This book is in memory of Jessica Knott,
and in honor of Liesl Flandermeyer
and all of Jessica’s friends.
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
RRRRRIIINNNNNG!
“Yaaay!”
“All riiiiight!”
“Yyyyyyyes!”
Around me, kids shouted with joy and relief. They stood up at once, laughing and talking. Can you tell where I was?
The start of the circus? Halftime at a Stoneybrook Middle School football game?
No. The end of math class. Which also happens to be the end of the school day.
Math and last period are two concepts that don’t mix very well. Most of my classmates come in looking as if they’re ready for a nap. They leave as if they’ve been released from prison.
Me? I don’t mind math class. In fact, I think it’s interesting and fun. I wish my teacher, Mr. Zizmore, would go a little faster. What I don’t like is sitting around while he repeats things seventeen times for the class sleepyheads.
Which is why I’d spent the last fifteen minutes writing an original book on looseleaf sheets hidden inside my textbook. It’s called The Stacey McGill Guide to Third-Grade Math. (Actually, I’m in eighth grade, but I happened to be tutoring an eight-year-old girl named Lindsey DeWitt.)
I slapped my textbook shut and stood up from my seat. Kids were chatting away. Mr. Zizmore was examining a note on a small pink slip.
“Stacey?” he called out. “Ms. Hartley would like to see you in Room two-oh-eight after school.”
Ms. Hartley is the chairperson of the Stoneybrook Middle School math department. Why did she want to see me? I had no idea.
“Ooooooh, bad girl …” murmured Irv Hirsch, the Stupid-Prank King of SMS, who just happens to sit behind me.
I ignored him. As I lifted the books off my desk, a sheet of my work-in-progress fell out. I tried to grab it, but Irv beat me to it.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a mock-English accent, “the notes of the class genius! I quote: ‘Subtraction of three-digit numbers, those with numeral values in the hundreds, tens, and ones columns, must be arranged with the subtrahend below the minuend and answered from right to left.’ Whoa, when did we learn this?”
I snatched the sheet away. “In third grade. Maybe you were absent that day.”
“What’s a minuend?”
I did not answer him. I marched out of the room and down the hall.
What a dork.
“Dode say hi or eddythigg,” called a familiar stuffed-up voice.
I turned to see Abby Stevenson walking toward me, loaded down with books. “Sorry,” I said. “I was too busy being mad at Irv.”
“Dode get bad, get evedd,” Abby said. “That’s by botto.” (No, Abby didn’t have a cold. She’s allergic to just about anything you can think of — dust, pollen, shellfish, strawberries, dog fur, you name it.)
“How?”
“He’s id by sciedce class. I could put a dissected frog in his backpack.”
I cracked up. It wasn’t a bad idea.
Leave it to Abby. She’s the best remedy for a bad mood. Everything about her is funny. Take her hair. It’s this thick brown curly mop. On that day, she’d decided to gather it on the top of her head. It looked like an exploding volcano.
I don’t mean to make fun of her. Just the opposite. Here’s the Stacey McGill Philosophy of Appearance, Rule One: If you feel confident on the inside, you look great on the outside, no matter what you wear. Abby doesn’t care what people think about her appearance. I admire that.
Rule Number Two? If you can’t be confident all the time, wear cool clothes. That’s the rule I obey. For me, the hardest part of the day is deciding what to wear in the morning. My mom has to hide our mail-order catalogs if she hopes to get a glimpse of them. Fashion is my passion. I can’t help it. I like nice clothes the way some people like chocolate.
Actually, I can’t even eat chocolate. I have this condition called diabetes. You’ve heard of sugar shock? Well, diabetes is a mega-case of that. My body can’t store sugar and parcel it into my bloodstream a bit at a time, the way it’s supposed to. Instead — wham! — the sugar goes right into the bloodstream. If I eat too much sugar, I could have serious problems, even pass out. But don’t worry. Life without sweets is fine. To me, it’s normal. As long as I eat meals on a strict schedule and give myself daily injections of a hormone called insulin (which is not as gross as it sounds), I lead a pretty normal life.
While we’re on the subject, here are some other things you need to know about me: I’m thirteen years old. I have long, golden-blonde hair. I grew up in New York City. My parents are divorced.
My parents were not divorced when we first moved to Stoneybrook, Connecticut. My dad’s company had transferred him here from the Big Apple. It was hard to adjust to the suburbs, but I did — until Dad was transferred back. Zoom, off to the city again. I felt like a Ping-Pong ball. Then my parents’ marriage fell apart, and I had a choice: stay with Dad in New York or move with Mom to Stoneybrook.
I, Stacey the City Girl, who can draw a map of the NYC subway system from memory, who wore out the sidewalks in front of my neighborhood boutiques, decided on Stoneybrook. Why? Three words. The Baby-sitters Club. (Or is that four words? Whatever. It’s a group of best friends, which I’ll tell you about later.)
Abby’s a member of our group. She’s also a New Yorker. Actually, a Long Islander, which is different than a Manhattanite, but I won’t bore you with the details.
“Walk with be to by locker?” Abby asked.
“Not today,” I replied. “I’m supposed to see Ms. Hartley after school.”
“Is she givig you sub kide of bath award?”
I shrugged. (Bath award? For some reason, all I could think about was a bronze statuette in the shape of a rubber duckie.)
At the corner of the hallway, we said good-bye and I walked to Room 208. Ms. Hartley looked up from her desk and smiled. “Hello, Stacey! Would you mind closing the door? I’d like to continue a discussion we began in September.”
Huh? As I shut the door, I searched through my memory.
“It’s been a fantastic year for Mathletes,” Ms. Hartley continued, “as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
Ugh. Now I remembered. Ms. Hartley had asked me if I wanted to join this after-school group called Mathletes. It’s sort of like a sports team, with practices and meets. Only instead of hitting home runs or kicking a ball, you solve tricky math problems.
I know. You’re falling off your chair with excitement. You’re slapping your forehead and thinking, how could I possibly say no to such a fabulous offer?
Just kidding.
Puh-leeze. Like I had nothing better to do than hang out with math geeks on permanent Bad Hair Days?
“It’s a special team this year, Stacey,” Ms. Hartley went on. “We have tons of fun at our practices. But more to the point, for the first time in Stoneybrook history, I believe we have the chance to go all the way this year. To the state championships. That’s how much potential this team has.”
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All I could manage was a not-too-enthusiastic “wow.”
“Unfortunately, one of our star members has moved to Ohio. Now, I know I’ve asked you before, Stacey, but I’d like you to reconsider joining. Mr. Zizmore has shown me some of your excellent work, and he says you have a real passion for the material. I think you and the Mathletes would be a perfect match.”
“Ms. Hartley,” I began, “I’ve been really busy with baby-sitting and homework and —”
“The season only has a month to go,” Ms. Hartley interrupted. “This weekend we start competing at the local level, but you wouldn’t have to start then if you felt unprepared. Most of our meets are on weekends, but the state finals are a best-of-three series, and I think some of it occurs during the week. Our practices are informal. Sometimes we meet here in this room after school, sometimes at a student’s house or my own. We eat snacks, tell jokes … it’s like a big party, only we solve interesting math problems. Stacey, with a mind like yours, we would be honored to have you as a member.”
I laughed. “I’m not that good.”
“Oh?” Ms. Hartley leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “Well, let me settle your doubts. I’m not at liberty to tell you the exact numbers, but I can say your standardized test scores are among the highest we’ve ever seen in this district.”
Whoa. Highest ever? Me?
I felt kind of flushed. Almost embarrassed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not that I’m trying to pressure you,” Ms. Hartley continued. “I’d just like you to consider it. Our next practice is Friday at seven-thirty at my house, Four-seven-seven Komorn Road. Come and hang out with us.”
“Maybe,” I said with a shrug.
Ms. Hartley’s face brightened. She rose from her seat and extended her hand. “Hope to see you, Stacey.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, shaking her hand. “ ’Bye.”
I felt kind of weird as I left. Me, a Mathlete? The idea seemed ridiculous. I pictured myself in high-water pants, my pockets stuffed with calculators and my head in the clouds.
Don’t be such a snob, part of me was saying. It might be fun.
Besides, if my aptitude was so high, I should make the most of it. Being on a state championship team would be cool.
I held that thought for about a minute. Then it flew out, like the air from a balloon.
I ran to my locker. I had to go home, to begin preparing dinner so my mom wouldn’t have to do it all when she returned from work. Then I had to go to a Baby-sitters Club meeting.
Mathletes shmathletes. Maybe in another life. This one was complicated enough.
“So, my teacher’s handing back my social studies test, and I can see this big red word written across the top,” Claudia Kishi said, emerging from her closet. In her right hand was a bag of Cheez Doodles, in her left a box of peanut M&M’S. “Healthy or nonhealthy?”
“That’s three words,” said Kristy Thomas.
“I’m asking which snack you want!” Claudia retorted.
“Which one are you calling healthy?” Jessi Ramsey asked.
“This has cheese,” Claudia said, holding out the Doodles. “Actually, the M&M’S have peanuts, so I guess they both qualify.”
“Claudia Kishi, nutrition expert,” Abby remarked.
“What did your teacher write on your test?” Mary Anne Spier asked.
Claudia passed around both bags. “Well, I figured it was, ‘Try harder,’ or ‘See me,’ or ‘You must be joking.’ So I closed my eyes. But when she put it on my desk, I peeked and saw … ‘Excellent’ with a big explanation mark. I nearly had a heart attack! I figured it was some mistake.”
“Exclamation,” Mallory Pike corrected her.
“Whatever. Anyway, I think I’m going to frame it.”
Kristy was shoving a handful of M&M’S into her mouth as Claudia’s clock clicked to 5:30. “I hooby call zuff meetee to order,” she mumbled.
Abby rolled her eyes. “Very high class, Kristy.”
Welcome to our Wednesday Baby-sitters Club meeting. We were in Claudia’s bedroom, engaging in our favorite activity, pigging out. (I, Stacey the Sugar-Free, was noshing on some Ruffles Claudia had pulled from behind her night table.)
Claudia hoards junk food. She also has her own private phone. Those are the two reasons we use her room as our headquarters. We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from five-thirty to six. During that time, Stoneybrook parents phone us to line up baby-sitting jobs. With one call, they can contact seven reliable, experienced baby-sitters.
Our clients love the convenience. We love the business. Our charges look forward to seeing us.
Who thought of this brilliant idea? Our president, founder, and expert on bad food manners, Kristy Thomas.
The idea came to her one evening, back when Kristy lived across the street from Claudia. Mrs. Thomas needed a sitter for Kristy’s little brother, David Michael. Usually Kristy and her two older brothers baby-sat, but they were busy. (Mr. Thomas, by the way, was out of the picture; he’d abandoned the family shortly after David Michael was born.) Well, Mrs. Thomas was on the phone for hours but she couldn’t find one available sitter.
Sha-zam! The idea for the BSC began forming in Kristy’s brain.
We started with four members: Kristy, Claudia, Mary Anne Spier, and me. But parents began knocking down our doors, tying up the phone lines, breaking into fights over appointments. Well, not quite, but we became busy enough to grow to seven full members. Ten, if you include our two associates and one honorary member.
How do we handle all the popularity? Organization. (That’s Kristy’s favorite word, after “Order!”) Kristy set up the club like a company, with rules, officers, and a budget. We have to write about each job in a special notebook, so we can always be aware of our clients’ changing needs.
At the top of the BSC totem pole, naturally, is President Kristy. She runs our meetings and constantly dreams up new ideas. Kids and publicity are her top priorities. She organizes holiday parties, athletic competitions, and other activities for our charges. Kristy also formed a kids’ softball team called Kristy’s Krushers, and she thought up the Kid-Kits (boxes of toys, games, and other user-friendly stuff) that we sometimes bring along to our jobs.
Four words to describe Kristy: loud, short, rich, and casual. Very casual. Oh, all right, I’ll say it. She has zero fashion sense. (No offense, jeans and sweats are great, but all the time? Puh-leeze.) With her dark brown eyes and hair, she could really develop a Winona Ryder kind of look if she wanted to. She just laughs when I suggest that, though.
Too bad. She could definitely afford a makeover now and then. Her stepdad, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire. When he married Mrs. Thomas, Kristy’s family moved across town into his mansion. Actually, madhouse might be a better name for it. In age order, here are the people who live there: Kristy’s grandmother Nannie, Watson, Kristy’s mom, Charlie (who’s seventeen), Sam (fifteen), Kristy, David Michael (seven), Karen (Watson’s seven-year-old daughter from a previous marriage), Andrew (Karen’s four-year-old brother), Emily Michelle (a two-and-a-half-year-old Vietnamese girl adopted by Kristy’s mom and Watson), and about a zillion pets. A couple of the pets travel back and forth with Karen and Andrew, who live in their mom and stepdad’s house during alternate months.
Now that Kristy lives across town, she is chauffered to meetings by her brother Charlie in his rusty old jalopy called the Junk Bucket.
Abby lives near Kristy, so she also braves the ride. She became our newest member soon after moving to Stoneybrook. We tried to recruit her twin sister, Anna, too, but she turned us down because her violin studies take up all her spare time.
“Fiddling” is how Abby describes her sister’s music. Honestly, you’d never believe those two are twins. Anna wears her hair short, unlike Abby’s volcano (which she’s grown out since a recent cut). Anna has no allergies or asthma. Abby has both and needs to carry inhalers with her at all times. Anna is shy, studious, and not interested in sports; Abby
is the BSC’s number one comedian-athlete. Anna has scoliosis, but Abby does not.
Personally, I love having another New Yorker in the group. Especially one like Abby, who adores NYC. Her mom commutes to the city every day to her job in a publishing house. (Mr. Stevenson died in a car accident when the twins were nine. Abby doesn’t talk about him much, and we don’t ask.)
Abby’s our alternate officer. She steps in whenever another officer is absent.
Who are the other officers? Claudia’s our vice president. She calls herself Chief Executive for Shelter, Communications, and Hunger Prevention. If a BSC meeting were launched into space, we’d be able to survive a trip to Neptune before her junk food supply ran out. She hides chocolate Kisses in her bedspread lining, pretzel bags in her closet, cookie boxes in her underwear drawer, sweets everywhere. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat on her bed and flattened a candy bar.
If Claudia’s parents ever found out about her secret stash, they’d have a cow. Maybe two. Boy, are they ever straitlaced. Their motto: No junk for the body, no junk for the mind. They don’t even allow popular books in the house, just classic literature, so Claudia has to hide her Nancy Drew novels.
Claudia’s sister, Janine, is as conservative as her parents, plus she’s an academic genius. She’s in high school but she takes college-level courses. Claudia was in eighth grade but was recently dropped back to seventh.
Guess which daughter often feels like the family misfit.
Claudia’s real soulmate was her grandmother, Mimi, who used to live with the Kishis. English wasn’t Mimi’s first language (she was a Japanese immigrant), but she and Claudia understood each other deeply.
Looking at Claudia, you’d never know she was such a junk food addict. She’s trim, gorgeous, and pimple-free. She has long, silky-black hair that never seems to sit still. One day it’ll be in a French braid, the next in cornrows, the next tied to one side with some crazy hairclip. Her best outfits are assembled from odds and ends she picks up at thrift shops. I don’t know how she does it. I have to see clothes in a catalog or a store, preferably on a model.
Clothing coordination is just one of Claudia’s artistic talents. You should see her paintings — and drawings and sculptures and homemade jewelry. She can do it all.