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
“Whoa! Feeeess, Kristy!” my brother David Michael called.
Well, that’s what it sounded like. It was hard to tell what he was saying.
Whack! Thump! Whirrrrrrr! went the construction crew two houses away.
Eeeeeeeeee droned the cicadas in the backyard trees.
I was in the garage, rounding up softball equipment. It was a hot, noisy Friday morning at the end of the summer, four days before the start of school and eight days before the World Series. Our World Series, that is. See, I’m founder, manager, and head coach of a team called Kristy’s Krushers. The team is named after me, Kristy Thomas.
“Kristyyyyyy!”
I looked out the garage door, toward the back of my house. David Michael was scampering toward me, grinning.
Clatter-clatter, bonk, crash! Four aluminum bats fell to the garage floor. One of them smashed me on the left big toe.
“Yeeeeow!” I exclaimed.
“Kristyyyy!” David Michael shouted again.
I did not have a cow. I kept my cool. I stood up and calmly replied, “WHAT?”
Picture the Road Runner stopping short and leaving skid marks behind him. That was my brother.
“Why are you yelling?” he asked.
“I am not yelling!” I yelled.
“Why are the bats on the floor?”
Whaack! Thump! Whirrrrrrr! the construction crew answered. The cicadas hummed along.
Boy, it was one of those days.
Lately I’d been having a lot of “those days.” The cicadas had been at it since the beginning of August. (Do your neighborhood trees have them? They are so loud!) The workers had started a couple of weeks later. I am convinced they take noise training classes. Each morning at seven-thirty sharp, the banging began, along with the buzzing, bonking, beeping, drilling, and shouting. I’d stopped setting my alarm. I didn’t need it anymore.
Normally I am an early bird. And, to tell the truth, I can be pretty noisy myself. (Just ask my friends.) But this was going too far.
I couldn’t wait to start a nice, peaceful softball practice.
David Michael was flexing his arm in front of my face. His teeth were gritted. “Feel this, Kristy,” he grunted, nodding toward his biceps.
Well, biceps was a strong word. Bump was more like it. David Michael is seven years old.
Sighing, I wrapped my hand around his skinny little arm and squeezed. “Wow.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but it wasn’t easy. I was thinking about my sore toe, the garage floor strewn with bats, and the fact that practice began in ten minutes.
And I hate hate hate lateness.
“I am really strong!” David Michael exclaimed.
“You sure are. I wonder how many bats you can carry to the field.”
That did it. David Michael bent down and scooped up three of the bats. As he lumbered out of the garage, huffing and puffing, the bats waggled up and down. “See?” he said.
“Fantastic!” I let him have his moment of glory.
Around another bat I looped the handles of our worn-out equipment duffel bag (which contains balls; an old, taped-up plastic batting tee; a wrench; electrician’s tape; a first-aid kit; a batting helmet; and a few gloves). I rested the bat on my shoulder so the bag hung over my back. Then I followed my brother down the driveway.
By now you’ve probably noticed how nice I was to David Michael. I complimented him on his “muscle.” I didn’t yell at him for distracting me. I didn’t talk back when he acted superior. You know why? It’s not that I’m the world’s most patient, wise, and loving person. (Well, I’m close, but that’s not it.)
It’s training.
See, kids are my business. I know that sounds dorky, but it’s true. I founded the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC, and we are about the most kid-friendly, kid-knowledgeable group in the greater Southern Connecticut area.
My BSC friends call me an Idea Machine. I don’t know about the Machine part, but the Idea part is true.
For example: you’ve probably already guessed that I’m a sports-lover. Well, I noticed that some of our BSC charges enjoyed softball, but they weren’t ready for Little League.
Would I let them be doomed to sit around, moping, never learning the finer points of our national pastime? No way.
Kristy’s Krushers was born.
How is the team? Pretty bad, if you want to know the truth. But the idea is to have fun and learn basic skills, that’s all.
Of course, demolishing Bart’s Bashers in the World Series would be nice, too.
Did I mention I’m a little competitive? I am. (So’s Bart. Bart Taylor, that is. Even though our teams are adversaries, he’s kind of my boyfriend. So as you can see, my competitiveness isn’t too out of control.)
Before I go on, you should probably know a few other things about me. I’m thirteen and five feet tall. I’m in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I have brown eyes and long brown hair. I never wear face paint (er, makeup), and my earlobes have not been stabbed (er, pierced). I wear comfortable, casual clothes all the time. If that’s not enough to pick me out of a crowd, I’m the one who talks a lot and has the strongest opinions.
My life is pretty complicated and fascinating. (Well, it is.) I live in a mansion with my mother, stepfather, three brothers, a stepsister and stepbrother, an adopted sister, my grandmother, and a few pets.
My stepdad, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire. But don’t imagine Thurston Howell III in Gilligan’s Island. Watson is nice and quiet and normal. His two kids from his first marriage live with us during alternate months. (Karen is seven and Andrew is four.)
You already know my younger brother, David Michael. My two older ones are Charlie, who’s seventeen, and Sam, who’s fifteen. My adopted sister, Emily Michelle, also known as The Cutest Girl in the World, is two and a half years old. She’s from Vietnam, but boy, is she learning English words fast these days. (At the last Krushers practice, she kept yelling, “Stike one!” every time I swung the bat.) When Mom and Watson adopted her, Nannie (my mom’s mom) moved in with us to help out with Emily Michelle.
I can’t leave out Boo-Boo, or he’d sulk. Boo-Boo is Watson’s cranky, fat, old cat. He tolerates David Michael’s Bernese mountain dog puppy, Shannon, who is an enormous fluff of brown and white. Bob the hermit crab and Emily Junior the rat (yes, rat) travel back and forth with Andrew and Karen, who also have two goldfish named Goldfishie and Crystal Light the Second that they keep at our house.
Don’t visit our house if you’re looking for peace and quiet. It’s pretty wild, as far as huge, nine-bedroom mansions go.
Before Mom married Watson, she and my three brothers and I lived in an average-sized house on Bradford Court. My dad used to live there, too, but he abandoned us right after David Michael was born. That, I promise, is all I will mention about my father. Frankly, I don’t like talking about him.
* * *
Back to the day of the softball practice.
I could tell it was going to be hot. I started breaking a sweat the moment David Michael and I reached the
sidewalk.
“I want to watch the destruction workers!” David Michael said.
“Construction,” I corrected him.
“Uh-uh, de. You should see the front wall.”
We were supposed to go across the street to pick up a couple of the other Krushers, Linny and Hannie Papadakis. But David Michael had made me curious.
We detoured past the house of our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Porter. Then we saw the house next to hers. Sure enough, the entire front wall had been bashed in, leaving only the beams.
“See?” David Michael said. “That’s destruction. They’re tearing the house down.”
“If they were, why would they be putting an addition on the side?” I asked.
David Michael scratched his head. “Maybe that’s for the workers to live in while they bash the house down.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
New neighbors. I was psyched. The house had been empty for ages. I was dying to find out who was moving in. Maybe they had kids.
The Krushers were in desperate need of a shortstop.
We crossed the street to the Papadakises’ house.
“Yo! Big D!” Linny greeted David Michael through the front screen door. “My mom’s packing us some koulourakia to take to practice.”
David Michael jumped up and cried, “All riiiiight!”
To me, what Linny was referring to sounded like some strange Mediterranean disease. It’s not. See, the Papadakises are Greek, and koulourakia are a kind of Greek cookie. They’re good, too. We began eating them on the way to the field.
“Doo Haw havoo pay thuh bay,” Linny said, spraying crumbs.
“Swallow, please,” I interrupted.
He did. “Does Hannie have to play third base? If she does, I quit.”
“I want to,” Hannie protested.
Linny shook his head. “You throw like a girl.”
“I am a girl!”
“That’s no excuse!”
“Ahem, who’s the coach of this team?” I asked.
That quieted Linny down. He can be bossy, especially with his little sister (he’s nine and she’s seven).
“Linny, feel my muscle,” David Michael piped up, flexing his arms as he lifted the bats.
“That’s nothing,” Linny replied. “Feel mine.”
The four of us compared biceps all the way to the official Krusher playing field, otherwise known as the Stoneybrook Elementary School grounds.
By the time we arrived, the bodybuilders had given me all four bats to carry. As I set everything down behind home plate, I called out, “Line up for catch!”
David Michael, Linny, and Hannie scurried for their gloves. They moved a few yards away from me and spread apart.
“Pop fly!” Linny demanded.
I lobbed a high one.
“I have it! I have it! I have it!” Linny yelled.
He didn’t. The ball plopped to the ground and rolled toward second base. David Michael and Linny both dived for it, but it rolled away and came to a stop at Hannie’s feet. She picked up the ball and carefully dusted it off. Then she threw it past the foul line, between home and first.
Once upon a time, the bleachers would have stopped that ball from rolling away. But they had been destroyed during a summer storm, so the ball had a nice, open run.
I had to do a hundred-yard dash to track it down.
“Oops,” Hannie said.
Welcome to Krusher practice.
“A little rusty, but that’s okay!” I called as I ran back. “Ground ball, David Michael!”
I threw a bouncer. My brother squatted and waited.
“Touch your glove to the dirt!” I warned him.
Did he listen? Noooo. He watched the ball approach. He watched it go under his glove. Then he bent over and watched it through his legs.
My brother, the ostrich.
I expected someone to run after the ball. But Linny and Hannie were looking the other way.
They were waving at Buddy and Suzi Barrett, who had just arrived with Shannon Kilbourne. (Shannon’s a BSC member.)
“Watch it, Kris —” Shannon cried out.
Thud. The softball whacked me on the left arm.
“Sorry,” David Michael squeaked.
“Are you okay?” Shannon asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He didn’t throw it that hard.”
“I did, too!” David Michael insisted.
“Oh, okay. Owwww!” I cried.
Shannon burst out laughing. David Michael smiled proudly.
Soon Bobby Gianelli arrived with his mom, and Jackie Rodowsky with his dad. They’re both seven (Bobby and Jackie, not their parents).
By ten o’clock, every team member was on the field. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, your Krrrristy’s Krrrrrushers … ushers … ushers! (Imagine a loudspeaker with lots of echo.) And here was the day’s lineup: Leading us in seniority was our nine-year-old, Linny. Our seasoned and strong eight-year-olds included Nicky Pike, Jake Kuhn, and the famous Buddy Barrett. Filling out the team at seven years of age (along with Bobby, David Michael, Jackie, and Hannie) were Matt Braddock, Margo Pike, and the irrepressible Karen Brewer. Following them was our lone sixer, Laurel Kuhn, and our fabulous fives — Claire Pike, Suzi Barrett, Patsy Kuhn, and Myriah Perkins. Four-year-olds Andrew Brewer, Jamie Newton, and Nina Marshall brought us into the junior territory, surpassed in youth only by Gabbie Perkins at a tender two-and-a-half.
(Do you think I should be a sports reporter? I’m seriously thinking about it.)
The field was full of kids, parents, and baby-sitters. Some parents had brought snacks and drinks. Karen’s and Andrew’s stepdad, Seth, was there. (Our families are friendly. Seth’s a nice guy.)
Shannon and I gave the kids a workout. We fed them a steady stream of fly balls and grounders. We made them run the bases. We matched them up for games of catch. We put together the tee (with some electrician’s tape) and organized batting practice.
How did it go? Well, the kids tried hard. They were psyched about the World Series. I kept yelling, “Way to go!” and “Looking good!” even when it wasn’t and they weren’t.
Suzi kept dropping the ball during catch. When Buddy laughed at her, she threw a tantrum and hid behind a maple tree for most of the practice.
Linny actually hit the ball out of the infield once. He insisted on doing a “home run trot,” pumping his fists and waving to the crowd in slo-mo. Super slo-mo. So slow, in fact, that Nicky managed to tag him out.
Gabbie, our only player who’s allowed to hit a Wiffle ball, gave up after six swings and decided to play with her train set in the dirt.
Jackie ate so many Oreos he almost barfed on the basepaths. Jake decided to try wearing his glove on his head and fielding with his hat. Claire hid a ball in her shirt. Andrew and Jamie found a praying mantis and followed it around the field.
We had a long way to go.
Shannon must have sensed I was concerned. Toward the end of practice, she whispered to me, “I. O. A. G.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s Only A Game,” she replied.
No, it’s not, I wanted to say. It’s a series.
Well, it’s true. Best of five games wins the championship. So it’s not “only a game.”
But I kept my lips buttoned. I smiled. I knew what she meant.
* * *
After practice I was sweaty and exhausted. As I walked home, my arms ached from the weight of the bats.
Shannon and the Kuhn kids walked home with us. (Mrs. Kuhn was going to pick up Jake, Laurel, and Patsy from Shannon’s house.) Jake and Linny were tossing the ball back and forth, racing after each missed catch. Patsy and Hannie were playing some unrecognizable form of tag.
“They have so much energy left over,” Shannon remarked.
“They shouldn’t,” I grumbled. “Not if they’d given one hundred percent in practice.”
“Mm-hm.” Shannon was humoring me.
Let me tell you, being a leader
isn’t easy.
I knew it was lunchtime as we approached my neighborhood. I didn’t even have to look at my watch. Why? Because the construction workers were quiet as mice. Eating is the only thing that makes them put down their tools.
The house was still missing its front wall. But this time, as we passed, a dark-haired woman in khaki pants and a white cotton shirt emerged from the house. She was holding a clipboard.
“Is that our new neighbor?” David Michael asked.
“Does she have kids?” Hannie piped up.
“Ask her,” I suggested.
David Michael put on his shy face. “No, you ask.”
Linny rolled his eyes. “Yo, ’scuse me, you have kids?”
The woman turned. She gave Linny a funny look for a moment, then smiled. “Oh! You think … no, I’m not … I’m the decorator.”
Laurel looked shocked. “Aren’t you mad at them for wrecking the house?”
The woman laughed. “I understand they’re going to fix it back up. Are you all neighbors?”
“Except for Jake and Patsy and Laurel,” David Michael informed her. “They’re aliens.”
“Hey!” Patsy protested.
“It means people from another place,” David Michael shot back.
I quickly cut off that line of conversation and introduced us.
“I’m Sylvia Steinert,” she said. “I guess you won’t mind having some more playmates in the neighborhood, huh?”
Playmates? That meant more kids. I’d have to slip a BSC flier under the door. And I’d need their phone number. Then I could call to offer baby-sitting help during the move….
“How old?” Hannie asked.
“Twelve or thirteen, I believe,” Ms. Steinert replied, looking at her watch. “They’re twin girls.”
“Cool,” Hannie said.
“Old girls,” Linny muttered. “Yuck.”
“Uh, beg your pardon?” I said.
Giggling, Linny tore off toward his house. The other kids ran after him.
Shannon and I said good-bye to Ms. Steinert and followed the kids.
Twin girls, our age, in the neighborhood? It was the best news I’d heard all day.
“This meeting will —”
Rrrrrring! The phone cut me off at the moment Claudia Kishi’s clock clicked to five-thirty.
“First call of the school year!” Claudia cried.
Kristy and the Dirty Diapers Page 1
