In three separate compartments were sliced carrots and a small container of ranch dressing. “Cool,” I said. I read the dip ingredients, checking for corn syrup or fructose or any other sweeteners that might be a problem for me. I didn’t see any. “These are neat.”
“I thought so too,” Claudia said. “And it made Mom very happy. She thought I wanted them for myself.”
Claudia is our vice-president, but her real job is hostess. It’s not much effort for her since her room is always fully supplied with treats. But I appreciate that she also goes out of her way to have healthy snacks on hand for me.
“Did you make those?” I asked as I noticed something gold flash against Claudia’s black hair.
She pushed back her hair to reveal a pair of long, shiny earrings dotted with small clay beads. Then she drew out a long beaded necklace, which had fallen beneath the bib of her tie-dyed overalls. (She’d dyed them herself.) She held the necklace out to give me a better look. “I made these beads last night,” she explained. “I tried a new method of baking the polymer clay.” The beads were gorgeous — swirling colors mixed with little specks of shiny beads.
That was Claudia, always experimenting, always searching for a way to do something even more creatively than she’d done it the time before. She is an artist.
Unfortunately, she lets her obsession with art drain her brainpower for school. Claudia was even sent back to seventh grade for a while. Now that she’s in eighth grade again, things are much improved, but still a bit rough. For one thing, her spelling remains atrocious. Her parents find this especially shocking since Claudia’s sixteen-year-old sister, Janine, is a genuine genius who has aced every test she’s ever taken.
Thinking about school troubles made me think of Mallory. “How’s everything going?” I asked her.
Mallory grimaced. “I didn’t exactly get rave reviews at the parent-teacher conferences,” she replied.
“Your teachers always adore you!” Mary Anne cried.
“They think I’ve suddenly developed a negative attitude toward school,” Mallory said. “And they’re right.”
“I know how that is,” Claudia mumbled with her mouth full of Mallomar.
Claudia had been seemingly born with a bad attitude toward school. Mallory’s troubles were recent, though. They had started when Stoneybrook Middle School (which we all attend) allowed some of the kids to teach classes for a week. Mallory, who loves writing and literature, had volunteered for the program, and it didn’t go well for her at all, partly because Mallory is eleven and in sixth grade and she was assigned to an eighth-grade English class.
In my opinion, that wasn’t fair. When a few of the eighth-graders saw a sixth-grader walk in, they were determined to demolish her. Who knows why? Some kids are just mean.
We all hoped that since Mallory is the oldest of eight kids, she might be able to deal with the chaos better than another sixth-grader could. Plus, she’s a good student and a gifted writer. Unfortunately, she’s not used to rowdy older kids.
I suppose Mallory was a target some of them couldn’t resist. She was earnest and sincere. Some kids can’t stand sincerity. They have to ridicule it.
And then there’s her appearance. We love Mallory and think she’s adorable, even though she hates her looks. She has reddish-brown hair, glasses, braces, and freckles. She knows she’s not classically beautiful. I suspect that her lack of confidence about her looks might be something the eighth-graders noticed. It probably just made her seem even more unsure of herself and easier to pick on.
Kristy and Mary Anne were in that class and did the best they could to help, but it wasn’t enough. Mary Anne said she went home and cried after one of the classes. (Mary Anne is sensitive and cries easily. Still, it must have been pretty bad.)
The worst part was that during one class the chalk flew out of Mallory’s hand while she wrote on the board, and some kids started calling her Spaz Girl. The name stuck and spread around school. Mallory knows kids are still calling her Spaz Girl and it hurts her feelings. A lot. In fact, it (and everything else) seems to have made her hate school. I was worried about her. She was acting entirely unlike herself.
Jessi patted Mallory’s shoulder. “It’s just that stupid English class,” she said. “It threw you off. By our next report card things will be cool again.”
Mallory nodded grimly. “My parents say they’d better be.”
“Are your mom and dad angry?” Abby asked.
“Not really. I think they’re more worried. They want me to try harder, though.”
“So try harder,” Kristy said.
“I guess.” Mallory shrugged.
“This is just a little setback,” Jessi insisted. Jessi is so loyal. Not that I was surprised. She’s a nice person in general. She’s also an amazing ballerina. She takes lessons in Stamford and has already danced in some professional productions.
“I sat for the Rodowskys yesterday afternoon,” Jessi went on. “I need the notebook.” Since Mallory and Jessi are eleven, they only take afternoon jobs unless they’re sitting for their own families. The rest of us are thirteen.
The club notebook is where we record everything that happens on our sitting jobs. No one but Mallory (our writer) likes to write in it, but Kristy insists. It’s a great way to keep track of what’s happening with our clients.
“I took the boys to that new ice-cream place,” Jessi reported as she wrote. “We had one like it in Oakley. They have great ice cream.”
Jessi’s family moved to Stoneybrook from a town in New Jersey, after her father was transferred to Stamford by his company. It took some adjusting for Jessi, since her old town was much more integrated than Stoneybrook. At first, some little-minded bigmouths tried to make the Ramseys feel unwelcome because they’re African-American. The rest of us knew how stupid the bigmouths were, and the Ramseys made lots of good friends here in Stoneybrook.
“Dues day,” I announced. A wave of groans and grumbling filled the room. This is more of a tradition than a genuine complaint. Everyone knows that each Monday I collect dues. We use the money to pay part of Claudia’s phone bill, which is only fair; to pay Charlie to drive Kristy and Abby to and from Claudia’s; and, when we need to, to restock our Kid-Kits.
Each of us has a Kid-Kit. It’s a box filled with fun things to bring on sitting jobs, such as art supplies, games, books, anything a kid might enjoy. We don’t bring them on every job, but they’re great to have.
I passed around my manila envelope and everyone put their money into it, but Mary Anne hesitated. “Stacey, is there anything extra in the fund?”
“Not really,” I replied. “Why?”
“I got a letter from Dawn yesterday and she wrote that she was starting a movie club with her friends. They all go to a movie and then they discuss it. I was thinking that would be fun for us to do,” Mary Anne explained.
“That’s the same idea as the book club Mom and I have,” I said, and I explained what we were doing.
It didn’t surprise me that Dawn had started a movie club — or that she’d told Mary Anne about it. You see, they’re stepsisters, even though Dawn lives in California. Here’s how that happened: Dawn Schafer moved here with her mom and brother from California after her parents divorced. Mrs. Schafer had grown up in Stoneybrook and wanted to be near her parents, who still live here.
Dawn and Mary Anne quickly became friends. At first they didn’t seem to have a lot in common. Dawn was outgoing and self-confident. Mary Anne was shy and unsure. Still, they were able to disregard appearances and were soon close friends. Mary Anne introduced Dawn to the rest of us. We liked her and invited her to join the club, which she did.
Then one day Mary Anne and Dawn discovered that Dawn’s mom used to date Mary Anne’s dad in high school. Both of them were now single, since Mary Anne’s mother had died when Mary Anne was a baby. (Mary Anne’s father was loving but way too strict.) Mary Anne and Dawn concocted a scheme to reunite their parents. Against all odds, it worked
. Mary Anne and Dawn became stepsisters!
Mary Anne and her dad, Richard, moved into the old farmhouse Dawn and her mother lived in. Dawn’s brother, Jeff, had gone back to California to live with their father. That left Mary Anne, Richard, Dawn, and Sharon (Dawn’s mom) to try to become a family. As you might expect, there were problems in the beginning, but they became a happy family pretty quickly.
Dawn, though, couldn’t get over the feeling that she didn’t really belong in Stoneybrook. She had friends, but she missed the life she’d known in southern California. After several trips back and forth, she finally decided to move in with her dad, her brother, and her father’s new wife. She still comes back to Stoneybrook on vacations and holidays. When she’s here, she comes to meetings and takes sitting jobs, which is why we made her an honorary BSC member.
When Dawn left, we replaced her with Abby, who took over her role as alternate officer. That means she has to know a little about every club office in case someone has to miss a meeting. Dawn did a good job, and so does Abby.
Dawn’s departure was difficult on Mary Anne. She had us, though. She and Kristy are especially close since they’ve been friends since they were little. And Mary Anne also has her boyfriend, Logan Bruno. He’s a sweet guy who is also in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS for short).
Logan is an associate member of the BSC. He doesn’t come to meetings, but we call on him when we have a job no one can fill. Our other associate member is Shannon Kilbourne. She’s too busy with school activities to attend meetings. She takes an occasional sitting job, though.
When I finished telling everyone about the reading group Mom and I had formed, Kristy said, “Let’s start one of those instead of a movie club.”
“I just began a great book,” Abby said. “It’s called Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson. I’m not very far into it. I’d wait for the rest of you to catch up.”
“I love her books!” Mary Anne exclaimed. “I cried all through the last chapter of The Great Gilly Hopkins. It was wonderful.”
“Bridge to Terabithia is great too,” Jessi added.
We decided to begin reading Jacob Have I Loved. With my school reading, Pride and Prejudice, and the new book, I would have a lot of reading. But that was okay. It sounded stimulating. It wasn’t like I had a lot on my mind.
At least, on Monday I didn’t. But that would change the next day, when I met the Brookes. After Tuesday, I’d have a whole lot to think about.
After the meeting that afternoon, I stuck around Claudia’s room. I was lying across her bed, leafing through a few of her most recent sketches, when the phone rang.
Claudia picked it up. “Hello?” I watched her brow wrinkle as she listened to the person on the other end. “Well, she’s here. You can ask her yourself. Hold on.” She handed me the phone.
“For me?” I whispered.
Claudia nodded and mouthed the name John Brooke.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello. I was wondering if it would be all right with you if I’m in the house when you sit tomorrow,” Mr. Brooke said. “It suddenly occurred to me that it might not be.”
“You’re going to be at home? Are you sure you need me?”
He laughed. “Oh, believe me, I need you, all right. Desperately. I promise you, you won’t even see me.”
“Okay …” I agreed.
“Great. Then I’ll see you after school, Lacey.”
“Stacey,” I corrected him. “Okay. ’Bye.” I hung up the phone. “He’s going to be there, but I won’t see him,” I told Claudia.
She frowned. “Really? Maybe he wants to spy on you to see what kind of baby-sitter you are before he leaves you alone with his kids.”
“Ew, maybe. But he has a nice voice. It’s friendly and warm.”
The next day, after school, I found the Brooke house easily. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I rang the bell.
The door opened and I stood facing this very good-looking man. He had lots of dark hair, just slightly long. And the most awesome, almost unnaturally green eyes. He wasn’t exactly tall, but he wasn’t short either. Medium sized. And with a great build, as if he worked out in a gym.
I stared at him for probably a moment too long. Then I realized I was staring and laughed nervously to cover up my embarrassment. “Hi, I’m Stacey.”
He extended his hand. “John Brooke,” he said as we shook hands.
I stepped into the house. I noticed it had slightly less furniture than most houses in the neighborhood. There was a couch and a large dresser with a TV on it. A big mirror hung on the wall behind the dresser. In the middle of the room, a Persian rug sat on a finished wood floor. It reminded me more of a city apartment than a suburban home.
“Kids!” Mr. Brooke shouted. He turned to me with a smile. “They’re very excited about meeting you.”
A nine-year-old girl soon appeared on the stairs leading to the second floor. She looked startlingly like her father, with her long chestnut hair, very green eyes, and a spray of freckles across her nose. Unlike her father, she was tall and willowy. “Hi,” she said shyly from the stairs.
“Stacey, this is Joni,” Mr. Brooke said.
“Hi, Joni,” I said.
A boy of about five bounded down the stairs past Joni. He had the same sturdy build as his father but a completely different face — fair with large hazel eyes and wispy light brown hair. “I’m Ewan. Do you think that’s a dumb name?”
I laughed. “No, it’s a cool name.”
He smiled. “Thanks. Joe Peters — that’s a kid in my class — he says only geeks are named Ewan.”
“Oh, what does he know?” I scoffed.
“Not much,” Joni said as she came down the stairs. “I saw Joe Peters. He’s the geekiest kid in their whole class. He’s just jealous of Ewan.”
I liked that Joni supported her little brother.
“I’ll be in that room over there on the right,” Mr. Brooke told me, nodding toward a closed door. “That’s my study.”
“Dad’s a writer,” Joni added with obvious pride.
Wow! Interesting, I thought. “What do you write?” I asked.
“Horrible stuff,” Joni answered gleefully, before Mr. Brooke had the chance. “People being killed. Murderers running away from the police and shooting more people.”
“Detective novels,” Mr. Brooke amended. “And if I don’t finish this one in a month, my editor will have a fit. That’s why I need you to watch these guys, Stacey. So I can write. I tried to write only while they were in school, but it turns out that wasn’t enough time. I’m incredibly behind right now.”
“He’s always late,” Ewan offered with a smile.
Mr. Brooke scowled at him, but his eyes shone with laughter. “That’s right, Ewan, rat me out. Tell on your old dad.”
“It’s true,” Ewan insisted. “You’re always saying it yourself. This is you.” He clutched his hair with two pudgy hands and paced back and forth, crying, “I’m so behind schedule! This will never get done. I’ll have to give back the money. But I can’t! I’ve already spent it!”
“Ewan!” Mr. Brooke tried to scold his son but burst into laughter instead. “Is that really how I sound?”
Joni grabbed her hair and joined in. “No one will ever give me a book contract again if I miss this deadline!” she exclaimed. “I’ll have to go work in a fast-food place. That might be good. Then I could write a great novel at night — without all this deadline pressure.”
Mr. Brooke cracked up. I didn’t know if it would be polite to laugh, but I couldn’t help smiling. The kids were pretty funny and Mr. Brooke’s laughter was contagious.
“Okay, you guys, quit showing off,” he said as he caught his breath. “You’re making me look like a stressed-out lunatic.”
“You’re not,” Joni said, patting his shoulder fondly. “You’re a great writer.”
Mr. Brooke smiled at her. “That’s my girl.” He got up from the couch. “Great writer or n
ot, I have to get this book finished.” He took a few steps toward his study. “In an emergency, you know where I am,” he said to me. “But I’d really like you to think that I’m not here. Joni, you can show Stacey where everything is. Okay?”
“Okay, Dad,” she replied.
“Is there anything you’d like to do?” I asked the kids once Mr. Brooke had disappeared into his study.
“My grandma just sent Joni and me the video of The Indian in the Cupboard,” Ewan volunteered. He picked up the video from the couch. It was still half covered in mailing paper.
“I saw it at the movies, but I’d like to see it again,” said Joni.
I’d read the book by Lynn Reid Banks and had loved the story, but I’d never seen the movie. I glanced at the TV. There wasn’t any VCR. “It’s connected to the downstairs TV,” Joni said, reading my expression. “We have to use that one while Dad’s working, anyway.”
She led the way through a doorway off the kitchen and down a set of stairs to a finished basement. Ewan ripped the cellophane off the video and popped the tape into the VCR.
As we sat on a comfy, worn couch and watched the opening advertisements, I noticed a picture on top of the TV. It showed Mr. Brooke, the kids, and a gorgeous woman with rich chestnut curls. Mrs. Brooke, I assumed.
“That’s my mom,” Joni said, looking at me. “She’s in Atlanta now. She’s going to be on TV there, talking to people in the morning.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. This was some family — a novelist and a TV personality. “Are you all going to move down there?”
“No, Mom doesn’t want us there,” Ewan offered sadly.
Joni punched his knee sharply. “Don’t say that. She’s very busy working on her new show right now and she wouldn’t have time for us.” She turned to me. “Mom and Dad just got divorced. Their divorce papers say we live with Dad but Mom can see us whenever she wants. She used to be a model.”
“I can see she’s very beautiful,” I commented.
“Yes, she is,” Joni agreed. “She says she’s too old to be a model anymore so now she’s going to be a famous TV star. She was offered this job in Atlanta, so she took it.”