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
“Ohhhhh, she’s so …” I, Claudia Lynn Kishi, was at a loss for words. Before my eyes, an image of my aunt’s baby was squeaking noisily out of my family’s new fax machine. “She looks so …”
“Healthy,” my dad offered.
“Peaceful,” said my mom.
“Compressed,” added my sister, Janine.
I gave her a Look. “Compressed?”
“Don’t you think so?” she asked.
“I think she looks like her aunt,” Dad remarked, beaming at Mom.
Mom looked horrified. “Thanks a lot!”
“Aw, come on,” I said. “She’s … cute.”
Well, she was. I don’t care what they all thought.
All right, sure, she was shriveled and gnarled and froglike. But hey, I would be, too, if I were in utero. (That, by the way, is a fancy term for “not born yet.”) You see, my aunt was faxing us her baby’s latest sonogram.
Have you ever seen a sonogram? It’s a picture taken with sound waves. (I don’t know how they do it. Maybe they sing through the camera.) Cool, huh?
Sort of. I mean, I can understand why you’d want to have a picture of your baby in utero. But let me be frank. If I ever found a sonogram of me taken before I was born, I’d burn it.
First of all, the quality stinks. My little cousin-to-be’s sonogram was scratchy and dark, with absolutely no contrast. I couldn’t help picturing it in a Highlights magazine, under the heading, “Can You Find the Hidden Baby?”
Second, the proportions were all off. She reminded me of the wizard’s big head in The Wizard of Oz.
Not to mention that she was naked and sleeping. I mean, puh-leeze. No privacy whatsoever.
Despite all that, I could hardly keep from crying. Before this baby, my aunt had been through a miscarriage, so we were all a little worried, although we’d tried not to dwell on that too much. Now, after all these months, and all of our dreams and fantasies, we were actually seeing a real, live, almost-born baby. I was so filled with emotion I wanted to burst.
Janine was scrutinizing the fax. “Ariana,” she announced. “She definitely looks like an Ariana.”
“I thought maybe Hideyoshi,” Mom said. “That was Mimi’s older sister.”
Oops. Forget about holding back tears.
At the mention of Mimi’s name, my eyes were like Niagara Falls.
Mimi was my grandmother. She was also my favorite person in the whole world. Boy, did I wish she were still alive. She would have been so proud, looking at her new granddaughter.
“How about … Mimi?” I suggested, sniffling.
Mom put her arm around my shoulder. Her eyes were pretty misty, too. “That is a beautiful choice for a name.”
Little Mimi. The name fit. Our family had lost one member; now we were gaining a new one. Whenever I thought of Mimi, I felt a hole deep inside me. Now, in a funny way, I could feel it starting to fill.
Would my aunt choose that name, too? I hoped so. Mimi was her mom, after all.
But you never knew. Especially with an aunt whose own name is Peaches.
Yes, Peaches.
Don’t worry, it’s a nickname. Her real name is Miyoshi. My mom’s name is Rioko. We’re Japanese-Americans. Mimi was Japanese-Japanese. Which explains the traditional names in my mom’s generation and the more Americanized names in mine.
Peaches is a special case. She’s a lot younger than my mom, for one thing. Plus she’s wild and wacky, which makes her a real oddball in the Kishi family.
I, Claudia, am another oddball. It’s nice to have company.
Don’t get me wrong. My mom and dad and sister are great. Kind and smart and thoughtful, all of them. But when it comes to fun? Well, let’s just say they’re — relaxationally challenged.
My dad’s idea of a good time is doing the crossword puzzle in the Sunday New York Times. He’s a partner in an investment firm, and his eyes light up when he talks about stocks and bonds (which to me sound like old-fashioned torture instruments). My mom’s a librarian. She believes I should read only classic literature, so I have to hide my Nancy Drew books (which I love and she hates).
In my parents’ eyes, Janine is perfection. She finishes my dad’s puzzles after he gives up. She not only likes classical books, but classical music and classical clothes. That day, for example, she was wearing a prim, button-down white shirt with a pin in the shape of a profile of Bach.
Whoever that is.
Janine’s in high school, but she’s smarter than some of the teachers, so she takes classes at the local university (in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where we live). She studies subjects such as calculus and physics.
Me? I thought physics was the study of how to put bubbles in soda. (Say it aloud and you’ll know what I’m talking about.) I’m also allergic to spelling and crossword puzzles. My grades, as you can guess, are pretty rotten.
It’s not easy being Janine’s younger sister. At the beginning of every school year, my teachers all think I’m acting stupid on purpose. Then, when they realize I’m not an academic genius, they take weeks to recover from the disappointment.
Except my art teachers. They adore me. I am absolutely passionate about art. I love to sculpt, paint, draw, and make jewelry. I look at everything with an artist’s eye: in terms of light, color, and texture. I collect all kinds of stuff, materials to use in collages and interesting clothes from thrift shops and yard sales. Once, when I was wearing a really wild outfit, my friend Abby Stevenson told me I use my body as a canvas.
I thought that was hilarious. I repeated it to my family over dinner. My mom smiled politely, Janine shrugged, and my dad became very grim. He thought it was an insult.
Honestly, sometimes I think I was switched with another baby at birth.
Just sometimes. Mimi understood my artistic side. And Peaches’ sense of humor is a lot like mine. I think I inherited her genes.
And you know what? Little Mimi was going to inherit them, too. I just knew it.
“Well,” Dad said, turning away from the fax machine, “what a terrific way to start the day.”
“Can I keep this?” I asked, holding up the fax paper.
“Maybe you can colorize it,” Janine suggested with a smile. “Like those old movies.”
“Cool,” I said. (Yes, sometimes Janine does have good ideas.)
I brought the fax paper to the kitchen table and propped it up against the salt and pepper shakers. Dad and Mom were already pouring skim milk over their favorite cereal, Puke Nuggets. (The real name is Pure Nuggets, but they have about ninety-three different grains, no sugar, and no taste. Plus they’re dark brown. Looking at them makes me sick.) Janine fixed herself some oatmeal and sat down with a list of four hundred or so vocabulary words to memorize for French class.
I popped a couple of frozen waffles in the toaster, slathered butter on them, and gave them a maple syrup bath.
Now, that’s a breakfast.
Oh. Another big difference between me and the rest of the family is that I love sweets.
I d
on’t know why I don’t weigh three hundred pounds. Just my metabolism, I guess. Everybody warns me that it’s harder to keep weight off when you’re older. Which just means I’ll have to stuff my face now while I have the chance.
Keeping that in mind, I snuck three chocolate chip cookies while I was clearing the breakfast table.
After breakfast I folded up the fax, put it in my backpack, and headed out the door for school. “ ’Bye!” I called over my shoulder.
“ ’Bye!” Mom and Dad called back.
“Au revoir, Claudia!” shouted Janine, pronouncing my name “Clohdia.”
(Gag moi.)
As I walked outside, I sniffed deeply. Our neighbors have a wisteria vine that blooms every year in May.
Have you ever smelled wisteria? You must. To me, that smell is spring. I hurried down the sidewalk, humming to myself. I began to imagine what it would be like to push Little Mimi down the same street in a stroller. I would definitely stop and hold her up to the wisteria blossoms. I read somewhere that babies are deeply affected by their experiences right after birth. So maybe throughout her whole life she’d remember that first, fragrant, beautiful spring with her favorite cousin.
I started to cry again as I turned left onto Elm Street.
As usual, Stacey McGill, Mary Anne Spier, and Mallory Pike were all waiting for me at the corner of Elm and Burnt Hill Road.
The very first thing Mary Anne said was, “Are you all right?”
I wiped away a tear. “I’m fine,” I replied, reaching into my backpack for the fax. “Meet my new cousin.”
Guess what? Not one of them said Little Mimi looked compressed. They all agreed she was the world’s cutest almost-baby.
My friends are so great.
We oohed and aahed all the way to Fawcett Avenue, where we met Jessi Ramsey. Her comment about Little Mimi? “She has the most beautiful fingers.”
It was true. You could barely see them, just to the right of Little Mimi’s cheek. But they were so thin and delicate-looking.
Jessi waltzed with the fax, cradling it in her arms and spinning around. (That’s Jessi. She’s dance-obsessed.)
As we were walking past Brenner Field, she did a big, flashy turn. My cousin flew out of her hands.
I thought I would have a heart attack. I raced after the fax, which was blowing away on a gust of wind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Logan Bruno running toward us across the field. He’s Mary Anne’s boyfriend, and he also happens to be a football, baseball, and track team member, so he’s fast. And strong.
I was almost flattened.
He snatched the paper off the ground and looked at it. “Whoa, what’s this? Some kind of underwater fungus?”
Underwater fungus?
I grabbed it out of his hands. “That, for your information,” I snapped, “is my cousin.”
“Oh! Sorry.”
“Logan,” Mary Anne said disapprovingly.
The rest of the way to school, Logan acted like a puppy dog with its tail between its legs.
* * *
In school, my good mood just became better and better. First of all, I almost flunked a math quiz. (Why is that good? I didn’t say I flunked it, did I?) Second, I hadn’t finished the reading assignment in English, but the teacher didn’t even call on me once.
I felt like a major dork in social studies, though, when my teacher, Ms. Bernhardt, asked, “Who can identify the City of Brotherly Love … Claudia?”
Huh?
I thought fast. Brotherville? Nahh. It was probably a name based on some other language. What was the Spanish word for brother? I knew it once … hermano. (Yes!) Was there an Hermanotown? … Hermano City? …
Suddenly it hit me. I remembered a city name on a freeway sign in Southern California. It was awhile ago, when I was visiting my friend, Dawn Schafer.
“Any ideas?” Ms. Bernhardt pressed.
I cleared my throat. “Hermosa Beach?”
Ms. Bernhardt looked at me as if I’d just sprouted antennae. Then she burst out laughing so hard she almost fell off her high heels. “Hermosa Beach? Dear lord, where did you come up with that, honey?”
(Ms. Bernhardt talks like that. She’s one-of-a-kind in our school. Well, two of a kind, actually. She and Ms. Vandela are the only SMS teachers who wear heels and Big Hair and Major Makeup. We call them Dolly One and Dolly Two, because they both look like the singer Dolly Parton.)
“Well, uh, I guess it’s not, huh?” I mumbled. (I know. What a genius.)
Behind me, I could hear the unmistakable giggling of Grace Blume, contender for Most Obnoxious Student of the Year.
In the seat next to mine, Melissa Banks (who’s no picnic herself) whirled around angrily toward Grace. “Ssssh!”
“Maybe you can enlighten us, Grace,” Ms. Bernhardt said.
Silence.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Ms. Bernhardt continued. Then, in an exaggerated voice, she said, “This is social studies class. And we’ve been studying the United States Constitution.”
“Washington?” Grace asked timidly.
“Philadelphia!” I blurted out.
“Bingo!” Ms. Bernhardt said. “Pass Go, collect two hundred dollars! From the Greek — philos for love, adelphos for brother.” She opened her desk drawer. “Now, Claudia, you can choose what’s inside drawer number one or settle for the tremendous praise you just received from your favorite teacher.”
I pretended to think hard. “I’ll take the drawer.”
Ms. Bernhardt pulled out a glossy travel brochure that said Philadelphia on it.
“You have won an all-expenses paid trip for both my social studies classes, exactly two weeks from this Friday, for an entire weekend, to the City of Brotherly Love, for the purpose of studying American history firsthand.”
“Yaaaaaaaay!” Melissa jumped out of her seat and started hugging me.
Sometimes Melissa can be a little … excitable. But I didn’t mind. I was psyched.
Ms. Bernhardt had said both of her classes would go. Stacey and Abby were in her other class. So they’d be invited, too.
Whoa. My first glimpse of Little Mimi, a passing grade in math, and a trip to Philadelphia with two of my best friends.
I was on a roll.
“You’re going on a trip to Philadelphia?” Kristy Thomas said with a funny look. “Isn’t that cool?” I asked.
“I guess,” Kristy replied. “I mean, it’s not, like, Disneyland or anything.”
“The Liberty Bell is there,” Mary Anne pointed out.
Kristy did not look impressed. “Uh-huh, what else?”
Abby Stevenson leaped up and began dancing around my bedroom, singing the Rocky theme and pumping her fists in the air. “The place with the steps,” she said. “You know, where Rocky was made.”
“The Philadelphia Museum of Art,” I interjected. “And down the street from it is the Rodin Museum, with all his sculptures.”
“Who’s Row Dan?” Kristy asked.
“R-O-D-I-N,” I said. “It’s a French name.”
“Excuuuse me,” Kristy said with a huff.
“Great food, too,” Stacey piped up. “Cheesesteaks and hoagies and pretzels with mustard —”
Now Abby started singing, “Cheesesteaks and hoagies and pretzels with mustard” to the tune of “My Favorite Things.”
“Who turned her on?” Stacey asked.
Kristy grimaced. “You don’t put mustard on pretzels.”
I slid off my bed and opened my closet. Reaching behind my shoe boxes, I pulled out a box of jumbo-size hard pretzels I’d stashed there. “Let’s try it. I’ll get some mustard from the kitchen.”
Kristy glanced at my clock, which said 5:28. “You have two minutes.”
“Yikes.” I sprinted out.
Believe me, with Kristy Thomas as president, you do not enter a Baby-sitters Club meeting late. I’m lucky. My bedroom is club headquarters, so I usually don’t have to worry. But boy, did I fly down to the kitchen.
>
Kristy’s actually a sweet person, under all that bossiness. She has incredible energy, too, and she’s super smart. Not Janine-Kishi-Mega-IQ smart, but problem-solving, people-organizing smart.
The Baby-sitters Club was Kristy’s idea. She thought of it one day when her mom was having trouble finding a sitter for Kristy’s little brother, David Michael. As Mrs. Thomas called all over Stoneybrook in vain, Kristy’s Idea Engine chugged into high gear.
Here’s how the club works. We have nine members, seven regulars and two associates. We meet three times a week (in my room), on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from five-thirty to six o’clock. Stoneybrook parents call during those times to book baby-sitting jobs.
Simple and convenient. Our clients always find a terrific sitter, and we sitters can count on pretty steady jobs. We try to share the work equally, which means we can’t promise our clients one regular sitter. But we keep each other informed about our charges’ habits, preferences, and needs. In fact, Kristy requires us to write about all our jobs in the official BSC notebook. Our clients eventually meet us all, and they get used to our system.
Kristy is a perfect president. She runs the meetings and makes sure we stick to business. Whenever our charges need some extra-special treatment, she comes up with great ideas. She organized a softball team for little kids. She invented Kid-Kits, boxes full of old toys, games, and art supplies, which we sometimes take to our jobs.
To Kristy, everything is an opportunity for advertising. Forget about trying to carry on a conversation with her in a crowd. The minute a family walks by, zoom, Kristy is after them with a sales pitch and a flier. It is so embarrassing, but hey, it works.
Kristy can zoom around pretty well. She’s really athletic — short and wiry and very coordinated. She has shoulder-length brown hair, and she always dresses in casual clothes. (I’ve tried to convince her to think more about her image, but does she listen? Noooo.)
For most of our lives, Kristy lived across the street from me. When we were little, her dad walked out on the family, leaving Mrs. Thomas to raise four kids on her own, including David Michael, who was just a baby. (Kristy has two older brothers, fifteen-year-old Sam and seventeen-year-old Charlie.)
For years, Mrs. Thomas held the family together by herself. Then she married a very rich guy named Watson Brewer, and Kristy and her family moved into his mansion (far away from me … sigh). Watson and Kristy’s mom adopted a two-year-old Vietnamese girl, whose name is Emily Michelle. Then Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, moved in. She helps take care of Emily. Watson’s two kids from a previous marriage, Andrew (who’s four) and Karen (seven), live in the house during alternate months.