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
“I’m ho-ome!”
I let the front door close behind me and shook the snow off my coat.
“Hiiii!” shouted my little sister, Becca, from inside.
My aunt Cecelia was bustling around in the kitchen. I knew just what she’d say. I always know.
Today was a wipe your shoes day.
“Wipe your shoes, Jessica!” called Aunt Cecelia’s voice.
“Yes, Aunt Cecelia,” I replied.
And close both doors, I thought. We’re not working for the gas and electric company.
“And close both doors! We’re not working for Stoneybrook Gas and Electric!”
“Yes, Aunt Cecelia.”
And hang up your coat.
“And check the mail, dear! There’s something for you.”
Oh, well. Two out of three wasn’t bad.
I moved toward the closet. The mail was piled on the phone stand. I glanced at the letter on top. It was addressed to me. Then I looked at the return address.
Three words. In sleek blue letters that seemed to leap off the paper.
Dance New York.
The Dance New York. World-famous ballet company and school.
The blood rushed from my head. I nearly dropped my coat.
I thought I was going to faint.
It had been almost a month since I’d auditioned for Dance New York’s special winter session. I figured they’d forgotten about me. Which made sense, considering how many people had shown up to audition. Hundreds.
Seeing that letter brought it all back. The noisy, jammed theater. The long wait. The feeling that I didn’t belong there.
I felt so inferior to some of those dancers. I’m eleven, which meant I had to audition in the eleven-to-thirteen-year-old category. I am advanced for my age, but still. The older kids have much cleaner lines and more solid technique. Totally unfair, if you ask me.
The night of the audition I cried myself to sleep. Daddy and Mama both had to comfort me. They both told me not to give up hope.
As you can see, I take dance very seriously. I practice tour jetés on the way to school. I plié in the cafeteria line. I do stretching exercises whenever I’m standing still. I take ballet lessons in Stamford, Connecticut. (That’s the city closest to the town where I live, Stoneybrook.) But I’ve been a dance fanatic since before birth. Mama felt me high-kicking when she was pregnant. As a baby I would do arabesques in my playpen.
(Time-out. For you nondancers, those French words are not names of pastries. They describe ballet movements. Basically, an arabesque is a forward bend with one leg extended backward. A tour jeté is a series of leaps, and a plié is a knee bend.)
I still shiver when I think about the time I saw a Dance New York performance. It was in New York City several months ago. My parents took me to see it. The founder and main choreographer, David Brailsford, is a genius. A legend. His dances combine jazz, African rhythms, and classical ballet.
Really, I should have been happy just for the opportunity to audition for Dance New York.
At least that was what I had told myself.
Now, seeing the mail, I felt my stomach contracting. I was afraid to touch the envelope. Afraid of what might be inside. We regret to inform you, Ms. Ramsey …
“What are you doing, Jessica? Waiting for it to grow?”
Aunt Cecelia was standing in the front hallway now, hands on her hips. Becca was scooting around her.
“Open it!” Becca demanded.
I lifted the envelope. It was thick.
I ripped it open, pulled out a wad of official-looking papers, and began to read.
“ ‘Dear Ms. Ramsey …’ ” My voice was thin and squeaky. “ ‘We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into the Dance New York A-Level winter session, for girls and boys ages eleven to thirteen …”
I stopped there. I could not go on. The next thing that came out of my mouth was a huge, ear-splitting scream. I couldn’t help it.
I thought for sure Aunt Cecelia would scold me. Instead, she chuckled and shook her head. “Mercy, with that voice you may as well add opera lessons.”
I threw my arms around Aunt Cecelia and almost knocked her over. “I did it! I did it! I’m going to New York!”
Becca’s face was suddenly clouding over. “Wait. You have to leave us?”
“Well, yeah,” I replied. “But just for a while.”
I sat on the sofa and read the letter aloud, beginning to end. All the details. Three and a half weeks of intensive study. “On-site tutors” provided “from a prestigious local teachers’ college.” Classes held in “the heart of SoHo, New York’s most vital arts district.”
At that point Aunt Cecelia’s eyebrows rose way up. “And where, pray tell, are you supposed to sleep at night?”
“It doesn’t say. Maybe I can commute.”
“Well, we’ll put that question to your father and mother,” Aunt Cecelia said.
“But I have to go!” I protested. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“I understand. Oh, I wish I had a quarter for all the once-in-a-lifetime opportunities I let pass by. I’d be a wealthy woman. You know, I wanted to be an actress. When I played Harriet Tubman in my junior high school …”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
I knew the whole story by heart. I’d heard it a thousand times.
“This is boring, Aunt Cecelia,” said Becca.
“I’ll never forget my teacher’s words,” Aunt Cecelia droned on. “ ‘Cecelia Ramsey, someday I will see your name in lights.’ ”
“So why didn’t you become an actress?” I asked.
“Life,” Aunt Cecelia replied. “It has a way of beating you down. You have to fight it, Jessi. You’ll see.”
I watched her trudge away toward the kitchen. In her drab housedress and clunky shoes.
My aunt. She can find the gray lining in every silver cloud.
Now, I love Aunt Cecelia. She’s always there when Becca and I come home from school. She takes care of us when we’re sick. She adores Squirt, my baby brother.
But she can be a real pain.
Why does she live with us? Well, she moved in after the death of her husband, my uncle Steven. At the same time, Mom was going back to work (she’d taken a leave of absence when Squirt was born). Aunt Cecelia needed company, we needed help around the house — so Daddy invited her to live with us. (She’s his older sister.)
Daddy jokes that the real reason Aunt Cecelia’s here is because no one else will have her.
You know what? I don’t think that’s a joke. At least, not entirely. Aunt Cecelia does have two other brothers, my uncles Arthur and Charles. They didn’t ask her to move in, and their houses are as big as ours.
I don’t blame them. Whenever I hear Aunt Cecelia talk to them on the phone, she’s always scolding.
She’s even worse with her own son, my cousin Michael. She hardly talks to him. I could never figure out why. He’s grown-up and married to a nice woman named Marian, and they recently moved to a big apartment in …
Brooklyn!
&nb
sp; “Aunt Cecelia?” I blurted out. “Is Brooklyn close to New York City?”
“Brooklyn is part of New York City,” Aunt Cecelia replied, turning from the kitchen doorway. “Do you mean, how far is Brooklyn from Manhattan? Because if you do, it is quite accessible by subway.”
I practically leaped off the sofa. “Then I can live with Michael and Marian!”
Aunt Cecelia’s lips pursed. She looked away. “Jessica, you are counting your chickens before they are hatched. First let’s see if your father and mother will approve of this program. I personally hope they do, but if I were you, I would not get my hopes up. Now, do your homework —”
“EEEEEEEE!”
Squirt was screaming from his crib. Nap time was over.
“I’ll get him!” Becca and I shouted at the same time.
We ran to his room. His face broke into a big grin when he saw us. “Dess-see! Bet-ta!”
I picked him up and started waltzing him around the room, making up a silly tune. “Dance with meeeeee … laaaa-la-leeeee.”
“Jessi’s going to be leaving us, Squirt,” Becca said.
I sang louder. Squirt was giggling like crazy.
“She’s going away for a month!” Becca pressed on. “Dess-see go bye-bye.”
“Becca, will you stop?” I said.
“Dess-see? Bye-bye?” Squirt’s smile vanished. “No!”
I glared at my sister. “Thanks a lot.”
“Well, it’s true,” Becca said, storming out.
I did not expect that reaction from Becca. I thought she’d be excited for me.
But she was angry.
An angry sister. An aunt who was a pill.
Wasn’t anybody thinking about me? I’d just received the greatest news of my life. I was thrilled. I should have been dancing with joy.
So why were they making me feel as if I’d done something wrong?
* * *
I couldn’t wait to see the looks on my parents’ faces when I told them the news in person. I would be able to tell them at the same time too. Today they were going to be driving home from work together.
I was putting on a Dance New York T-shirt in my bedroom when the car pulled into the driveway. As I ran downstairs, I could hear Becca opening the front door and shouting, “Guess what? Jessi’s running away from home!”
I ran past her and out the door. I wasn’t wearing a coat, but I didn’t care. “I made Dance New York!”
Daddy lifted me off the ground and swung me around. “I am so-o-o-o proud of you!”
Mama wrapped her arms around both of us. “I knew you’d do it, sweetheart.”
“She can’t go!” Becca called out. “She’s going to live on the sidewalk and eat rats.”
Squirt darted out the front door, screaming, “Day-ee! Ma-ma!” before Aunt Cecelia pulled him back.
“I can go, can’t I?” I asked.
Mama gave Daddy a Look.
Daddy sighed heavily. “Okay, troops, family meeting time!”
Uh-oh.
I knew what that meant. You’re too young.
I was not going to give in. I was going to stand my ground. My parents are great, but they’ve always treated me as if I were a baby. That’s the worst thing about being the oldest child. Becca gets away with murder compared to me.
Aunt Cecelia, Becca, Squirt, and I settled in the living room. Mama and Daddy both ducked inside the kitchen to fetch snacks. I could hear them muttering under their breath. The way they do whenever they argue.
I braced myself for the battle.
When they returned to the living room, the words poured out of my mouth. “I have thought about this for a long time. I know I’m only eleven. I know I’ll have to leave school for almost a month and adjust to tutors. I know my workload will be heavy. But I’m not a baby. I can do it.”
“Jessica,” Mama said. “You’ll be alone in a strange city —”
“It’s not strange,” I protested. “I’ve been there lots of times. And I won’t be alone either. I’ll be in class all day and with Michael and Marian at night —”
“Michael and Marian?” Daddy asked. “Have you called them?”
“Well, no, not yet,” I replied. “But I could stay with them.”
“They’re a young couple,” Aunt Cecelia said. “They have their busy-busy lives, never home, working into the night on goodness knows what. Michael never even has enough time to talk to his own mother. How could they possibly handle you?”
“Call and ask!” I pleaded.
“I could try, but I always get their answering machine,” Aunt Cecelia said. “Answering machines make me very uncomfortable.”
“Stay with us,” said Becca.
“Dess-see,” said Squirt.
I looked hopefully at my mom and dad.
Mama took my hand. “Look, your father and I have been discussing this possibility since your audition. It’s a major thing for an eleven-year-old to do — living in the big city, not knowing anyone …”
My stomach was sinking.
“But we knew that if we said no,” Daddy continued, “we would regret it the rest of our lives.”
“So … I can go?”
Daddy stood up and kissed me on the forehead. “Let me call Michael’s answering machine right now. Maybe if he hears that it’s not his meddling mom on the phone, he’ll pick up.”
“Well, I never,” Aunt Cecelia huffed.
“Lucky!” Becca said, stomping out of the room.
“Dutty!” Squirt echoed.
Me? I don’t remember what I said. I was floating somewhere near the ceiling.
I have never been so happy in all my life.
“Do you even know Michael?” asked Stacey McGill.
“Not really,” I said. “He went away to college when I was little. All I remember is that Aunt Cecelia used to yell at him a lot.”
“She yells at everybody,” Mallory Pike remarked.
“My dad says that’s why Michael doesn’t keep in touch,” I said. “I mean, Aunt Cecelia should be proud of Michael. He works as a financial something, and his wife sells advertising for a magazine. They have a big apartment in a nice neighborhood, and Aunt Cecelia keeps saying he’s thrown his life away!”
“What did she expect him to do?” asked Claudia Kishi.
“Become the first African-American president of the United States, I guess,” I replied. “I don’t know.”
“This meeting will come to order!” shouted Kristy Thomas.
It was exactly five-thirty on a Friday, eight days after my acceptance to Dance New York. In two days I was scheduled to leave for New York City.
This was my last official Baby-sitters Club meeting for almost a month.
I felt a little funny. The BSC is a huge part of my life. For starters, we meet three times a week (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays) from five-thirty until six. But more than that, we’re as close as sisters. Sometimes I feel as if we’ll be doing this for the rest of our lives.
What exactly do we do? Well, talk, for one thing. Laugh (a lot). And eat junk food (a lot). Oh. And book baby-sitting jobs.
Actually, that’s the whole point of the BSC. Seven qualified, experienced baby-sitters together in one room, ready to answer phone calls from local parents who need our services.
We have lots of repeat clients. They’ve memorized our meeting hours. (More or less. Claudia still has to answer a stray call or two between meetings.) Claudia’s bedroom is our official headquarters because she’s the only member with her own private phone line.
For a roomful of gabbing girls, we’re super-organized. We have officers, we pay dues, and we write about every single sitting job in an official BSC notebook. Everybody reads the entries once a week. That’s how we keep each other up-to-date about our clients — house rules, rate changes, our charges’ new fears and allergies, who’s had chicken pox and strep throat, and so on.
The reason we’re so efficient is two words: Kristy Thomas. She’s our president and founder
. She’s also the Idea Genius of the Free World.
Kristy invented the Baby-sitters Club one day when her mom couldn’t find a sitter for Kristy’s little brother, David Michael. Kristy herself had some other commitment, and so did her two older brothers, Charlie and Sam. (Mr. Thomas had long ago abandoned the family, so he was out of the picture.) As Kristy watched her poor mom make call after call, blink! On went the light. Why not create some kind of central baby-sitting agency?
A couple of phone calls to friends, and the BSC was born. Claudia, Stacey, Kristy, and Mary Anne Spier were the original members. But the club became popular very fast. Mallory and I joined, and so did Dawn Schafer. Since then, Dawn has moved and Abby Stevenson has taken her place. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
As president, Kristy is our queen bee. Basically she (1) bosses everyone around, (2) thinks up big ideas, and (3) bosses everyone around again. For someone who’s only five feet tall, she can be overpowering. It’s a good thing she’s so lovable.
One of Kristy’s specialties is advertising. She hands a BSC flyer to every adult she meets. She plans a BSC booth at every local fair or block party. Her other specialty? Kids. She knows just what they need, and they adore her. Kristy invented Kid-Kits, which are boxes filled with old toys, games, books, and knickknacks we sometimes take with us on our jobs. (To kids, they’re like little treasure chests.) When some of our younger charges showed an interest in softball, no problem. Kristy happens to be a sports nut, so she organized a team for them, called Kristy’s Krushers.
Kristy thrives on noise and activity. Her house is total pandemonium. Actually, house isn’t the word for it. Mansion is more like it.
No, Kristy did not win the lottery. Her mom got remarried, to a guy who is very rich. His name is Watson Brewer. His two children from his previous marriage live at the mansion during alternate months. Plus he and Kristy’s mom adopted a little girl from Vietnam. Her name is Emily Michelle. Then Kristy’s grandmother moved in to help take care of Emily. Add a few pets, and you have an idea of what it’s like at the Thomas/Brewer residence.
Actually, the prize for Most Crowded House in the BSC has to go to Mallory. She has seven younger brothers and sisters, all loud. I don’t know how anyone can think in that house.
Mal is my best friend in the world. We’re like sisters. We’re also the only “junior officers” of the BSC. That’s because all the other members are eighth-graders, two years older than us. Which shouldn’t make much of a difference. But it does. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Pike treat Mal like a baby too. Like my parents, they won’t allow their oldest daughter to baby-sit at night, unless it’s for her own siblings. (Grrr.)