This book is for Beth McKeever Perkins,
my old baby-sitting buddy.
With love
(and years of memories).
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
A Letter from Ann M. Martin
About the Author
Scrapbook
Copyright
The Baby-sitters Club. I’m proud to say it was totally my idea, even though the four of us worked it out together. “Us” is Mary Anne Spier, Claudia Kishi, Stacey McGill, and me—Kristy Thomas.
I got the idea on the first Tuesday afternoon of seventh grade. It was a very hot day. It was so hot that in my un-air-conditioned school, Stoneybrook Middle School, the teachers had opened every single window and door and turned off all the lights. My hair stuck damply to the back of my neck, and I wished I had a rubber band so I could pull it into a long ponytail. Bees flew into the classroom and droned around our heads, and Mr. Redmont, our teacher, let us stop working to make fans out of construction paper. The fans didn’t do much except keep the bees away, but it was nice to take up ten minutes of social studies making them.
Anyway, that stifling afternoon dragged on forever, and when the hands of the clock on the front wall of our classroom finally hit 2:42 and the bell rang, I leaped out of my seat and shouted, “Hooray!” I was just so glad that it was time to get out of there. I like school and everything, but sometimes enough is enough.
Mr. Redmont looked shocked. He was probably thinking he’d been so nice letting us make fans, and there I was, not appreciating it at all, just glad the day was over.
I felt bad, but I couldn’t help what I’d done. I’m like that. I think of something to say, and I say it. I think of something to do, and I do it. Mom calls it impulsive. Sometimes she calls it trouble. But she doesn’t just mean trouble. She means trouble.
And I was in trouble then. I could sense it. I’ve been in enough trouble to know when it’s coming.
Mr. Redmont cleared his throat. He was trying to think of a way to punish me without humiliating me in front of the other kids. Things like that are important to him.
“Kristy,” Mr. Redmont began, and then he changed his mind and started over. “Class,” he said, “you have your homework assignments. You may go. Kristy, I’d like to see you for a minute.”
While the rest of the kids gathered up their books and papers and left the room, talking and giggling, I made my way up to Mr. Redmont’s desk. Before he could say a word, I began apologizing to him. Sometimes that helps.
“Mr. Redmont,” I said, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I mean, I didn’t mean I was glad school was over. I meant I was glad I could go home. Because my house is air-conditioned….”
Mr. Redmont nodded. “But do you think, Kristy, that it would be possible, in the future, for you to conduct yourself with a bit more decorum?”
I wasn’t sure of the exact meaning of decorum, but I had a pretty good idea it meant not spoiling Mr. Redmont’s day by jumping up and shouting hooray when the bell rang.
“Yes, sir,” I said. Sometimes being polite also helps.
“Good,” said Mr. Redmont. “But I want you to remember this incident, and the best way for us to remember things is to write them down. So tonight, I would like you to write a one-hundred-word essay on the importance of decorum in the classroom.”
Darn. I’d have to find out what decorum meant after all.
“Yes, sir,” I said again.
I went back to my desk, gathered up my books very slowly, and then walked very slowly out of the classroom. I hoped Mr. Redmont was noticing the slowness because I was betting it was an important part of decorum.
I found Mary Anne Spier waiting for me outside the door to my classroom. She was leaning against the wall, biting her nails.
Mary Anne is my best friend. We live next door to each other. We even look a little alike. We’re both small for our age and we both have brown hair that falls past our shoulders. But that’s where the similarity ends, because I can’t keep my mouth shut, and Mary Anne is very quiet and very shy. Luckily, that’s only on the outside. The people who know her well, like Claudia and Stacey and me, get to see the inside of her, and the Mary Anne who’s hiding in there is a lot of fun.
“Hey,” I greeted her. I pulled her hand out of her mouth and looked at her nails. “Mary Anne! How do you ever expect to be able to wear nail polish if you keep doing that?”
“Oh, come on,” she said with a sigh. “Nail polish. I’ll be seventy-five before my father lets me wear it.”
Mary Anne’s father is the only family she’s got. Her mother is dead, and she has no brothers or sisters. Unfortunately, her father is pretty strict. My mother says it’s just because Mr. Spier is nervous since Mary Anne is all he’s got. You’d think, though, that he could let her wear her hair down instead of always in braids, or give her permission to ride her bike to the mall with Claudia and me once in a while. But no. At Mr. Spier’s house it’s rules, rules, rules. It’s a miracle that Mary Anne was even allowed to become a member of the Baby-sitters Club.
We walked out of school, and suddenly I began running. I forgot all about decorum, because I’d just remembered something else. “Oh, my gosh!” I cried.
Mary Anne raced after me. “What is it?” she panted.
“It’s Tuesday,” I called over my shoulder.
“So? Slow down, Kristy. It’s too hot to run.”
“I can’t slow down. Tuesday is my afternoon to watch David Michael. I’m supposed to beat him home. Otherwise he gets home first and has to watch himself.”
David Michael is my six-year-old brother.
My big brothers, Charlie and Sam, and I are each responsible for him one afternoon a week until Mom gets home from work. Kathy, this fifteen-year-old girl who lives a few blocks from us, watches him the other two afternoons. Kathy gets paid to watch him. Charlie and Sam and I don’t.
Mary Anne and I ran all the way home. We reached my front yard, sweaty and out of breath. And there was David Michael, sitting forlornly on the front steps, his dark curls falling limply across his forehead.
He burst into tears as soon as he saw us.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulders.
“I’m locked out,” he wailed.
“What happened to your key?”
David Michael shook his head. “I don’t know.” He wiped his eyes, hiccuping.
“Well,” I said, “it’s all right.” I got my own key out of my purse.
David Michael burst into fresh tears. “No, it’s not! It’s not all right. I couldn’t get in and I have to go to the bathroom.”
I unlocked the door. When David Michael gets like this, it’s best just to sort of ignore his tears and pretend everything is fine.
Mary Anne and I held the door open for him and I ushered him into the bathroom. Our collie, Louie, tore outside as we went in. He was frantic to get outdoors after being locked in the house since breakfast time.
“While you go to the bathroom,” I told David Michael, “I’m going to fix us some lemonade, okay?”
David Michael actually smiled. “Okay!”
I’m good with children. So is Mary Anne. Mom says so. Both of us get lots o
f afternoon and weekend baby-sitting jobs. In fact, I’d been offered a job for that afternoon, but I had to turn it down because of David Michael.
That reminded me. “Hey,” I said to Mary Anne as I turned on the air-conditioning, “Mrs. Newton asked me to baby-sit for Jamie this afternoon. Didn’t she call you after she called me?”
Mary Anne sat down at the kitchen table and watched me put lemonade mix in a big glass pitcher. She shook her head. “No. Maybe she called Claudia.”
Claudia Kishi lives across the street from me. She and Mary Anne and I have lived on Bradford Court since we were born. We’ve grown up together, but somehow Claudia has never spent as much time with us as Mary Anne and I have spent with each other. For one thing, Claudia’s really into art and always off at art classes, or else holed up in her room, painting or drawing. Or reading mysteries. That’s her other passion. She’s much more grown-up than Mary Anne and I. When we were little, Mary Anne and I were always playing school or dolls or dress-up, but we practically had to brainwash Claudia to get her to join us. A lot of the time, we just didn’t bother, but Claud’s always been good for a bike ride or going to the movies or the community pool. As far as I’m concerned, one of the best things about Claudia is that her father isn’t Mr. Spier. Mr. Kishi can be strict about Claudia’s schoolwork, but he doesn’t faint if you suggest going downtown for a Coke or something.
Over the summer, it had started to feel like Claudia was drifting apart from Mary Anne and me. Even though we were all going into seventh grade, Claudia suddenly seemed … older. She started caring about boys and had spent more time than usual adding to her wardrobe and talking on the phone. We’d all made up at the end of the summer, but it still felt like we were going in different directions sometimes.
David Michael came into the kitchen, looking much cheerier.
“Here you go,” I said. I handed him a glass of lemonade as he sat next to Mary Anne.
Charlie came in then, tossing a football around. Sam got home a few minutes later, with Louie skidding along behind him. Charlie is sixteen and Sam is fourteen. They both go to Stoneybrook High. Sam’s a freshman this year, and Charlie’s a junior.
“Hi, everybody. Hi, squirt,” Charlie said to David Michael.
“I am not a squirt,” replied David Michael.
Charlie thought he was so great because he’d just made the varsity team. You’d think he was the first person ever to play football for Stoneybrook High.
“We’re going to play ball in the Hansons’ backyard,” Sam announced. “Want to play, Kristy?”
I did, but David Michael wouldn’t want to. He was too little. “I don’t know. I thought Mary Anne and I would take David Michael to the brook. You want to go wading, David Michael?” I asked.
He nodded happily.
“See you guys later,” I called as Sam and Charlie left the house, slamming the front door behind them.
Mary Anne and I took David Michael and Louie to the brook. We watched David Michael wade and make sailboats and try to catch minnows. Louie ran around, looking for squirrels.
“I’d better go,” Mary Anne said after an hour or so. “Dad will be home soon.”
“Yeah. Mom will be home soon, too. David Michael,” I called, “time to leave.”
He stood up reluctantly, and the three of us and Louie walked home together.
When we reached our driveway, David Michael ran across the lawn, and Mary Anne whispered to me, “Nine o’clock, okay?”
I grinned. “Okay.” Mary Anne and I have a secret code. Mary Anne made it up. We can signal each other with flashlights. If I look out my bedroom window, I can see right into hers. Lots of nights we talk to each other with the flashlights, since Mary Anne isn’t allowed on the phone after dinner except for things like baby-sitting jobs or getting homework assignments.
When Mom came home a little while later, she had a pizza with her. My brothers and I stood around the kitchen, breathing in the smell of cheese and pepperoni.
But Sam and Charlie looked skeptical. “I wonder what she wants,” murmured Sam.
“Yeah,” said Charlie.
Mom only gets pizza when she has to ask us a favor.
I decided not to beat around the bush. “How come you bought a pizza, Mom?” I asked.
Charlie kicked my ankle, but I ignored him. “Come on. What do you have to ask us?”
Mom grinned. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she knew that we knew it. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Kathy called me at work to say she won’t be able to watch David Michael tomorrow. I was wondering what you guys are—”
“Football practice,” said Charlie promptly.
“Math Club,” said Sam.
“Sitting at the Newtons’,” I said.
“Drat,” said Mom.
“But we are sorry,” added Sam.
“I know you are.”
Then we dug into the pizza while Mom started making phone calls.
She called Mary Anne. Mary Anne was sitting for the Pikes.
She called Claudia. Claudia had an art class.
She called two high school girls. They had cheerleading practice.
David Michael looked like he might cry.
Finally, Mom called Mrs. Newton and asked if she would mind if I brought David Michael with me when I sat for Jamie. Luckily, Mrs. Newton didn’t mind.
I chewed away at a gloppy mouthful of cheese and pepperoni and thought it was too bad that Mom’s pizza had to get cold while she made all those phone calls. I thought it was too bad that David Michael had to sit there and feel like he was causing a lot of trouble just because he was only six years old and couldn’t take care of himself yet.
Then the idea for the Baby-sitters Club came to me and I almost choked.
I could barely wait until nine o’clock so I could signal the great idea to Mary Anne.
After dinner that night, I went to my bedroom and shut my door. Then I sat down at my desk with a pad of paper and a sharpened pencil. I had three things to do: the composition on decorum, my homework, and some thinking about the Baby-sitters Club. I planned to do them in that order, grossest first.
I looked up decorum in my dictionary. It said: “Conformity to social convention; propriety. See Synonyms at etiquette.” I had to look up both propriety and etiquette before I got the picture. Then I understood. I’d been rude. Why hadn’t Mr. Redmont just said so? It would have made things a lot simpler. So I wrote down some stuff about how being rude was distracting to other students and made Stoneybrook Middle School look bad to visitors. I counted the words. Ninety-eight. So I added “The End” with a great big flourish and hoped for the best.
Then I did the math assignment and read about Paraguay for social studies.
And then it was time to think about the Baby-sitters Club.
I smoothed out a fresh piece of paper and started making a list:
1. Members:
Me
Mary Anne
Claudia
Who else?
2. Advertising:
Flyers
Telephone
Newspaper?
3. Set up meeting times when clients can
call to line up sitters.
Where to meet?
4. Weekly dues for expenses?
My idea was that Mary Anne and Claudia and I would form a club to do baby-sitting. We would tell people (our clients) that at certain times during the week we could all be reached at one number. We would hold our meetings during those times. That way, when someone needed a sitter, he or she could make one phone call and reach three different people. One of us would be available for sure. Of course, people could call us individually at other times, but the beauty of the meetings would be the opportunity to reach several baby-sitters at once. Our clients wouldn’t have to go through what Mom had just gone through at dinner.
We would have to advertise ourselves, I decided. I was hoping Claudia would help us make up some flyers to stick in the mailboxes in our neighb
orhood. She’d be able to draw something really cute on our ads.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to nine. Fifteen more minutes before I was supposed to signal Mary Anne. I was getting edgy. I had such a terrific idea and I couldn’t even pick up the phone like a normal human being to tell Mary Anne about it. Mr. Spier would just tell me I could see Mary Anne in school tomorrow.
I sighed.
Mom knocked on my door. I knew it was Mom because none of my brothers ever bothers to knock. They just barge in.
“Come in,” I called.
“Hi, sweetie,” said Mom. She closed the door behind her and sat on the edge of my bed. “How was school?”
Mom tries to spend a little time alone with each of us kids every day. She feels guilty that she and my father are divorced and that she has to work full-time to support us. She’s told us so. I wish she wouldn’t feel guilty. It’s not her fault that Dad ran off to California and got married again and doesn’t send Mom much child-support money. Mom says she doesn’t want more money, though. She has a terrific job at this big company in Stamford, and she likes the fact that she can support us so well. It makes her feel proud and independent. But she still feels guilty.
My father can be sort of a jerk sometimes. He hasn’t called us in over a year. And he even forgot my twelfth birthday last month.
I paused, trying to think of a way to answer Mom’s question without telling her about the composition I’d had to write.
“Kristy?” Mom asked.
“It was fine.”
“Okay, what happened?”
There is absolutely no fooling Mom.
“Well,” I said, “you know how hot it was today?”
“Yes.”
“And you know how sometimes a hot day can seem really long?”
“Kristy, get to the point.”
So I did. And Mom laughed. Then she read my composition and said she thought it was fine. I asked her if she thought The End could count as the ninety-ninth and one-hundredth words, and she smiled and said she hoped so.
My mom is really great.
When she left to go talk to Sam, it was nine o’clock.
I got out my flashlight, turned off the lamp by my desk, and stood at the window that faced Mary Anne’s room.