In memory of Neena and Grandpa
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
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
About the Author
Scrapbook
Copyright
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a snob. Well, actually, there are a lot of other things I can’t stand. Cabbage, blood, people who chew with their mouths open, and squirrels are a few of them. But snobs are way up there on the list.
This is unfortunate since I have moved to a wealthy neighborhood here in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, recently, and it is overrun with snobs. What happened was that my mom, who used to be divorced, got remarried to Watson Brewer, this rich guy. Since my mom had a little house for the six of us (Mom, me, my three brothers, and our dog, Louie), and Watson had this mansion all to himself (his two kids only live with him every other weekend), it made more sense for us Thomases to move in with Watson than for him to move in with us.
So we did.
Watson’s house is so big that my brothers and I, and Karen and Andrew (our stepsister and stepbrother, who live with us every other weekend), each have a room of our own. Mom and Watson share a room, of course, but their “room” is really a suite about the size of a landing field.
Anyway, to get back to the snobs — I’m surrounded. They’re everywhere in Watson’s neighborhood. The teenagers around here get their own cars (fancy ones) as soon as they’re able to drive. They spin along with the radios blaring, looking fresh and sophisticated. I am so glad my big brothers, Sam and Charlie, aren’t like that. Charlie can drive now, but the only thing he drives is Mom’s beat-up station wagon. And my brothers and I still go to public school, not to snobby private schools. Guess what most families on our street have: (a) a swimming pool (b) tennis courts (c) a cook named Agnes (d) all of the above. The answer is (d) all of the above.
So far, Watson has (e) none of the above, which is one of the things I’m learning to like about him. However, he’s been talking about putting in a pool, now that Karen and Andrew are older, so we’ll see.
I’ve hardly gotten to know any of the kids here. When we first moved into Watson’s house it was summertime, the beginning of July. Most of the kids my age had been sent to fancy camps for the summer. (I would kill Mom if she ever did that to me.) Plus, I’m president of a group called the Baby-sitters Club. All my friends are in the club, and they live way across town — where I used to live — so I spent a lot of time with them over in my old neighborhood last summer. What I’m trying to say is that school had started again before I met any of the kids on my street.
My first encounter with the snobby kids was on a Monday morning. My alarm clock went off at 6:45 as usual. I rolled over and tried to ignore it.
“Please, please be quiet,” I mumbled.
But the clock didn’t obey. It went right on buzzing.
“Oh, all right, you win,” I told it.
I reached over and shut it off, then sat up, rubbing my eyes.
“Louie!” I exclaimed. Our old collie was stretched across the foot of my big bed. Louie mostly sleeps with David Michael, but lately, he’s been taking turns sleeping with all of us, even Karen and Andrew on the weekends they visit. I thought it was nice of Louie to share himself.
“You are such a good dog,” I whispered, leaning over to him. I stroked the top of his head between his ears. The fur there is almost as soft as rabbit fur. Then I took one of his paws in my hand.
“Oh, your pads are cold,” I told him, rubbing the pink pads on the bottom of his paw. “It must be getting chilly at night. Poor old Louie.”
Louie licked my hand and gave me a doggie smile.
“Thanks,” I said.
I got up and looked through my closet, as if I had a really big decision to make about what to wear. Ever since school began I’ve been wearing the same kind of outfit almost every day — a turtleneck, a sweater, jeans, and sneakers. I don’t care about clothes the way my friends Claudia and Stacey do. They always look really cool and put-together.
After I was washed and dressed, I ran down the wide staircase to the first floor and into the kitchen. Mom and Watson were with Sam and Charlie. (David Michael, my seven-year-old brother, is a slowpoke. He’s always the last one down.)
Here’s another thing about Watson that’s not so bad. He helps out around the house — with the cooking, cleaning, gardening, everything. I guess this comes from being divorced and having lived alone for a while before he met Mom. He and Mom share the workload equally. They both have jobs, they both prepare meals (Watson is actually a better cook than Mom is), they both run errands, etc. Twice a week, a cleaning lady comes in, and my brothers and I are responsible for certain chores, but basically Mom and Watson run the show.
So I wasn’t surprised when I stepped into the kitchen that Monday morning to find Mom making coffee and Watson scrambling eggs. Sam was setting the table and Charlie was pouring orange juice. It was a nice familiar scene.
“Good morning!” I said.
“Morning,” everyone replied.
“Kristy, can’t you wear something different once in a while?” Sam asked me, eyeing my jeans and sweater.
“Why do you care what I wear?” I replied, but I knew perfectly well why he cared. He cared because he was fifteen and girls were practically the only thing on his mind. He thought he was the girl expert of the world, and he was disappointed in my lack of fashion sense. Plus, he was interested in this très sophisticated girl down the street (one of the private-school girls) and he wanted everything about our family to be up to Monique’s standards, which were sky-high.
“I think Kristy looks lovely,” said Watson.
“So do I,” added Mom, kissing the top of my head.
“But,” Watson went on, “if you ever do want a few, um, new clothes, all you have to do is holler.”
It was a nice offer, but leave it to Watson to use a word like “holler.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”
I absolutely adore Watson’s kitchen. Although it has all the modern conveniences and appliances, it looks kind of like an old country kitchen. We eat at a big parson’s table with two long benches. (Watson and Mom bought it when they got married.) Most of the countertops are covered with blue and white tiles. Copper pots and pans hang from the walls. The curtains — tiny pink and blue flowers on a cream-colored background — match the wallpaper. It’s a wonderful, cozy room.
I plopped down on one of the benches, and almost at once Mom said, “Kristy, call David Michael, please, honey.”
“DAVID MICHAEL!” I yelled.
“Kristy,” said Mom, giving me a look that was part smile, part exasperation.
“I know, I know.” I got up, went to the bottom of the stairs, and called him again.
“Kristy, can you come up here?” he replied.
I ran up the stairs and into his room. “What?” I asked.
David Michael was sitting on the floor next to Louie. “Call Louie,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just call him.”
I got down on one knee. “Louie! Come here, boy!” I clapped my hands.
Louie hobbled toward me. He was limping. “Hmm,” I said. “I see what you mean.”
“I looked at all his paws,” David Michael told me, “but I can’t find any cuts or insect bites or burrs.”
“Poor old Louie,” I said for the second time that day. “Well, don’t worry, David Michael. We’ll tell Mom, but it’s probably nothing.”
I should mention here that although we got Louie right after I was born, he’s really more David Michael’s dog than anyone else’s. We all love Louie, but David Michael has especially loved him, even as a baby, and he’s always taken care of him. He’s never complained about messy dog food cans or smelly flea collars. It was David Michael who discovered a rock song called “Brother Louie.” (That’s the one that goes “Louie, Louie, Louie, Lou-ee.”) Whenever he plays it, the real Louie howls joyfully each time he hears his name. One of David Michael’s very first words was even “Yew-ee.” (Louie still responds if someone calls him that.) And Louie has always loved David Michael right back. Maybe he somehow sensed that David Michael was the only one of us Thomas kids who got cheated out of a father, since Mom and Dad got separated not long after David Michael was born. Who knows?
Louie followed David Michael and me down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Mom,” I said, “Louie’s limping,” but already his limp seemed less noticeable.
“I guess so,” Mom said slowly, watching him. “It’s hard to tell. We’ll keep our eyes on him.”
As soon as breakfast was over, things became hectic. Charlie and Sam got in the station wagon and left for the high school. Mom and Watson drove off, in separate cars, to their jobs. And David Michael and I waited at the end of the drive for our school buses. It was only 7:45, but I felt like I’d been up forever.
David Michael’s bus was right on time. He climbed on and waved good-bye to me from a window in the very back. He loves to sit in the backseat. My bus should have been just behind David Michael’s, but it wasn’t. By 7:55, it was later than it had ever been. It better hurry, I thought. Homeroom starts at 8:30. Sharp.
For a while I worried about what to do if the bus didn’t come at all. Call Stacey’s house? Stacey’s mom was one of the few I knew who didn’t work and might be at home. Then I wondered how long I should wait before I called anybody.
Before I reached any decisions, something interesting happened. The front door of a house across the street opened and a girl about my age stepped out. She was carrying a knapsack, and wearing a blue plaid jumper over a white short-sleeved blouse. She walked down her driveway and stood across the street from me. She must have been waiting for a bus, too, but not mine. I was the only girl in this neighborhood who got picked up by the bus to Stoneybrook Middle School.
The girl and I eyed each other, but didn’t say anything.
A few minutes later, three other girls joined the first one. They were all wearing the exact same outfit — a private-school uniform. They were slender, three of them had blonde hair, and they were wearing makeup and stockings. They looked sleek, sophisticated, and self-confident. They stood in a huddle, whispering and giggling. Every now and then one of them would glance over at me.
Where, oh, where was my bus?
I tried not to look at the girls. I pretended the cover of my notebook was absolutely fascinating.
But the girls would not allow me to ignore them. One of the blondes, who wore her hair in a cascade of thick curls, called to me, “You’re Mr. Brewer’s new kid, aren’t you?”
“I’m one of them,” I replied warily.
“Are you the one who’s been sending those fliers around? For some baby-sitting club?”
“Yeah,” I said. (Every now and then our club tries to find new people to baby-sit for, so we send around advertisements. We’d put one in every box in my new neighborhood not long ago.)
“What does your little club do?” asked another blonde.
“What do you think?” I replied testily. “We baby-sit.”
“How cute,” said the blonde with the curls. The others giggled.
“Nice outfit,” called the one non-blonde, putting her hands on her hips.
I blushed. Too bad I’d chosen the jeans with the hole in the knee that day.
But if there’s one thing to be said about me, it’s that I have a big mouth. I always have. I’m better about controlling it than I used to be, but I’m not afraid to use it. So I put my hands on my hips and said, “Your outfits are nice, too. You look like clones. Snob clones.”
Luckily, just at that moment, my bus finally pulled up. I chose a seat on the side of the bus facing the girls. I lowered my window.
“Good-bye, snobs,” I shouted.
“Bye, jerk-face,” the curly-haired blonde replied.
I stuck my tongue out at her, and then the bus turned a corner and they were gone from sight.
“Thanks, Charlie! See you later! Bye!” I slammed the car door.
Charlie backed down the Kishis’ driveway as I ran to their front door and rang the bell. It was time for our Monday afternoon meeting of the Baby-sitters Club.
Janine Kishi, Claudia’s older sister, answered the door. Janine has never been one of my favorite people, but lately she’s seemed a little better than usual. The thing about Janine is that she’s so smart. She’s always correcting everybody.
But that day, all she said was, “Come on in. Claudia’s upstairs. Dawn and Mary Anne are there, too.”
“Thank you,” I replied politely. But I didn’t go straight upstairs. I stopped in the kitchen to say hello to Mimi, Claudia’s grandmother. Mimi had a stroke over the summer, but she’s getting much better. She can’t use her right hand, so she’s learning to do things one-handed. When I looked in on her, she was stirring something at the stove.
“Hi, Mimi,” I greeted her.
“Kristy. Hello. How nice to see.” Mimi’s native language is Japanese, and her speech was affected by the stroke, so she has a little trouble speaking. “How things in your new neighborhood?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t know that many people.” For some reason, I was embarrassed to tell her what had happened at the bus stop that morning.
“You will get to know new people,” Mimi told me confidently. “That I am sure.”
“Thanks,” I said and ran upstairs. On the way I heard the doorbell ring. It must have been Stacey. Good. She was right on time. The five of us could begin our meeting.
“Hi, you guys!” I called as I entered Claudia’s room.
“Hi!” Claudia, Dawn, and Mary Anne were lying on the floor, looking through our club notebook. When Stacey came in behind me, the five of us scrambled for places to sit. Claudia dove for the bed, followed by Stacey. Dawn and Mary Anne remained on the floor, and I settled myself in the director’s chair, put on my visor, and stuck a pencil behind one ear. I always get the director’s chair.
I am the president.
I looked at the other members of the Baby-sitters Club: Claudia Kishi, Mary Anne Spier, Stacey McGill, and Dawn Schafer. All present. I guess I should introduce them. But first I should tell you how our club works. We hold meetings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from five-thirty until six, and our clients know they can reach us at Claudia’s house then. They call when they need sitters, and one of us signs up for the job. Simple. Our clients like the fact that they’re pretty much guaranteed a sitter when they call, and we like all the jobs we get. Of course, we have an awful lot of clients now (we’ve been in business for a year), and sometimes we’re so busy that none of us is able to take on a job. Then we call Logan Bruno. Logan is our associate member, sort of our safety. He doesn’t come to meetings, but he likes to baby-sit. He’s also Mary Anne’s boyfriend.
The club officers are our vice-president, Claudia; our secretary, Mary Anne; our treasurer, Stacey; and our alternate officer, Dawn. Claudia was chosen as vice president since she has her own personal telephone and phone number. Because of that, we decided to hold our meetings in her room. Claudia works hard for the club, since she has to take a lot of job calls that come in while we’re not having meetings. Here are the essentials abo
ut Claudia: Likes — art, mysteries, baby-sitting, boys. Dislikes — school. Looks — beautiful, Japanese, exotic. Dress — very trendy and cool, often outrageous. Personality — outgoing, sometimes feels inferior to Janine. (Who wouldn’t?)
Mary Anne, our secretary, is my best friend. Before I moved to Watson’s we lived next door to each other for years and years. We were babies, kids, and almost teenagers together. Right now, Mary Anne is changing. I think she’s growing up a little faster than I am. And she has another best friend (Dawn). We’re alike in a lot of ways and different in a lot of ways. For instance, my likes — sports, baby-sitting, TV. Mary Anne’s likes — baby-sitting, movie stars, animals. My dislikes — you already know them. Mary Anne’s dislikes — crowds of people, being the center of attention. Looks — we’re both small for our age, and we both have brown eyes and medium-length brown hair. Dress — I couldn’t care less. Mary Anne is just beginning to care, but she needs a lot of help from Claudia and Stacey. My personality — outgoing, big mouth, friendly. Mary Anne’s personality — cautious, sensitive, shy. (She has a boyfriend. I don’t.) Mary Anne’s club job is to keep our record book up to date. The record book is where we write down our clients’ names, addresses, and phone numbers, list the money we earn (that’s really Stacey’s job), and most important, schedule our baby-sitting jobs.
Stacey McGill is sort of a newcomer to Stoneybrook. Until a year ago, she and her parents lived in New York City. They moved here just before we began school last September. Stacey is sophisticated and smart. Sometimes she seems years older than me. She and Claudia are best friends. Stacey’s likes — boys, clothes, baby-sitting. Dislikes — doctors. (Stacey has diabetes and has to go to doctors pretty often. She also dislikes the strict diet she has to stay on so as not to allow too much sugar in her body.) Looks — wild blonde hair, thin, pretty, older than her age. Dress — as trendy as Claudia, but a little less outrageous. Personality — outgoing, very grown-up, sensitive to other people. Stacey keeps track of the earnings of us baby-sitters, and is responsible for the dues we put in our club treasury.