What would I have done in a situation like that? Fret, probably. But not Kristy. She calls herself a need-filler, and the description fits. She saw the need: a central number where parents could reach a group of baby-sitters. And she decided to fill it.
The Baby-sitters Club was born, with Kristy as president. It started with just Kristy, Claudia, Stacey, and me. We advertised around town, and before long we were flooded with calls. We began expanding, and we now number ten (including Dawn, who’s an honorary member).
Here’s how we operate: When a call comes in, we take down the necessary information, then tell the client we’ll call back. That’s when I go to work. As club secretary, I’m in charge of the official BSC record book. In it, I keep a master calendar that includes all our appointments plus each member’s conflicts — doctor and dentist appointments, lessons, after-school activities, and family trips. I can instantly tell who’s available, and I try to make sure our jobs are distributed evenly among us.
Some new clients are wary when they learn that we can’t guarantee the same sitter repeatedly. They don’t look forward to having to train new sitters all the time. But those concerns never last long. Kristy the Need Filler devised a method to keep us all prepared to sit for any client: the BSC notebook. After each job, we write a summary of what happened, making sure to include helpful information about our clients and their kids: new bedtimes and house rules, new hobbies and fears.
Great idea, isn’t it? Kristy’s full of them. Kid-Kits, for instance. They’re boxes filled with old toys, games, and books, which we sometimes take with us to sitting jobs. They don’t seem like much, but to kids, they’re little treasure chests. You would not believe all the creative events Kristy dreams up for our charges — parties, contests, shows, even a little kids’ softball team called Kristy’s Krushers.
I miss being Kristy’s neighbor. Like me, she moved away from Bradford Court. Nowadays she lives in the wealthy section of Stoneybrook, which is pretty far away. Kristy has to be driven to meetings by her brother, Charlie.
In Kristy’s neighborhood, houses like the Kents’ are not unusual. No, Mrs. Thomas didn’t win the lottery or invent a best-selling video game. She fell madly in love with Watson Brewer, a nice man who just happened to be a gazillionaire. They married, and before Kristy knew it, she was living in a mansion.
You’d be surprised how crowded it seems. For one thing, Kristy and her brothers are all pretty loud, and they tend to take up a lot of space. But Watson also has two children from his first marriage, Karen (who’s seven) and Andrew (four), who live there during alternate months. Kristy’s mom and Watson wanted a child of their own, so they adopted the most adorable two-year-old girl, Emily Michelle, who was born in Vietnam. To help take care of her, Kristy’s grandmother moved in. Add a sweet puppy dog named Shannon, a big old cat named Boo-Boo, two goldfish, a rat, and a hermit crab, and you can picture what life in the Brewer house is like.
Wealth hasn’t affected Kristy one bit. She’s exactly the same person she’s always been. Have you ever heard the saying “The eyes are the window to the soul”? That’s definitely true about Kristy. Those brown eyes of hers are always moving, always thinking. But the eyes don’t tell the whole story. I think clothes should be included in that saying, too. Kristy’s are practical, casual, rugged — just like her.
In fact, clothes say a lot about each of us. If you judge by Claudia’s outfits, her soul is crazy and fun and attention-grabbing. (She calls Kristy “wardrobicly-challenged.”) To Claudia, putting together outfits is a form of artistic expression, like everything else she does. I have never met anyone as creative as Claud. Painting, sculpting, drawing, jewelry-making — you name it, Claudia can do it well.
You may be wondering why a person so gifted has to repeat seventh grade. Claudia says that her talent in art made the other parts of her brain shrivel up. I don’t agree. I think it has more to do with her family. For one thing, Claud’s older sister, Janine, is a genius. For another, her parents are very strict and achievement-oriented. The way I see it, Claudia knew she couldn’t compete with her sister or live up to her parents’ standards. She had to turn to something she could succeed in — art. (I told this to Kristy, and she laughed. She said I should build a stand that says “The Psychiatrist Is In,” like Lucy in Peanuts.) Anyway, Claudia’s schoolwork definitely took a backseat — and I guess it finally caught up with her this year.
Claudia’s two other obsessions are junk food and Nancy Drew novels. She hides them all over her room, because Mr. and Mrs. Kishi allow only healthy foods and “classic literature” in the house. Despite her unique diet, Claudia is not the tiniest bit overweight, and her skin is clear and healthy-looking. She has stunning, jet-black hair and gorgeous almond-shaped eyes. (The Kishis are Japanese-American.)
Claudia, by the way, is our vice-president. She hosts the meetings and answers any calls that come in during off-hours.
Our treasurer is Stacey. She collects dues every Monday. At the end of each month, she uses the money to contribute to Claudia’s phone bill and pays Charlie gas money for driving Kristy (and Abby) to meetings.
How would you describe Stacey’s soul, judging by her clothes? Sophisticated and worldly. She grew up in the fashion capital of the U.S., New York City, and she dresses in an up-to-the-second, sleek, urban style.
I don’t know about you, but I adore the Big Apple. When Stacey talks about growing up near the American Museum of Natural History, riding the subways, visiting galleries and restaurants with her parents, I feel so envious.
Why is Stacey living in Stoneybrook now? Well, she first moved here in seventh grade, when her dad’s company transferred him to Connecticut. She met us and became an original BSC member, and then — whoosh — she moved back to NYC because Mr. McGill was transferred again. We thought she’d be gone for good, but the next thing we knew, the McGills’ marriage had fallen apart, and Stacey was house-hunting in Stoneybrook again with her mom. (Her dad stayed in the city.) Poor Stacey was devastated by the split-up and all the moving, but we rallied around her. Nowadays she says she has the best of both worlds. Her mom and dad are much happier, and Stacey has a great excuse to visit New York as often as possible.
If you ever come to one of our meetings, you might notice that Stacey is the only BSC member who won’t eat sweets. That’s because she has a condition called diabetes. Her body can’t process sugar properly. If Stacey ate a candy bar, for instance, the sugar would all go right into her bloodstream (in a nondiabetic, the sugar is parceled out a little at a time). This could be dangerous, but Stacey can lead a normal life by staying away from sweets, eating strictly regular meals, and injecting herself daily with a hormone called insulin. (The thought of that makes me queasy, but Stacey says it’s no big deal.)
Stacey has long, blonde hair and blue eyes. Until recently, she had a steady boyfriend named Robert Brewster, but they broke up. (One part of Stacey’s soul that you wouldn’t be able to guess at from her clothing is her broken heart.)
To glimpse Abby Stevenson’s soul, you wouldn’t have to look at her clothing at all. Just look at her hair. It’s wild and curly, and it cascades like a waterfall. That’s not a bad description of Abby. She’s bubbly and hilarious.
She’s also our newest member. The Stevensons moved into a house on Kristy’s block not long after Dawn moved to California. The timing was perfect. With one member missing, we were totally swamped.
We almost gained two sitters from the Stevenson family. Abby’s twin sister, Anna, turned down an invitation to join. She’s a super-serious violinist who practices several hours a day, so she couldn’t make the time commitment. (That made me sad. Anna is sweet and quiet and sensitive, and it would have been wonderful to have her in the club.)
Recently Abby and Anna became Bat Mitzvahs together. They participated in a ceremony that thirteen-year-old Jewish girls go through, to celebrate their passage out of childhood and into womanhood. The entire BSC was invited, and the service was so movin
g, I could barely stop crying.
The Stevenson twins grew up on Long Island, which is in New York. (“Pit-spittin’ distance from the Big Apple” is how Abby puts it.) Their mom works for a New York City publishing company. Their dad, sad to say, died in a car accident when the twins were nine. Abby doesn’t talk much about him.
Abby is the BSC’s alternate officer. She steps in whenever a regular officer is absent. Recently, while Kristy was away on a family trip to Hawaii, Abby filled in as president. Although she wasn’t nearly as organized as Kristy, she did a good job. She even put together a fund-raiser for an orphanage in Mexico.
So far, all the club members I’ve mentioned are thirteen years old. Except for Claudia, they’re all in eighth grade. Jessica Ramsey and Mallory Pike are eleven and in sixth grade. They’re our junior officers. Their parents don’t allow them to baby-sit at night (unless it’s for their own siblings), but we keep them busy with jobs during the afternoons.
Jessi and Mallory are best friends. The two things they love to do best are read horse books and complain about how their parents treat them like babies. They’re each the oldest in their families. Jessi has an eight-year-old sister named Becca and a baby brother named John Philip (Squirt, for short). Mallory has a huge family — seven siblings, including triplet brothers!
In some ways, Jessi and Mal are quite different. For one thing, Jessi is African American and Mal is white. Jessi likes to wear her hair pulled back, and she carries herself with super-correct posture. That’s because she’s a terrific ballerina. She takes lessons in Stamford, which is the city closest to Stoneybrook. Mallory has thick, reddish-brown hair, and she wears braces and glasses. Her main goal in life is to become a writer and illustrator of children’s books.
The BSC has two associate members. They aren’t required to pay dues or attend meetings, but we turn to them whenever we’re overbooked. Logan is one of them. Shannon Kilbourne is the other. She lives in Kristy’s and Abby’s neighborhood, and goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day, where she’s involved in a million different extracurricular activities.
As I mentioned before, my stepsister Dawn is our honorary member. Whenever she visits Stoneybrook, she comes to meetings. She even takes jobs, if she can fit them in. In California, she belongs to another baby-sitting group called the We Kids Club.
“He had this accent,” Kristy was saying now about Mr. Kent. “You know, like, ‘Quoit rrrroit, thenk you, deah.’ ”
Abby looked puzzled. “Russian?”
“No, British!” Kristy said.
Rrrrrring!
I reached for the phone. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” I said. “Mary Anne speaking.”
“Yes, K-L-five-three-two-three-one?” a voice said at the other end.
This accent was crystal clear. As British as could be.
“That’s right,” I replied. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m inquiring after a series of fliers I have received regarding what seem to be nanny services?”
“Well, uh, we’re not exactly a nanny service …” I grabbed a chewing gum wrapper from Claudia’s nighttable and scribbled on the back:
I held it up. Everyone fell silent.
“We’re just baby-sitters,” I said. “You know, middle-school age —”
“Ah. Even better,” the woman replied. “The name is Kent. We are seeking a companion for an eight-year-old girl. The child has lived her life in England and is new to the States entirely. She will be attending Stoneybrook Day School. As she is not boarding, her contact with other children will be limited. In the interest of a comfortable acclimation, you see, we thought the child would benefit from an older-sister figure.”
The child? What a way to talk about a daughter! I wanted to scold her, but I held it in. Instead, I gently asked, “Well, um, what’s her name, Mrs. Kent?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked, what’s her —”
“Did you say Mrs. Kent?” The woman chuckled. “Oh, dear, I’m not who you think I am. I’m the nanny.”
“Oh!” I could feel myself blushing. “I’m so sorry, Mrs., uh —”
“No need to apologize. My fault entirely for not introducing myself. And it’s Rutherford. Miss Ursula Rutherford.”
“I’m … um, Mary Anne!” I squeaked. “Miss, too.”
“Mary Anne Mistu,” Miss Rutherford said, rolling the R and pronouncing the I like a double E. “Lovely. Sounds like the title of an Egyptian love song. Well, you seem like a reasonable young woman. Could you come for an interview tomorrow?”
I looked around the room. Six pairs of eyes stared back at me in total befuddlement. “Actually, Miss Rutherford,” I said, “we do have several qualified sitters, and —”
“Well, I only need one, dear,” Miss Rutherford said. “Your address, please?”
My address? I had no idea why she wanted that. “Well, um, one seventy-seven Burnt Hill Road.”
“Very good. You will be picked up tomorrow at your house at nine forty-five sharp, if that’s convenient.”
“I guess — but —”
“Fine. See you then. And do look decent, please. We’ll have no sloppy dressing in Victoria’s presence. Nor gum chewing, for that matter. She’s a delightful child, impish at times, but you know, a princess is a princess, after all.”
My throat clammed right up.
“Good-bye,” Miss Rutherford barged on. “I look forward to our meeting.”
“Buh —” was all I could manage.
As I hung up the phone, I felt numb.
“What did she say?” Claudia asked.
“I —” I swallowed deeply. “I’m going to meet a princess.”
My mind was spinning as I left the meeting. I almost walked right past my house.
Now, I do follow world events in the newspaper, sort of, but I had never given much thought to the royal family of England. If you’d told me one of them was coming to Stoneybrook, I would probably have shrugged. I mean, in my opinion, people are people.
So why were my knees shaking as I walked home?
I kept hearing Miss Rutherford’s words in my mind: A princess is a princess. In less than twenty-four hours, I, Mary Anne Spier the Commoner, was going to be in the presence of royalty. I felt honored. I felt curious.
I felt scared out of my mind.
I pushed open my front door and called out, “I’m ho-o-ome!”
“Hi, home!” answered my father’s voice from the top of the stairs.
I hadn’t expected him to be there, so early on a Friday. He was on the top-floor landing, dressed in casual clothes and holding a suit on a hanger.
“Dad?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Packing,” he replied. “I have to go to Wisconsin tomorrow. A huge lawsuit that’s blowing up in our faces.”
Did I mention my dad is a lawyer? He works for a law firm in Stamford called Harte, Mudge, and Whitman (sometimes known as Hot Fudge and Whipped Cream). He used to work for a smaller firm, but ever since they merged with Hot Fudge, Dad’s had to travel a lot.
“Wisconsin?” I said. “How long?”
“Don’t sound so sad, sweetheart. I imagine we’ll be able to settle in three, four days.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll bring you back a huge pack of top-quality Milwaukee bratwurst. Just don’t tell Sharon.”
“I heard that!” called my stepmother the vegetarian, from her bedroom. “You will not come near this house with that animal carrion!”
Dad gave me a goony smile. Before he married Sharon, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Nowadays … well, he tries hard. I could tell he wanted to cheer me up.
I smiled back and started up the stairs. “Dad, have you ever known any royalty?”
He thought for a moment. “No, but when I was growing up, I had a dog named Duke. Does that count?”
As I reached the top of the stairs, Sharon barreled out of the bedroom, muttering, “I know I saw it somewhere…. I’ll find it, I promi
se.”
“My favorite tie’s missing,” Dad explained. “The maroon paisley one.”
“Did you lend it to someone?” I asked.
“No,” Dad said.
“Did you leave it somewhere?”
“No.”
Sharon was now clattering around the bathroom. Dad and I gave each other a Look.
My dad, I should say, is about as organized as Sharon is absentminded. He color-codes his shirts for daily use, so they wear out evenly. He will not leave one item on his desk when he leaves work. He never misplaces a thing. He still wears a watch he had as a boy.
“The last time I saw it,” Sharon called out, “it was all wrinkled. I picked it up and told myself I should take it to the cleaners, but I know I didn’t.”
As Dad walked into the bedroom to search, I tried to put myself in Sharon’s shoes. I closed my eyes and asked myself: If I were Sharon, what would I have done with a tie that was wrinkled?
I thought for a moment or two. I glanced into their bedroom.
Then it hit me. On a hunch, I walked straight to their bookcase and reached between volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary.
I pulled out a folded, flattened paisley tie. “Found it!”
Sharon rushed in. “Where — oh, of course!”
Dad was right behind her. When he saw me, he burst out laughing.
“Well, I just — I have a million things on my mind, and these sudden trips aren’t exactly easy to plan for —” Sharon stammered.
Dad smiled and gave her a big, warm hug.
I ducked out. I had enough to worry about on my own.
* * *
Somehow I made it through my homework, although I had trouble concentrating. Sharon and Dad were so busy packing that we ordered takeout pizza for dinner.
By the time Claudia came over to do homework, I had managed to put Princess Victoria in the back of my mind. Sitting at the kitchen table, we plunged into our work.