pike through chattering teeth, “can we c-c-continue this another t-t-time?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling kind of … you know, icicline,” Abby said. “See you all later.”
She ran toward the bus.
“ ‘Like an icicle,’ ” Stacey explained.
Claudia shot her a Look. “Thank you.”
“ ’Bye!” I shouted, running after Abby.
Riding the bus is not exactly my favorite thing to do, but that day I felt pretty lucky. Inside it was so nice and warm, I didn’t even notice the pukey green color of the walls and ceiling.
Of all my closest friends, only Abby and her twin sister live bus-distance from school. Our neighborhood is in the countryish section of Stoneybrook, Connecticut. Some people call it the rich section. I don’t, because that would make me sound snobby.
And I, Kristy Thomas, am the exact opposite of a snob. I’m also hard-working, cheerful, lovable, fair, and very take-charge. Oh, and modest, too. (Please don’t barf, I’m just stating facts.)
More facts: I’m thirteen years old. I’m in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I have shoulder-length brown hair and dark-brown eyes. I’m five feet tall and I dress casually all the time.
I live in a huge house, sort of a mansion, because my stepdad is a millionaire. My family is highly blended. (Don’t you love that word? It makes us sound like a big banana milkshake.) Actually, it means my mom and stepdad each had families before they married each other. The Thomas part of the blend includes my mom, my three brothers (Charlie’s seventeen, Sam’s fifteen, and David Michael’s seven and a half), and my grandmother, Nannie. Nannie moved in with us to help take care of Emily Michelle, my adopted sister who was born in Vietnam. My stepdad, Watson Brewer, has a seven-year-old daughter (Karen) and a four-year-old son (Andrew) who live with us every other month. Our pets are BooBoo the cat, Shannon the puppy, and two goldfish named Crystal Light the Second and Goldfishie. Whenever Karen and Andrew arrive, they bring Emily Junior the rat and Bob the hermit crab.
Got all that? Good, because I’ll be giving you a quiz later on.
Just joking.
Okay, I might as well say it right now. I do have a sense of humor. Despite what my friends might tell you. They’ll say I’m loud, bossy, and opinionated.
Hard to believe, I know. First of all, I’m only opinionated when I know I’m right. Maybe I go overboard, but I can’t help it. I’m a real solutions person. If I see a problem, boooinnng, my mind springs into action. When others are still in the head-scratching stage, I already have an answer. My friends call me the Idea Machine.
How did I become like this? Practice. My family may be comfortable now, but life used to be full of problems. When I was a little kid, right after David Michael was born, my dad abandoned our family. Mom had a lot to handle, and I thought of all kinds of ways to help out.
One of my all-time best ideas, the Baby-sitters Club, occurred to me one day when Mom had trouble finding a sitter for David Michael. My solution was simple: a group of reliable sitters who meet regularly to take phone calls and assign jobs. Not only did it help my mom, but it changed forever the lives of many Stoneybrook parents.
Thank you, thank you. Don’t applaud, just send clients. (Kidding!)
As for being bossy, well, I have to be. I’m club president. I have to be loud, too. Come to a meeting someday and you’ll know why.
Now that we’ve got all that straight, back to the bus on that frozen March afternoon.
Abby had already found a seat and was gabbing away. I walked to the back of the bus to sit next to her twin sister, Anna.
Abby and Anna are my newest friends. They moved to Stoneybrook from Long Island. Their mom works in New York City, for a publishing company. (I know their dad died a few years ago in a car accident, but they haven’t spoken much about him.) They’re identical twins, technically. But boy, are they different. Abby’s kind of goofy and loud, not too studious, and pretty athletic. Her hair is dark brown and bouncy, she has asthma, and she’s allergic to about five million things. Anna’s quiet and thoughtful and a really talented musician (she’s played violin in a professional orchestra). Her hair is shorter than Abby’s, she doesn’t care about sports, and she hasn’t the slightest trace of an allergy.
Both of them, by the way, are going to become Bat Mitzvahs next month. That’s a rite of passage for most thirteen-year-old Jewish girls. It means they have to lead part of a Shabbat service and read from the holiest book in their religion, the Torah. It also means they have to study like crazy (the reading is in Hebrew).
That day on the bus, however, Anna was deeply involved in a book that appeared to be written in English.
“Hey, don’t you have orchestra on Tuesdays?” I asked.
“Huh?” Anna looked up with a start. (I guess I should have said hello first.) “Oh, hi. Mrs. Pinelli canceled rehearsal. She wanted to drive right home because of the weather.”
“Disgusting day, huh?” I said.
A smile crept across Anna’s face as she looked out the window. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
“Yeah. It is. I mean, the way it looks and all. It’s just that we’
ve had so much of it. That’s the disgusting part.”
Anna nodded. Then she started reading again.
I took a closer look at her book. The words The Infinite Variety of Music were printed across the top of one page.
“Is that good?” I asked.
“Mm-hm.” Anna glanced up briefly. “Leonard Bernstein was so brilliant.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding in agreement.
Right. Did I know who Leonard Bernstein was? No way. I guess he was a musician (duh).
I like Anna, but honestly, sometimes when I’m with her I feel like a doofus.
Personally, I don’t know a French horn from an English muffin. But ask me who the top ten batters in the National and American leagues were last year, and I’ll rattle them off. I love sports. Did I tell you I happen to be the founder, manager, and head coach of a softball team? It’s called Kristy’s Krushers, and it’s for kids who aren’t quite ready for Little League.
As the bus rolled slowly away from the school, I waved to Claudia, Mary Anne, Mallory, Jessi, and Stacey, who were slogging home in the snow. I felt bad for them.
Then Anna started chatting about Beethoven and Brahms and Leonard Bernstein, and I felt bad for me.
I guess life is a trade-off.
* * *
By the time I arrived home, the snow had tapered off and the sun was breaking through the clouds. Snowplows had already cleared the street, and kids were jumping into the piled-up snow. A snowball fight was in full force at the home of my neighbors, the Papadakises. I had to admit, McLelland Road looked like a beautiful winter postcard.
I said good-bye to Abby and Anna, then walked up my driveway between a set of fresh tire tracks. I figured my brother Charlie had just driven home from school in the Junk Bucket, his wrecked-up but totally cool car.
I tried the back door, but it was locked. I rang the bell while I rummaged around in my backpack for my house keys. I could hear Shannon yipping like crazy in the kitchen.
When I let myself in, Shannon jumped all over me. I picked her up and called out, “Charlie, didn’t you hear me?”
Then I spotted a handwritten note on the kitchen table. I leaned over and read it:
Poor Nannie. Stuck in the snow with the Pink Clinker. That’s the name of her car, which is old and pink and has over a hundred thousand miles on it.
Poor David Michael, too. I hoped he was okay.
I put Shannon down. On the table, next to the note, was an open bag of tortilla chips, two Yankee Doodle wrappers, and a plate with a half-eaten bagel and cream cheese.
Definite signs of Charlie.
“Charlie?” I called out.
Yap! Yap!
Shannon was not letting me alone. Obviously no one had taken her for a walk yet.
I knew where Charlie was. Hiding upstairs, trying to avoid dog-walking duty. Laughing at me. Grrrr.
“Creep!” I called out as loudly as I could. Then I said to Shannon, “Don’t worry. I care about you.”
I grabbed her leash from a hook in the mud room, fastened it to her collar, and opened the back door.
Shannon took off like a shot. I almost fell out the door. She led me around the house and onto McLelland, her tail wagging like crazy.
It was still pretty gray and chilly. “Let’s make this a short one, huh?” I asked Shannon.
Guess again. Shannon wouldn’t hear of it. When I tried to pull her back, she squealed as if I were trying to murder her.
Before long, we were in the wooded area beyond McLelland. Shannon loves to walk through there in the summertime to the tennis courts beyond, where she can sit and watch the players.
“Uh, Shannon, I hate to disappoint you,” I said, “but the season hasn’t —”
That was when I spotted the Junk Bucket in the parking lot beyond the court. (I guess the tire tracks I’d seen in the driveway had been made backing out of the garage, not going in.)
It was the only car there. I could see Charlie inside — well, actually, the back of his head. He looked as if he were talking to someone.
As I walked closer, he turned slightly.
I stopped in my tracks. His face was … attached. To a girl’s.
He wasn’t talking. He was kissing!
I could feel my face turning red. Not that I was shocked or anything. I mean, kissing is no big deal. And Charlie is seventeen. He does have girlfriends.
But if he saw me, I was dead meat.
“Ssshhhhh,” I said, picking up Shannon and backing away.
Now I knew what had happened. Charlie had arrived home with his latest girlfriend, Sarah. He expected Nannie, David Michael, Andrew, and Emily to be home, but the house was empty.
Mom has a strict rule about girlfriends. They are not allowed into the house if no adults are present. I know, it sounds like a dumb rule. And Charlie and Sam have both thrown fits about it. But Mom is stubborn, and my brothers know not to cross her.
So Charlie had obeyed. Sort of. He and Sarah had wolfed down a quick snack and left the house.
And then they’d gone parking.
Silently I walked back through the woods, and then onto the street. As I set Shannon down, I could not stop grinning.
“This is between you and me,” I whispered.
But all I could think was, You’d better be nice to me, Charlie Thomas. I know your secret.
I jogged home behind Shannon. Clouds of snow puffed around my feet.
All of a sudden, the weather didn’t seem so bad, after all.
“Steeeeeee-ro-o-o-o-o-ike!” bellowed Bart Taylor. (Translation: “Strike!” in Bart’s own baseball lingo.)
Linny Papadakis dropped his bat. “No way!” he protested. “You need an eye exam!”
“Hey, I do not … Ralph,” Bart replied.
“Ralph?” Linny repeated.
Bart grinned. “Joke,” he said. “Get it? Eye exam … Ralph?”
“Uh-huh,” Linny said. (Or maybe it was “ha-ha.” Whatever it was, I don’t think he got it.) He scowled and lifted his bat to his shoulders. “Ball one.”
“Come on, pitcher, straighten it out,” I said, crouching behind the plate.
We were in my front yard, facing away from the house. Our “plate” was a trash can lid. It was still early March, weeks away from softball season. The snow had melted (yay!) but the air was still chilly. I was wearing a wool jacket, unbuttoned.
Most of the neighborhood kids were outside. My stepsister, Karen, was trying to teach my stepbrother, Andrew, how to ride a two-wheeler. Across the street, Melody Korman was playing catch with Timmy and Scott Hsu.
Bart and I were coaching an informal, off-season practice with some Krushers: Linny and his friend, Bill Korman, who are both nine; and my brother, David Michael, and Linny’s sister, Hannie, who are seven. (In case you were worried, David Michael had had an ear infection but was fine now.)
Hannie, David Michael, and Bill were waiting impatiently in the “field.” Linny waved his bat around, trying to look like a major leaguer. He held his hand up grandly to call a timeout. He stepped back and looked agitated. He spat.
“Eeeeeeww, gross!” cried Hannie.
Linny glared at her. “You’re wrecking my concentration!”
“You’re wrecking Kristy’s lawn!” Hannie replied.
“Play ball!” Bill insisted.
Thud. Linny hit the next pitch. The ball rolled across the lawn. Hannie put her glove down, but the ball bounced against her bare right hand. “Owwwww!” she cried out.
“Butterfingers,” Linny said.
“It really hurts, Linny!” Hannie cried, her eyes welling up.
Bill raced after the ball. Linny was circling the yard in slow motion, like a home run on video replay. He held his fist up and nodded to the imaginary cheering crowd.
When Bill threw the ball to me, I handed it to Hannie and pushed her toward Linny.
She tagged him hard.
“Yerrrrrrrr out!” Bart shouted.
“Yay, Hannie!” Melody cried
from across the street.
“Hey, no fair!” Linny protested. “This isn’t a real game!”
“I’m next batter!” David Michael called out.
As David Michael picked up the bat, Linny stormed into the field. He ignored his sister’s triumphant grin.
I tried to keep from laughing. I didn’t want Linny to think I was teasing him. The poor kid was in a bad enough mood.
Bart, on the other hand, was in hysterics. Giggling like crazy. Honestly, I wanted to smack him.
For a cute guy, Bart can be a jerk. Sometimes. Usually he’s fun to be with. He’s a good ballplayer, athletic and graceful. He has the deepest brown eyes, thick brown hair, and the most adorable lopsided smile.
Bart and I were going steady, sort of. Not boyfriend-girlfriend-kissyface-make-me-puke, like Charlie and Sarah, but hanging-out-and-going-to-dances-and-parties. For example, before the practice that day, he’d asked me to go to a movie the next weekend and I had said, “Cool.” That was about the tone of it. Pretty low key.
“Come on, Bart Man, pitch the ball,” I said.
Bart lobbed an underhand pitch to David Michael. It was too low.
Smmmmmack! I don’t know how, but David Michael really whacked it.
It sailed over Linny, Hannie, and Bill, right into the street.
“Heads up!” Bart yelled.
“Home run! Home run!” David Michael shouted.
“Pop fly,” Linny muttered. (What a sport.)
Hannie ran after the ball. Across the street, Melody and the Hsu boys were running after it, too.
Timmy reached it first. He reared back and threw. It sailed sideways, down the street. (Timmy, I feel obligated to say, is not a Krusher.)
Luckily Karen and Andrew were just rounding the corner. Karen fielded the ball and threw it back.
“I want to bat!” Andrew yelled, climbing off his bike.
“Me, too,” Hannie said.
“I call first!” Scott shouted.
“Second!” Karen chimed in.
“Okay, alphabetically by first names!” I yelled.
“I change my name to Aaron!” Bill said.
“Alphabetically backward,” Bart replied.
Bill grinned. “I’m Zack!”
The kids were all crowding around home plate. Bart was shaking his head, laughing like crazy. “What’s so funny?” I asked.