Claudia said, “I think you should have some kind of veto power over the costumes.”
“Uniforms,” I corrected her.
“Whatever,” Claudia replied. “I mean, what if they’re ugly? Or orange or something. You don’t want the kids to be traumatized.”
I burst out laughing. “Claudia Kishi, sports fashion consultant.”
“What’s the team going to be called?” Jessi asked. “Davis’s Krushers?”
“Kristy’s Diapers,” Mallory said.
“Kristy’s Krushed Diapers?” Claudia suggested.
The room exploded with laughter. I threw a balled-up Snickers wrapper at Claudia.
Finally Mary Anne said, “What if he does want to change the team name?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“No ‘Kristy’ on the uniform?” Claudia said. “You’d hate it!”
“Not true!” I shot back. “I want whatever’s best for the kids.”
Stacey nodded. “Then you have one choice, really. I think you should do it.”
“Me, too,” Jessi agreed.
It was unanimous.
At home, after the meeting, I called Mr. Davis. I reached him just as he was closing up shop.
“So what’s the decision, Coach Thomas?” he asked.
“The answer is yes,” I replied.
“Terrific,” he said with a laugh. “Send me your sizes right away, and you’ll have team uniforms in a week.”
I don’t know why Shannon was complaining. We’d offered her lots of jobs. But for a week and a half, she had turned them all down.
Why? I’ll tell you. Shannon was starstruck. And stagestruck. She had been elected vice-president of the astronomy club and been chosen to play one of the leads in a drama club production of Arsenic and Old Lace.
She was thinking of joining the Spanish club, too.
Shannon’s life was one big club sandwich. And the Baby-sitters Club was just one of the ingredients, like a withered piece of iceberg lettuce slipping out the side.
(Sorry. I don’t mean to sound sour. It’s just that I hadn’t expected Shannon to give us less time than before.)
Okay, enough complaining. Back to the Saga of Druscilla.
I had prepared Shannon at the Monday BSC meeting. I had told her how sad Dru was. I’d explained the upcoming divorce. Shannon’s eyes had grown misty. She said she understood. (Her family life hasn’t exactly been a lovefest lately. She worries all the time about her parents’ marriage.)
Shannon brought a fully stocked Kid-Kit to her job. Mrs. Porter met her at the door.
“Thank you for coming, Shannon,” she said. “I’ll be at the eye doctor’s for an hour or so, and then I have to do my marketing. I’ll be back before supper. Druscilla is in the den.”
(Mrs. Porter is the only person I know who calls shopping “marketing.”)
When Mrs. Porter left, Shannon walked through the house and into the den.
Druscilla was lying on the couch. On her chest, she held open an old photo album. All the photos were black-and-white.
“Hi,” Shannon said. “I’m Shannon Kilbourne.”
Dru didn’t look up. “Hi,” she muttered.
“What are you looking at?”
“An album.”
“Those look like old pictures.”
“Yeah.”
Shannon knelt beside her and peered at a pregnant, smiling woman in a long coat. A huge bridge was in the background.
“Is that your grandmother?” Shannon asked.
“Uh-huh. She lived in Brooklyn. That’s in New York City.” She placed her finger on Mrs. Porter’s protruding belly. “That’s my mom in there.”
“Wow. She was beautiful.”
Dru gave her a look. “How can you tell? She wasn’t even born.”
Shannon laughed. “I mean your grandmother.”
“I think she looks like Barney.” Dru crinkled her nose. “With hair.”
Dru began leafing through the rest of the album. Shannon watched Mrs. Porter transform from Barney to Morbidda Destiny. She saw Dru’s mom take her first steps, spill spaghetti on her head, ride a bike, go to a high school prom, and graduate from college.
The moment Dru turned to wedding pictures, she closed the book.
“I’m bored,” she announced.
Shannon felt a knot in her stomach. Poor Dru didn’t want to see her mom and dad all happy and young and full of hope.
“I brought a coloring book,” Shannon said, opening her Kid-Kit. “With watercolor pencils.”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay. Want to play catch with this mini-Frisbee?”
“No.”
“Have you ever read Esio Trot or Tiffky Doofky? I brought those.”
“I read them.”
“Monopoly Junior?”
Dru turned over and looked at the Kid-Kit. “You fit all of that in there?”
Aha, a flicker of interest! “Sure! Do you know how to play?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to right now.”
“What would you like to do?”
“Nothing.”
Dru plopped back on the couch again.
Being an excellent baby-sitter (even if she does belong to too many clubs), Shannon knew just what to do. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind.”
I hate to give away trade secrets, but that always works. With Dru, it took about three minutes.
She slumped into the kitchen and let out a huge sigh. Then she sat across from Shannon and put her head on the table, nestled in her arms.
“Are you tired?” Shannon asked.
“No,” Dru mumbled.
“Just sad, huh?”
Dru shrugged.
“You know, if you want to talk about it, it’s okay.”
Dru’s face began to turn red. She looked as if she would either scream or cry.
“I don’t have to,” she blurted out.
“Of course you don’t. I was just —”
“Now I’m talking. Okay? If you want to hear more talking, turn on the TV.”
“Dru?”
“Talk, talk, talk. You and my mom and my grandma always ask me to talk. Why is talking so great? I hate talking!”
Now tears were rolling down Dru’s cheeks. Shannon gently put her hand on Dru’s arm, but Dru pulled it away.
“I’m sorry,” Shannon said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She spotted a box of tissues on the counter and brought them to Dru. Then she helped Dru wipe her tears.
For a long while, neither of them said a word. Dru just stared off into the distance. She looked as if she’d forgotten Shannon was there. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “My grandma makes the worst sandwiches. She uses this mushy bread, and orange marmalade. It’s so pukey.”
Shannon wasn’t expecting that. But she nodded and replied, “I know what you mean. Whenever my dad makes peanut-butter-and-jelly, he uses too much jelly, and presses really hard when he cuts it, and the jelly oozes through.”
“And when you pick it up, it feels so yucky,” Dru remarked.
“Like a wet sponge.”
“Like slugs!”
“Ew.”
Druscilla was smiling now. “I hate slugs!”
“Me, too!”
“I used to take the salt shaker outside and pour salt on them,” Dru said, her eyes lighting up.
“Eeeww, and you watched them shrivel up?”
“Dad used to get sooooo mad at me….”
Dru’s voice trailed off.
Yikes. Shannon could see the light starting to go off inside Dru. Quickly she said, “You know, it’s really nice outside. Let’s take a walk. I can show you my house, and maybe we can visit some kids you know in the neighborhood.”
To Shannon’s surprise, Dru nodded and stood up.
Shannon wrote a note to Mrs. Porter explaining what she and Dru were doing. Then the girls walked out the back door and headed up the driveway. �
��That was dumb,” Dru said, almost whispering.
“What was?” Shannon asked.
“Pouring salt on the slugs. I should never have done that.” Dru looked as if she were going to cry again. “I knew Dad didn’t like it. He told me and told me.”
“Listen, kids do stuff like that. Are you worried that’s why your dad and mom … you know?”
“Maybe if I wasn’t so stupid all the time —”
Shannon put her arm around Dru. This time Dru didn’t back off. “Dru, it wasn’t your fault.”
Dru didn’t answer. But on the way to the Kilbournes’, her arm was tight around Shannon’s waist.
Maria, Shannon’s eight-year-old sister, ran to the door. “Hi!” she said. “You’re Drizzelda aren’t you? In Melody’s grade?”
Shannon wanted to kick her.
“Druscilla,” Dru replied.
“We were just taking a walk,” Shannon said. “Want to join us?”
“Not now. I’m playing Boggle with Tiffany. I beat her last time.”
“Did not!” Tiffany’s voice bellowed from inside.
“Don’t listen to her, Druscilla. Anyway, I’m glad you moved here. We’ll play, okay?”
“Okay,” Dru replied.
Next stop on the tour was the Hsus’ house. Timmy Hsu is six and Scott Hsu is seven, and they go to Dru’s school, Stoneybrook Day.
“What are you doing here?” was Scott’s greeting. (He wasn’t being mean, just curious.)
Dru shrugged. “Living with my grandma.”
“Are your parents divorced or dead or something?” Timmy asked.
Needless to say, Shannon and Dru did not stay there too long.
They doubled back along McLelland Street. They walked past the House of the Phantom Twins (yes, it was still empty, but for the last couple of days Ms. Steinert had been helping unload furniture deliveries from department-store trucks). Then they visited the Papadakises to say hi to Hannie.
She was thrilled to see Druscilla. Mrs. Papadakis allowed her to join Shannon’s tour. The caravan traveled on to the Kormans’, home of Melody Korman, another seven-year-old in Dru’s class.
“Mom, I have to play with Dru!” was the first thing Melody said after she opened the front door.
Minutes later, the four girls were strolling to Stoneybrook Playground. Dru, Hannie, and Melody yakked all the way.
“We have soooo much fun in this neighborhood,” Melody said to Dru. “You’ll love it. We have lots of parties and games —”
“Krushers is the best part,” Hannie cut in.
“Is not,” Melody retorted. “Just because you belong to it.”
“You should, too,” Hannie said. “You and Dru. I’ll help you learn to play.”
Melody sighed. “You always say that.”
They’d reached the playground. The girls ran to the swings. For the first time that day, Dru didn’t look miserable. Shannon was relieved.
“Ahhhh-choo!”
Have you ever seen a phantom with allergies? Well, one of them moved into my neighborhood that Wednesday. Along with two non-sneezing phantoms. One looked just like the sneezer and the other was obviously their mother.
Yes, that’s right. The Phantom Phamily was here.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
And guess what they arrived in? A minivan! Well, not in just a minivan. A medium-size moving van, too.
“Sir? Sir? That is a vase, not a football!” the mother phantom instructed the movers. “And the long piece is extremely fragile. How would you carry a newborn baby? And don’t say over your shoulders!”
The mom winked at her daughters. They were cracking up. The movers were trying to keep a straight face. I was, too.
Charlie and I had seen the van on the way home from the BSC meeting. This time, even he was curious. We pulled up to the curb, climbed out, and watched.
We weren’t the only ones. The entire Papadakis family was walking toward us from across the street. Mr. Papadakis was holding a foil-covered platter and smiling proudly.
“Krush-ers! Krush-ers! Krush-ers!” Linny and Hannie started chanting.
Soon Dru and Karen wandered over from my house (Karen and Andrew were sleeping over because their mother and stepfather, the Engels, had to stay overnight in New York City). A few other neighbors stopped by, too. The mother phantom soon fell into a conversation with Mrs. Korman.
The twins, however, were all business. They were bustling around, climbing in and out of the van, running into the house every few seconds.
What did they look like? Well, identical, of course. Identically glamorous, too, was my first impression. They were well dressed and deeply tanned, and they seemed older than twelve or thirteen. Why? Probably because of their height (at least five-seven or so), but also because of the way they acted. Even while their mom was chatting, they were in motion, confidently telling the movers (and each other) what to do. They looked as if they’d moved a hundred times already.
Their hair and eyes were the deepest brown, almost black. But they weren’t hard to tell apart. The one with allergies wore glasses and had long, thick hair, so curly it was almost in ringlets. She was wearing baggy plaid shorts and a U4Me T-shirt. (Bad sign. I cannot stand U4Me’s music.) The other twin had no glasses. Her hair was shorter, and she had bangs. She wore long khaki pants, sandals, and a short-sleeve button-down shirt.
They were obviously busy. I didn’t want to interrupt. But I didn’t want to stand there looking dorklike, either.
“Hi,” I said to the nearest twin (the short-haired, long-pantsed, non-sneezing one). “I’m Kristy Thomas.”
“Hi, Kristy.” She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Anna Stevenson.”
“Hello,” said the other. “I’b Abby. You live id this deighborhood?”
(Guess which one had the allergies?)
“Two houses down,” I said. “Need some help?”
“Yeah!” said Abby. “Wadda trade siduses?”
I looked at her blankly. “Huh?”
“Devver bide.” Laughing to herself, she picked up a suitcase and walked toward the house. “I’ll go fide a decodgesdud.”
“Don’t mind her,” Anna said. “She’s just being Abby. Her sense of humor grows on you.”
I don’t know why I started thinking of fungus.
“And thanks for the offer, but don’t worry about helping out,” Anna added. “All the heavy stuff is here already. Mom ordered it directly from the stores.”
A house full of brand-new furniture? Either they were completely loaded, or their old stuff was hideous. I didn’t exactly want to ask which.
“My best friend’s boyfriend’s little brother, Hunter Bruno? He’s allergic to everything,” I said, watching Abby disappear into the house.
“Does he have asthma, too?” Anna asked. “Abby does. Maybe they should meet.”
“Hunter’s five,” I replied.
“Oops.” Anna laughed.
“Welcome!” Mr. Papadakis thundered, walking over to us. As he handed Anna the foil-covered platter, a familiar car pulled up to the curb.
Ms. Steinert climbed out. She did not look too happy. “What — why —” she stammered, walking toward Mrs. Stevenson. “You’re here!”
“Hello, Sylvia,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “The place looks spectacular.”
“Thanks,” Ms. Steinert replied, “but — well, today is Wednesday. You said you were arriving tomorrow.”
“I changed our plans last week. Didn’t my assistant call your office?”
“No.”
Mrs. Stevenson rolled her eyes. “Ugh. My apologies. I thought I had the whole week off, but my boss called an editorial meeting Friday. So I figured we’d push our schedule up a day — you know, have a full day in the new house, settle in —”
“Ma’am!” one of the movers shouted from the open front door. “Nothing’s on in here.”
Mrs. Stevenson turned. Ms. Steinert looked pale.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Stevenson r
eplied.
“No juice,” the man said. “Nothing.”
Mrs. Stevenson looked confused. “Well, I suppose I could run over to a deli.”
“He means electricity, Rachel,” Ms. Steinert said. “All the utilities are scheduled to be turned on tomorrow. Phones, electricity, water, gas. You won’t have any of it until then.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Stevenson looked deadly serious. “Well, we can’t very well go all the way back to Long Island now.”
“We have flashlights,” Anna said. “We’ll be fine.”
A hoot of laughter made us turn around. Abby was running out the front door. “It’s like the Liddle House od the Prairie,” she said. “I love it. We’ll be piodeers!”
“Uh, let’s not get carried away, girls,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “We are talking about a dark, unfamiliar house, not Yosemite Park. I’ll call a hotel.”
“With what phode?” Abby asked.
“Use my car phone,” Ms. Steinert suggested. “Call the George Washington. If they’re booked, try the Strathmoore or the Sleepy Bear. I need to check on some things inside. Would you like me to take the platter in, Anna?”
“Sure.”
The Papadakis platter in hand, Ms. Steinert walked briskly into the house. Mrs. Stevenson headed for the car phone.
A horn tooted lightly behind us. We turned to see my mom’s car pull up in front of the van.
“Welcome!” Mom said to the twins as she climbed out of the car. “We thought you guys would never come.”
Abby and Anna introduced themselves and explained what had happened.
Mom barely waited for them to finish. “Well, then, you’ll stay with us overnight, of course.”
“Cool,” Abby said.
“That’s so nice,” Anna agreed. “Mom?”
Mrs. Stevenson poked her head out of the car window. Mom introduced herself, and made the offer.
You know how grown-ups are. Mrs. Stevenson refused. Mom insisted. Mrs. Stevenson refused. Mom insisted.
Guess who won? (Hint: My forceful personality was inherited.)
* * *
We raced to prepare dinner. By 7:43, the house was ready. Marinara sauce simmered on the stove. Two trays of breaded clams baked in the oven. I could barely keep the drool inside my mouth. My brothers and I had put two extra leaves in the dining room table, and it was now set for thirteen.
Kristy and the Dirty Diapers Page 4
