Jessi's Gold Medal

by Ann M. Martin

  Special thanks to

  Carol Grossman

  for her expertise on synchronized swimming

  and for her enthusiastic help.

  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

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “All right, ladies, tour jeté across ze room!” Mme Noelle called out.

  Our ballet class was almost over. We were all sweating horribly. (Oops! I mean, we were glowing. As Madame says, “Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow!”) Was Madame going to let us do some gentle pliés to cool down a little? Nooo. We were going to turn-and-leap, turn-and-leap around the room. That’s what tour jetés are. If you can do them really well, like Misha Baryshnikov (one of my heroes), you look like you’re flying.

  If you’re an eleven-year-old girl in Mme Noelle’s Tuesday afternoon ballet class in Stamford, Connecticut, you look … well, you look like you’ve had a long day.

  We lined up on the left side of the studio. Mme Noelle stood by a tape recorder with her finger over the play button, and said, “Mademoiselle Romsey, please lead.” (That’s me. Actually, I’m Jessica Ramsey, but it comes out Romsey in Mme Noelle’s French accent.)

  A loud waltz blared out of the speakers. I rounded my right arm and took a few steps to the right. Then, in a split second, here’s what happened: My body spun around. My right leg lifted off the ground. My arm shot forward in an arc — and I was soaring! (Maybe not like Misha, but as close as I could get.) I did it again and again, springing into the air at each downbeat of the waltz.

  When I completed a circle around the room, I could hear Madame say, “Good leeft, Mademoiselle Romsey, very gracefool — but do not let zee trailing arm droop.”

  “Okay,” I said, only I was panting so hard it came out more like, “Kuhhh.”

  I was hot and grimy and I just wanted to plop onto the floor. A big fan in the corner was blowing warm, musty air across the room — definitely not refreshing. But here’s the strange thing: I felt great. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded if class had lasted another hour. Why? Because I love ballet. Even after seven years of lessons, I still get excited just walking into class. You know how some people seem to be “born” comedians or artists or athletes? Well, I’m a born dancer. Wait a minute, that sounds conceited. What I mean is, dancing makes me happier than anything else. Also, I have these really long legs, which “turn out” naturally (a big advantage).

  I’ve already learned to dance on my toes (which is called en pointe) and I’ve played lead roles in a few ballets, like Swanilda in Coppélia and Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. Someday I hope to be a professional ballerina, if I can stand the years of hard work and “deeseepleen,” Madame’s favorite word (translation: discipline). And that means the rest of my life would be like this:

  1. Watching what I eat. (Have you ever seen a fat ballerina?)

  2. Taking as many classes a week as possible.

  3. Stretching all the time, to keep my muscles limber.

  4. Becoming familiar with the classical ballets I might be in someday.

  Pretty tough, huh? My dad says being a ballerina is like being in the army — except in boot camp you don’t wear a tutu.

  My dad, by the way, has a great sense of humor. Which comes in handy whenever he has to wait for me in his car outside my dance school after a long day’s work. Which is what he was doing that Tuesday of the tour jetés.

  Madame’s voice was ringing out, “On ze beat, on ze beat, on ze beat …” as Julie Mansfield leaped across the room. I quickly did some stretching exercises at the barre, then ran to the changing room.

  In seconds I was dressed in white sweatpants, pink leg warmers, and a pink-and-white sweat shirt that said “ABT,” which stands for American Ballet Theater. I stuffed my sweaty (glowy?) dance clothes in my canvas bag, slung it over my shoulder, and ran out of school.

  Daddy was waiting in the car, a big smile on his face. “Hi, baby,” he said as I climbed in the passenger seat. “How was class?”

  “Fine,” I answered. “How was work?”

  “Don’t ask!” Daddy said, laughing. Lately we say the same thing after ballet class. It’s like a ritual. The best part is Daddy’s laugh, which is deep and booming. He sounds sort of like James Earl Jones, the famous actor.

  Daddy drove away from the curb and headed toward the expressway. We live in Stoneybrook, which is just a few exits away. Stoneybrook’s a nice place, but I didn’t think so at first. We’re black, and Stoneybrook is, like, ninety percent white. We used to live in Oakley, New Jersey, in a neighborhood where blacks and whites lived together and everybody got along just fine.

  Stoneybrook isn’t like that. When we first moved here, it was a real shock. Some people were nasty to us, just because of our skin color. The things they said and did were so prejudiced and stupid. I wanted to move back to Oakley so much. But my mom and dad always believed things would work out, and they were right.

  First of all, people have gotten used to us (doesn’t that sound weird?). Second of all, I became best friends with a girl named Mallory Pike. And third of all, Mallory and I became members of the Baby-sitters Club. (I’ll tell you more about Mal and the BSC later.)

  My dad mopped his forehead with a handkerchief as we pulled onto the expressway. He was sweating — I mean perspiring — like crazy. Even though it was still spring, it felt like midsummer. We had to drive right under a billboard advertising some soda as the “official drink of the Summer Olympics.” There was a huge picture of a swimmer splashing through the water, in the middle of a stroke. She was working hard, but boy, did she look coooool. For a minute I thought I was crazy to like ballet. Why pound your body into a wood floor when you could plunge it into water instead?

  Daddy was looking at the billboard, too. He sighed and said, “What do you say we use the air conditioner?”

  “Sure!” I said. Supposedly air conditioning is bad for dancers, because it can tighten your muscles. But I have to admit, I love it on really hot days.

  So we drove home comfortably, without any perspiration or glow.

  Our house is on a street shaded with big maple trees. But it might as well have been the Sahara desert when we got out of the car. The hot, steamy air was almost enough to make you choke.

  “Hi, Daddy! Hi, Jessi!” squealed my sister, Becca, from inside the front screen door. She ran outside, wearing a one-piece bathing suit with strange, multicolored designs on it. (No, not some fancy designer swimwear. Becca is eight, and she decided she could make her solid white suit look a lot better with markers.) “Can we play in the sprinkler?” she asked.

  “Seee-gahh! Day-eee!”

  That last voice was my little brother, Squirt. I had to laugh when I saw him running across the lawn. His teeny legs were doing about a hundred steps per second, but he was moving forward so slowly. Squirt is almost a year and a half old. He’s been walking for a few months, and now he’s starting to talk. For example, I’m pretty sure “Seee-gahh! Dayeee!” meant “Sprinkler, Daddy!”

  My aunt Cecelia suddenly appeared at the door, holding a pair of turquoise jellies. “John Philip, come in here and put on your sandals!
” (John Philip Ramsey, Jr., is my brother’s real name. But he was so puny at birth that the nurses in the hospital called him Squirt, and the nickname stuck — except with Aunt Cecelia sometimes.)

  Aunt Cecelia is my dad’s sister. She moved in with us to help take care of Squirt when my mom got a job. Aunt Cecelia is sometimes hard to take — and that’s a nice thing to say, compared to the way I used to talk about her. I used to think she was a cross between the Bride of Frankenstein and Freddy Krueger’s mother. When she first got here she was bossy and mean and awful. She treated Becca and me like babies, and tried to control our lives. But we “had it out” and things have gotten a lot better.

  “Please! Please!” Becca was tugging at Daddy’s pants leg now. “Mama says it’s okay!”

  “She does?” Daddy asked.

  “I said it’s okay if it’s okay with Daddy!” came Mama’s voice from inside. “And if Jessi doesn’t mind watching you!”

  “Please?” Becca repeated to Daddy, then turned to me. “You’ll watch us, right?”

  “Peeeez!” Squirt was now wearing his jellies and was toddling toward Daddy.

  Daddy picked up Becca in one arm and Squirt in the other. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. Then with a wink, he added, “What do you think, big sister?”

  “Well, I have a lot of homework,” I replied, pretending to mean it. Poor Becca’s face just sank, so I quickly added, “But I’ll watch for a while.”

  “Yippee! Yippee!”

  Daddy let Becca down, and she raced around to the back of the house. Daddy followed, carrying Squirt, and I followed them. Becca got the sprinkler out of our garage, and I helped her attach it to the garden hose. Then Daddy, Becca, and Squirt unrolled the hose into the middle of the backyard. I stayed by the faucet.

  When they had set it up, Becca called out, “Ready!”

  I turned the faucet on. The water shot upward, sending a cold shower over Squirt and Becca. They both started squealing wildly.

  With a big smile, Daddy said, “Let’s keep it to about fifteen minutes, okay? I’m going to change and then help Mama and Cecelia with dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  So there I was, sitting on a lawn chair, watching my brother and sister having the time of their lives. I thought about the summer coming up, and about how this was only the start of the hot weather, and about how often we’d be using the sprinkler. Then I thought about that billboard on the expressway, with the Olympic swimmer … and that was when the idea came to me.

  A pool.

  It made so much sense. Sprinklers are great, but a pool is much better. You can use it all day long, and you can exercise while you cool off. Not to mention pool parties. And besides, our backyard was the perfect size for one.

  I had a feeling it would be impossible to convince my parents, until I remembered a great technique Mal had thought up. She had used it when she needed to convince her parents to let her take horseback-riding lessons — and it worked.

  I decided to try my own version of it that evening at dinner.

  “Great seafood casserole, Mama!” I began. This was step one — complimenting the meal and making my parents feel good.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Mama said. “Your dad took care of the seasoning.”

  “Mmmm, great seasoning,” I added. “Just right for a hot day. May I have some more?” This was step two — mentioning the weather. I was working up to the climax (step three) where I’d bring up the pool.

  “Thanks,” Daddy said with a laugh. “You usually don’t get so excited about a meal unless we’re going to Pizza Express. You don’t just happen to want something, do you, Jessi?” He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “What?” I said.

  “Just a hunch. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  Step three was fizzling into thin air. I couldn’t believe it. He could read my mind!

  “Well …” I said, “I was just thinking about how hot it gets here in Stoneybrook, and how it’s going to be a long summer, and we could use a place to cool off …”

  “Sweetheart, the weather’s no different here than in Oakley,” Mama said.

  “I know, but we have this nice big backyard, and — well, the sprinkler is great, but maybe we could get something we all can use. You know, like a pool.”

  There. I said it. Aunt Cecelia let out a huffy little laugh (typical). But Becca’s eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “A pool! Yeah, let’s get a pool!”

  Squirt clapped his hands and bounced up and down, but I’m not sure he knew why he was doing it.

  “I mean, we’re going to be home most of the summer,” I added quickly, “and there won’t be that much for me to do besides take ballet classes and watch the Summer Olympics, and you and Dad will be able to relax in it, too, and we can teach Squirt how to swim at an early age …”

  I looked at Mama and Daddy, and fortunately they didn’t seem too shocked. “Well, believe it or not, we have talked about it,” Mama said.

  “Yay!” Becca yelled.

  “The problem is, pools are extremely expensive,” Daddy said. “Not only buying them and putting them in, but maintaining them. It’s out of our reach — that is, unless you kids want to go without food or clothes for a year or so.”

  Daddy said that last part with a smile, but Becca looked kind of confused. “I could chip in with baby-sitting money,” I suggested.

  “That’s sweet of you, Jessi,” Mama said, “but you need that for other things. Besides, it wouldn’t be nearly enough.”

  “Ask your boss to give you more money!” Becca suggested.

  Daddy and Mama both roared with laughter. “Will you come with us when we do it?” Daddy asked.

  I could smell defeat. I knew that when my parents said it was too much money, there was no hope.

  “Well, it was just an idea …” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed.

  “And a good one,” Mama replied. “But you know, there is a way to have access to a pool all summer. What about the Stoneybrook Community pool complex?”

  “They have two or three pools,” Daddy said. “One of them is Olympic sized, too. And they give lessons. That’s something you don’t get with a backyard pool.”

  What a great idea. I had forgotten all about the pool complex. I knew how to swim, but not that well. Lessons would be a great project for the summer. Suddenly I felt excited again. “Could we join?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” Daddy said. “I’ll call tomorrow and ask about getting a family membership.”

  “Goody!” Becca said.

  “Gooey!” Squirt said.

  “That make you feel better, sweetheart?” Mama asked.

  I nodded. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. The summer was going to be all right, after all.

  “Order!” yelled Kristy Thomas as the clock turned to 5:30.

  No, I wasn’t in court, or in a restaurant. I was in Claudia Kishi’s bedroom on Wednesday, the day after the pool discussion. Kristy was sitting in a director’s chair, wearing a visor turned backward. Claudia was seated cross-legged on her bed next to Stacey McGill and Mary Anne Spier. Dawn Schafer was sitting at Claud’s desk, and Mallory Pike and I were lounging on the floor.

  What were we doing? Well, for the seven of us, Wednesday at 5:30 means one thing: a Baby-sitters Club meeting. (Monday and Friday, too — also at 5:30.) I promised I’d tell you about the BSC, so here goes.

  The name “Baby-sitters Club” says everything about us (almost). We’re experienced baby-sitters, and we’re a club of best friends. Here’s how the club (actually, it’s a business) works: For a half hour (till 6:00), we sit in Claudia’s room and wait for phone calls from Stoneybrook parents who need sitters. Each time someone calls, we figure out who’s available for the job. We try to spread the jobs among ourselves so everyone has the same amount.

  It works out great for us and the parents. They only need to make one phone call to reach seven gr
eat sitters — and one of us is almost always available (we have two associate members in case the rest of us are booked up). And we can be sure to have a pretty steady amount of work.

  By now, most of the local parents know about us. They tell their friends, and the word spreads around. But it wasn’t always like that. At the beginning, the BSC used to advertise — putting fliers in schools and supermarkets, stuff like that. From time to time, we still advertise. Kristy makes us (she’s the president).

  Another thing Kristy makes us do is fill in the official BSC notebook. We’re supposed to write up every job we go on. This is a very useful thing to do, even though we all grumble whenever Kristy reminds us about it.

  What do we do between phone calls? That’s where the “club” part comes in. We’re all good friends, so we never run out of things to talk about. We also try to think up new projects — which mostly means listening to the projects Kristy thinks of.

  As you can guess, Kristy can be bossy. But her suggestions are amazing. When anyone says the word “idea,” I think, “Kristy.” I can’t help it. You know how a dry sponge soaks up water if you put it in a puddle? That’s what Kristy’s brain is like. It’s an idea sponge. She soaks up ideas from the air, then squeezes them out at meetings. And usually they’re really good. Like the time there was a group of kids who were too young to play on a softball team. Kristy got them together and formed a team of her own. They’re called “Kristy’s Krushers.”

  Here’s another example: Kid-Kits. They’re simple, decorated boxes filled with stuff we scrounge up around our houses — old games, books, toys, art supplies, things like that. Doesn’t sound too exciting, right? Wrong. You wouldn’t believe how popular they are. Even kids with incredibly fancy toys love Kid-Kits. Leave it to Kristy.

  Speaking of which, can you guess who thought of the idea of the Baby-sitters Club to begin with? Right. It came to Kristy a long time ago, on a day when her mom was frantically trying to get a baby-sitter. Back then, Mrs. Thomas was a single parent, raising Kristy and her three brothers. Kristy watched her mom make phone call after phone call, and no one was available. Then, bingo! The idea sponge went to work. Why not have one central number, Kristy thought — like an agency with available baby-sitters? She started planning the Baby-sitters Club, and the rest is history.