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
“On the final,” Ms. Belcher was saying, “I would like you to be able to define some of the major poetic forms such as the sonnet and the villanelle.”
“Who’s the villain?” shouted Alan Gray.
Ms. Belcher and the rest of my English class ignored Alan. That’s sometimes the best way to deal with him. He’s our class pest, who thinks everything he says is hilarious, even though it’s usually not.
“I also expect you to give me examples of alliteration and assonance,” Ms. Belcher continued.
I flipped through my notes. A sonnet, I had written, is a fourteen-line poem with a certain rhyme scheme.
By now, Ms. Belcher was talking about something called onomatopoeia. But I was still thinking about the sonnet. An example of a sonnet is Shakespeare’s poem that begins, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
I sighed and looked out the window. I could not wait for summer. I usually love English, and reading and writing, and anything to do with books. But today I was having trouble concentrating.
Outside a robin perched on the windowsill. Oak trees rustled in the breeze and puffy white clouds floated across the sky. The grass looked lush and green and welcoming. What was I doing inside? All I wanted to do was sit on that grass and talk to my friends about what we were going to do this summer.
I always look forward to summer because that’s when Dawn Schafer, my stepsister, comes back to Stoneybrook to visit. Dawn is one of my two best friends, and I miss her more than I can say. I cried my eyes out when she decided to move back to California. But I’m getting ahead of my story. I’ll tell you more about my family later. First let me introduce myself.
I’m Mary Anne Spier. I’m thirteen years old. I’m pretty short, and I have brown hair and brown eyes. People say I’m very sensitive, which is true. It doesn’t take much for me to start crying. When my boyfriend, Logan, and I go to the movies, Logan often brings a box of tissues because I cry so much. (Is that embarrassing or what?) I’m shy too, but sometimes I think that being sensitive and shy helps me listen to people.
I live in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where I’m in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. My other best friend, Kristy Thomas, is in the eighth grade too. Kristy is as outgoing and assertive as I am shy. I guess opposites attract because we’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember.
I’ve lived in Stoneybrook my whole life. I’m an only child, and my mother died when I was a baby. I don’t remember her at all, but people who knew her are always telling me I look and act like her. For example, like me, my mother liked to sew and hated to cook.
When my mother died, my dad was devastated, as you can imagine. He even sent me to live with my grandparents in Nebraska until he could cope a little better. I was too little to remember Nebraska now, but I do know that for most of my life my dad was rather strict with me. Kristy used to call him the King of Rules. Until eighth grade, I had to go to bed earlier than all my friends. And Dad used to pick out my clothes, which meant I wore babyish frilly blouses and long little-girlish skirts. I was not allowed to have my ears pierced, and I had to wear my hair in braids or pigtails. (Ugh.)
It took Dad forever to accept that I was growing up. Fortunately, with the help of my friends, I was able to encourage him to relax a little. Now I can pick out my own clothes, within reason. I like simple, conservative things — no frills or lace ever again (except maybe when I get married). I also have pierced ears and a haircut I like. I even have a reasonable curfew. So you see, things have changed for the better since I’ve been in eighth grade.
Dad is a lot happier too. Lately there’s been a big change in our life — Sharon. Sharon happens to be Dawn’s mom … and my dad’s new wife.
Dad and Sharon were high school sweethearts, right here in Stoneybrook. They broke up, though, because Sharon’s parents did not approve of my dad. (Hmmph.) Sharon moved to California and lost touch with my father. Many years later, when I was in seventh grade, I became good friends with a girl named Dawn Schafer, who had just moved to Stoneybrook from California with her divorced mother and younger brother, Jeff. (Do you see a family picture emerging?)
It took Dawn and me awhile to realize that Dawn’s mom was the Sharon in Dad’s past, but when we made that connection, nothing could stop us. We reintroduced them, and Dad and Sharon fell in love all over again.
This is further proof that opposites attract, as I said before. Dad and Sharon could not be more different. My dad, Mr. Neat and Organized, is a lawyer. He alphabetizes the spices in our kitchen cabinet. He arranges his socks by color. And he always reads the newspaper in the same order — the business section first, then international news, national news, and (finally) local news.
Sharon, on the other hand, never puts anything in its place. I often find her sunglasses in the refrigerator and her mail in the bathroom. Plus, Sharon, like Dawn and Jeff, likes to eat healthy foods. And no red meat.
But all this does not really matter because Dad and Sharon love each other and are very happy. And so am I, because now I have a great stepsister and stepbrother, a great stepmom, and a great place to live. Dad and I moved into Sharon’s cool farmhouse on Burnt Hill Road. It was built in the 1700s, and it has low ceilings, narrow hallways, a brick fireplace, a barn in the back, and best of all, a secret passageway that may be haunted.
Unfortunately, Dawn does not live in our farmhouse anymore, at least not full-time. As I mentioned, she moved back to California to live with her dad (Jeff had done the same thing earlier). It wasn’t that they didn’t get along with my dad and me, or that they hated Stoneybrook. They were just terribly homesick.
And soon Dawn was going to be back in Stoneybrook for the first time since Christmas. Usually she visits more often, but she’s been going through a lot in California. For one thing, Dawn’s father remarried too. His new wife is named Carol. As if that weren’t enough excitement, Dawn’s father and Carol just had a baby, a beautiful little girl named Elizabeth Grace — Gracie, for short. (Dawn sent me pictures.)
I can’t wait to hear more about how Dawn is doing with the baby. At least she’s had a lot of practice baby-sitting. We both have. Dawn and I are members of the Baby-sitters Club, also known as the BSC.
Staring out the window, I sighed. Thinking about Dawn made me miss her more than ever.
Alan Gray (who else?) startled me out of my daydream. He was taking the cartridge out of his ballpoint pen and stuffing the empty tube with a wad of paper. I knew what was coming. He was going to send a spitball flying. He already had the pen in his mouth (how disgusting) and he was aiming at Barbara Hirsch. I wanted to warn her, but I was sitting too far away for her to hear me. (Unless I screamed, which would probably get me into more trouble than Alan.)
I could not believe what happened next. Barbara miraculously leaned over to whisper something to Gordon Brown. The spitball whizzed past her head, just missing her. It landed on Ms. Belcher’s arm.
I gulped. Most of the other kids in the class froze and stared straight ahead as M
s. Belcher made a face (who could blame her?) and brushed away the spitball with her hand.
The class was so quiet you could have heard a mouse in the back of the room. Actually, some kids in the back were trying very hard not to laugh. Other kids looked too surprised to say anything. Alan was the only one not looking at our teacher. He stared at the floor, probably wishing he could disappear.
“Alan,” Ms. Belcher said firmly as she walked toward him. “You’re going to the principal’s office right now!” Ms. Belcher is usually pretty mild-mannered, but at that moment she looked as if she wanted to yank Alan’s hair out of his head. (I’m exaggerating, but she looked angrier than I’d ever seen her.)
Just then the final bell rang. Everyone in the class, except for Alan, gathered up their books and rushed out of the room.
In the hall, we started spluttering and laughing. “I can’t believe it — a direct hit!” Gordon exclaimed.
“I’d believe almost anything when it comes to Alan,” Barbara said. Some kids hung around outside the classroom, waiting for Alan and Ms. Belcher to come out. Not me, though. I walked with Barbara, Gordon, and a few other kids to our lockers.
“I wonder if he’ll get suspended for this,” Gordon said.
“I wish,” said Barbara.
“He’d have to do something a lot more serious than that to get suspended,” said a familiar voice. A voice with a slight southern drawl.
“Logan, you heard what happened already?” I asked.
Logan Bruno is my boyfriend. He’s handsome and athletic, and he has a southern accent because he’s originally from Kentucky.
“News like this travels fast,” said Logan, laughing. “Peter filled me in.” (Peter Hayes is in my English class and is also on the track team with Logan. They’re good friends.)
“What do you think will happen to him?” asked Howie Johnson. By now we had reached our lockers. I pulled out my math and science books. I still had a lot of studying to do for those two finals, which were both on Friday.
“I don’t know,” said Logan. “He’ll probably have a lot of very long detentions.”
Alan’s big punishment, we soon heard from Melissa Banks, was that he had to stay after school all week and write a thousand-word essay titled “How to Behave.” He also had to do some community service for the school, such as help the janitor, Mr. Halprin, take out the trash. (I felt sorry for anyone Alan helped.)
Since it was such a beautiful day, Logan and I decided to walk to the lighthouse after school and maybe do some studying there before our BSC meeting. (Logan is in the Baby-sitters Club too.) I also wanted to daydream again about summer vacation, which would begin in less than a week, when school was over. I couldn’t wait.
I think Stoneybrook has one of the prettiest lighthouses I’ve ever seen. Logan thinks it looks like a giant barber pole because it’s painted in red and white stripes. The lighthouse is on the edge of town, not far from school on the Long Island Sound. I love sitting at the picnic tables by the lighthouse, breathing in the salty air and watching the waves lap against the rocks, while seagulls fly overhead.
I sighed and opened my math book.
“Don’t worry. Soon we can come here and not have any schoolwork to think about,” said Logan. He can always read my mind. He sat across from me with his American history book open to the chapter on the Revolutionary War.
“Oh, Mary Anne, Mary Anne. Yooo-hooo, Mary Anne.”
I looked up, startled, but I recognized the familiar English accent. It belonged to Miss Rutherford, Victoria Kent’s nanny. (We often baby-sit for Victoria, who’s eight. Her parents, who are British and distantly related to the royal family, wanted Victoria exposed to Americans during the time they were living in Stoneybrook. That’s why they called the BSC when they first saw our flier.) Victoria was running to me now, arms outstretched.
“Hey, Mary Anne!” she shouted. “Isn’t this quite the coolest lighthouse?”
I chuckled. Victoria would never have talked that way a few months ago. I could see Miss Rutherford flinching.
“Victoria, there is no need to yell. Mary Anne is not far away.”
“So cool,” Victoria repeated more softly. Logan and I hid our grins. I stood up to be enveloped in Victoria’s big hug.
Today, Victoria was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and high-top red sneakers, not exactly the Laura Ashley pinafores and starched white blouses she usually wore.
“Nice outfit,” I remarked. But, I admit, I was surprised.
“Isn’t it?” said Victoria, seating herself at our table. “Mother and Father let me pick out some really awesome American clothes as a souvenir of my time in the States. You know, we’re going back to England at the end of the month.”
I nodded. Victoria’s parents work for the United Nations. They had only expected to stay in the U.S. for six months, but their assignments had lasted longer than they thought.
“And you know what else?” Victoria continued, scuffing her sneaker in the dirt.
“What?” I asked. I could not believe how American she sounded.
“I don’t want to go back to England. I like it here. And what’s more, I’m fully Americanized. All the kids on my street say so.” This time Logan and I could no longer hide our smiles.
“Victoria, what are you saying?” said Miss Rutherford. “Now, sit here quietly and have your tea without disturbing Mary Anne and Logan.” (Tea, as I have learned from Miss Rutherford, is a snack the British have around four o’clock in the afternoon.)
Miss Rutherford reached into her large bag and pulled out a thermos, strawberries, and some little gingerbread cakes.
“Please have some,” Miss Rutherford offered, passing the cakes to Logan and me. “Isn’t this splendid, Victoria? Now we can have a real tea party.”
Victoria put her hands on her hips. “It’s not a tea party. It’s really more like an after-school snack, isn’t it? And I wish we could have Yodels and potato chips, like my classmates.”
I bit into the lightest, most delicious ginger-bread I’ve ever tasted. “This food is better,” I couldn’t help saying.
“Victoria, would you like some apple juice?” asked Miss Rutherford.
“You know, I like it better when you call me Vicki. It sounds more American. Doesn’t it, Mary Anne?”
I shrugged. My mouth was full. “It doesn’t really make a difference,” I said after swallowing.
“Now, Victoria,” said Miss Rutherford, “you know your parents prefer your Christian name.”
“I don’t care what they prefer. It sucks to be moving back to England, now that I like it here so much.”
“Don’t say sucks, Victoria,” Miss Rutherford chided.
“Vicki, remember how much you missed England when you first moved here? And you know how much Jezra, Annabelle, and Christina are looking forward to seeing you again,” I said. (I had heard a lot about Victoria’s best friends in England.)
“Maybe they could visit me here. I know they would just love America.”
Miss Rutherford looked at me and sighed.
I decided I’d better talk to my friends in the BSC about Victoria at the meeting. Which reminded me, it was almost time to leave. Kristy, our president, hates when anyone is late. She’s almost as bad as my dad that way.
* * *
“This meeting of the Baby-sitters Club will come to order,” Kristy said twenty minutes later, while looking at the clock. It was five-thirty sharp. She sat in a director’s chair, the same chair she commandeered at every meeting, and looked at us from under the visor of her baseball cap, the same cap she wore to every meeting.
The Baby-sitters Club meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon from five-thirty to six in Claudia Kishi’s room. And why is Claudia’s room our official headquarters? For two good reasons. One, Claudia has her own private phone line so clients can call us during meetings (our business hours) to request sitting jobs. And two, Claudia always keeps a generous supply of munchies on hand in case we’re
hungry, which we always are. At this very moment, Abby Stevenson, Jessica Ramsey, and Mallory Pike were on the rug by Claudia’s bed, gorging on potato chips. Kristy was holding a chocolate Ring-Ding in one hand. I was swallowing a fistful of M&M’s. And Stacey McGill, who is not allowed to eat sugary food, was munching on a carrot stick.
“Let’s take care of dues first,” Kristy said.
We groaned. We pay dues every Monday, and we always groan about it. We use the money for club expenses, which include our snacks, gas money for Kristy’s brother Charlie who drives her and Abby to the meetings, and items for the Kid-Kits.
Kid-Kits are special boxes filled with games, puzzles, books, crayons, glitter pens, and whatever else we think would be fun for our baby-sitting charges. We don’t bring the kits to every job, but they do come in handy when we have new clients, or when we think a job is going to be challenging (because a kid is sick or has to stay indoors because of the weather, for example). The Kid-Kits were Kristy’s brainstorm. Which makes sense. She’s the one who came up with the idea for the Baby-sitters Club in the first place.
Kristy thought up the BSC one night while listening to her mother make phone call after phone call trying to find a sitter for Kristy’s little brother, David Michael. Kristy thought, What if a person could call one number and reach several sitters at once?
For Kristy, having an idea is the same as acting on it. In no time at all, she had rounded up three friends: me, Claudia, and Stacey. The Baby-sitters Club was launched … and the rest is history, in Stoneybrook, at least.
It’s hard to believe there were once only four people in the BSC. Since then, we have more than doubled in size. Now we have seven full-time members, two associate members to handle overflow business, and one long-distance, honorary member in California — Dawn. We don’t need to hand out fliers or put up signs around town anymore. We have more than enough business from satisfied clients and from people to whom we’ve been recommended.
In order to keep things organized, we have a record book. That’s where I come in. I am the club secretary. I keep track of all our schedules and all our jobs, as well as important information about each charge (such as allergies and other medical conditions).
Mary Anne and the Playground Fight Page 1
