Kristy's Great Idea

by Ann M. Martin

  THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB

  Need a baby-sitter?

  Make one call, reach four sitters.

  Call 555-3231 Mon., Wed., Fri., 5:30–6:00

  We had wanted to include more information in the ad, but when we called the newspaper, we found out they charged you per line to run an ad.

  Our little ad was already pretty expensive, and we’d had to use our entire first week’s club dues to pay for it. Still, the ad was awfully exciting. It was fun being in the newspaper.

  “Hey, Kristy, what are you doing?” Claudia came running across our lawn, her knapsack jouncing against her back.

  “Look!” I exclaimed. “Here it is! Our ad!”

  “Ooh, let me see!”

  Claudia dropped to her knees beside me, and I jabbed at the ad.

  “Wow! Now, if we can just finish handing around those flyers today,” she said, “we might actually get some calls on Friday.”

  “I know!” I felt like squealing and jumping up and down.

  “Let’s get Mary Anne to help us.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And Stacey.”

  “No, she’s busy this afternoon. She told me so in school today.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Don’t know. Come on. Are you ready?”

  “Let me just put my books inside,” I said, “and see if Kathy got here yet. She’s baby-sitting for David Michael today.”

  Kathy and David Michael were playing Candy Land on the back porch, so I grabbed the last of the flyers from my desk and ran outside to Claudia. “I only have five left,” I said.

  “I’ve got six more.”

  We found Mary Anne, who also had six left, and we took off on our bicycles for Quentin Court, which is a few streets away from Stacey’s house. There we put the last of the flyers in mailboxes.

  “Done!” I said to Claudia and Mary Anne.

  They grinned at me.

  “Now I guess we just sit back and wait for calls.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  Two days later, the members of the Baby-sitters Club gathered eagerly in Claudia’s bedroom. Even though the flyers said for clients to call us between 5:30 and 6:00, we all managed to show up early. I was the first person there. I knocked on Claudia’s bedroom door, which now had an official-looking sign on it, reading:

  THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB

  Hours: Mon., Wed., Fri. 5:30–6:00

  “Come in!” called Claudia. It was only 4:30 when I entered her room, but I found her sitting cross-legged on the bed with the phone in her lap, one hand clutching the receiver.

  “The phone’s not going to run away, you know,” I greeted her.

  Claudia grinned sheepishly. “I know. I’m just so excited.”

  Actually, I was, too. “So am I!” I squealed suddenly. I dashed across the room and jumped on her bed. “I’ve been waiting all week for today to come. What do you think will happen? Oh, this has just got to work. I know we’ll have some customers. We’ll have customers, won’t we?” I grabbed the phone from Claudia and held it in my lap.

  A knock came at the door. It couldn’t be a customer … could it?

  Claudia and I glanced at each other.

  “It’s probably Mary Anne,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” Claudia answered. “Come in!”

  The door opened.

  It was Janine.

  My stomach dropped down around my knees.

  Janine cleared her throat. “Ahem,” she said. “I’ve been studying your sign from out here in the hall, and I’m wondering if possibly you’ve made a mistake.”

  I leaped up and ran over to the sign. I couldn’t see a thing wrong with it. Baby-sitters was spelled correctly; Claudia had remembered the double T. She’d gotten all the abbreviations right, too.

  I put my hands on my hips. “What?” I asked.

  “Well,” began Janine primly, “I’m not entirely sure that you have made a mistake. I’m trying to decide whether you need an apostrophe after the word baby-sitters. You see, without an apostrophe, the word is simply plural, meaning the club consisting of the several or many baby-sitters. The apostrophe after the S would make the word possessive, meaning the club belonging to the several or many baby-sitters. Now, either way could be right, but I’m not sure whether—”

  “Hello, everybody!” Stacey’s voice rang up through the stairwell like the welcome sound of a boat’s horn on a foggy night.

  “Saved!” I said under my breath. “Hi, Stace!”

  Stacey ran up the stairs and I spirited her into Claudia’s bedroom and closed the door behind us, leaving Janine out in the hall puzzling over the Apostrophe Mystery.

  Mary Anne arrived a few minutes later, luckily without running into Janine.

  It was 5:05.

  The four of us sat on Claudia’s bed.

  Nobody said a word.

  At 5:10, Claudia got up, took a shoe box labeled SNEAKERS out of her closet, opened it, and handed around some jawbreakers. As usual, Stacey refused.

  At 5:25, I began staring at my watch, following the minute hand around and around—5:26, 5:27, 5:28, 5:29.

  At exactly 5:30, the phone rang.

  I screamed.

  “Oh, no! I don’t believe it!” cried Mary Anne.

  Claudia spit out her jawbreaker. “I’ll answer it, I’ll answer it!” she shrieked. She jerked up the receiver and said politely, “Good afternoon. Baby-sitters Club.”

  Then she made a face and handed me the phone. “Kristy, it’s your mother.”

  I spit out my jawbreaker, too. “Mo-om!” I exclaimed as soon as I got on the phone. “These are our business hours. You’re not supposed to—what? You do? Oh.” I calmed down. “Please hold for a moment.”

  I put my hand over the receiver. “Mom needs a sitter for David Michael!” I cried. “Kathy can’t come next Wednesday.”

  Everyone suppressed shrieks.

  “I’ve got our appointment book right here,” said Claudia. “Now, let’s see. Mary Anne, you have to go to the dentist that day, and I have art class. That leaves you” (Claudia pointed to me) “and Stacey.”

  What should we do? “Just another sec, Mom,” I said.

  I hadn’t really thought about what to do if several of us were available for the same job.

  “Well …” I began.

  “He’s your brother,” Stacey said. “You should get the job.”

  “But if you took it, you’d get to know some other people in the neighborhood. You’d probably meet Sam and Charlie—they’re my big brothers.”

  “Brothers?” Stacey’s eyes lit up. Boys! “But what are you going to do while I baby-sit? Hang around and watch?”

  “Well, I hope I’ll have another job,” I said huffily. “You take the job, Stacey. I don’t want my first Baby-sitters Club client to be my own mother.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure,” Stacey said slowly. Then she grinned. “Thanks!”

  “No problem,” I said. I took my hand off of the receiver. “Mom, Stacey will baby-sit for David Michael on Wednesday. The usual time, right? … Okay. Hey, where are you calling from anyway? … Oh, the office.”

  Claudia elbowed me. “Quit tying up the line. Someone else might be trying to get through.”

  I nodded. “Mom, I have to get off. I’ll see you in a little while…. Okay … Okay … Bye.” I hung up.

  The phone rang again immediately. Claudia gave me a look that said, I told you so.

  “Can I answer it?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Mary Anne picked up the phone. “Good afternoon. Baby-sitters Club,” she said. There was a long pause. “I think you have the wrong number. There’s no Jim Bartolini here.” She hung up.

  At 5:42, the phone rang for a third time. We all looked at each other. “You get it, Kristy,” Mary Anne said. “You’re the president.”

  “Okay … Hello. Baby-sitters Club … Yes … yes. Just a moment, please.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece.
“Do any of you know a Mrs. McKeever? She lives on Quentin Court.”

  The girls shook their heads.

  “What’s she got?” asked Claudia.

  “Two kids, Buffy and Pinky,” I replied.

  “Buffy and Pinky!” cried Stacey. “Buffy and Pinky?”

  “Shhh,” I warned her.

  “How old are they?” Mary Anne wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. Hold on…. Hello, Mrs. McKeever? We need a little information, please. How old are Buffy and Pinky? … Oh. Okay.” I turned back to the members of my club. “She says they’re three. They must be twins.”

  “When does she need a sitter?” asked Mary Anne.

  “Wednesday afternoon. Oh, I guess I’m the only one who’s free then,” I suddenly realized. I was dying for a new client anyway. I accepted the job and took down the information I needed. Then Mrs. McKeever asked me a zillion questions about myself. She wanted to know how old I was and how much experience I had and that sort of thing.

  When I hung up the phone, I said to Mary Anne, “Hey, secretary, you’ve got to record these jobs in the appointment book.”

  “Oh, right.” I handed her the book and she got right to work.

  The next two calls were for Jim Bartolini.

  Claudia was growing exasperated. “Boy, this is weird,” she said. “I’ve gotten wrong numbers before, but no one’s ever asked for Jim Bartolini. Certainly not three no ones.”

  At 5:55, Mary Anne stood up. “I better get going,” she said. She pulled on her sweater and crunched loudly on the remaining bit of her jawbreaker.

  The phone rang. Stacey answered it and handed it to me. “It’s your mom again, Kristy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mom?” I said. “Did Kathy back out of her other afternoon, too? … Oh … Oh … Oh, no. Not me. I am not baby-sitting for them. You know how I feel. Okay, but hold on…. Watson needs a baby-sitter for his kids again on Saturday morning. Not tomorrow, but next Saturday,” I told the others. “I’m not doing it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Mary Anne said. “I’m getting curious about them. Aren’t you curious, Kristy?”

  I was dying to see what kind of monsters Watson had. “Not really,” I said. “Sign yourself up for the job.”

  As Mary Anne was about to walk out of Claudia’s room, the phone rang for the seventh time since 5:30. “I’ll get it,” said Mary Anne. “One last call … Hello? … What?” Mary Anne’s braids practically stood on end. “It’s some boy on the phone,” she told us. “He says his name is Jim Bartolini. He wants to know if there have been any calls for him!”

  “You’re kidding!” exclaimed Claudia.

  “Oh, wait a second!” I said suddenly. I grabbed the phone from Mary Anne. “Sam, is that you?”

  “No,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “It’s Jim Bartolini. I was wondering if—”

  “Sam, you’re a rat!” I cried. “This is important business. And furthermore, I’m telling!” I slammed the receiver down.

  “The nerve!” said Mary Anne.

  But Claudia and Stacey began giggling. “I think that was sort of funny,” said Claudia.

  “You would,” I retorted.

  “Oh, come on. You have to admit that was a pretty good goof call. It’s better than just ‘Is your refrigerator running?’ or something.”

  “I guess,” I said.

  So the first Baby-sitters Club office hour (or office half hour) ended on a sour note. And the evening didn’t improve much. I went home and did tell Mom what Sam had done, and Sam called me a rat, and I said, “I know you are, but what am I?” and Sam said, “I know you are, but what am I?” and I shouted, “You’re driving me crazy!” and Sam shouted, “You’re driving me crazy!” and Mom told Sam he couldn’t use the phone for an hour and sent me to my room, which suited me fine since Watson was on his way over.

  Shortly before Mom and Watson left on another date, I was allowed to leave my room to take a phone call. It was Claudia. “I just got a job!” she said. “Mrs. Newton called. She needed a sitter for tomorrow, so I took the job.”

  Mrs. Newton? “That’s great, Claud,” I said, but I hung up the phone feeling pretty low. I usually sit for Jamie. Claudia should have told the other club members when a job was offered, not just taken it herself. Just because the phone number was hers didn’t mean she got first crack at every job that came along. And how come Mrs. Newton had called that number after six when she was probably trying to reach me? I guessed people didn’t pay much attention to hours and phone numbers, which was a shame considering all the trouble we’d gone to with our flyers and the newspaper ad. I flashed the news to Mary Anne at nine o’clock, and she flashed back TOO BAD.

  Well, I thought, as I went to bed that night with Louie curled at my feet, at least I’ve got a new client. On Wednesday I’ll get to meet Pinky and Buffy McKeever. New clients are always interesting.

  If only I’d had some idea just how interesting they were going to be.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I was all set for my first job through the Baby-sitters Club. I couldn’t wait to meet Pinky and Buffy. I’d never sat for twins before. I wondered what it would be like. Would they play tricks on me? And what could Pinky and Buffy be nicknames for? I’d find out soon enough.

  I walked over to Quentin Court right after I got home from school. I left a little early, just in case I had any trouble finding the McKeevers’ house. Mrs. McKeever had said the address was 52 Quentin Court. So I found the side of the street with the even-numbered addresses on it and started walking. There was 22 Quentin Court, 28 Quentin Court, 34, 40, 46, and sure enough, there was number 52.

  I stood and looked at the house for a moment. It was a perfectly nice split-level, painted white with neat black shutters. But something was wrong. What was it? After a moment it came to me.

  There were no signs of children.

  There were no toys in the yard or tricycles in the driveway, no sneakers on the front stoop or artwork in the windows. I hoped Pinky and Buffy weren’t going to be boring children who wanted to spend the afternoon learning about butterflies or food groups or something.

  My enthusiasm was beginning to wane just a little, but I took a deep breath and marched myself straight to the front door.

  Ding-dong.

  Silence. No running feet or shouts like I would hear when I rang the Newtons’ bell.

  After a few moments, the door was opened.

  A plump, pleasant-looking young woman stood on the other side of the screen, smiling. Well, I thought, at least Pinky and Buffy’s mother doesn’t look boring.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi, I’m Kristy Thomas. I’m here to baby-sit for Pinky and Buffy, the twins.”

  There was a pause, and then the woman said, “Yes. Won’t you come in?”

  I stepped inside into a very pretty room. But again, something seemed wrong, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was. Then I realized. Pinky and Buffy must have been not only very boring three-year-olds but very careful three-year-olds. The reason the room was so pretty was because it was full of glass and china—big Oriental vases, little glass statues, even plates that were displayed on delicate stands. Everything was breakable. In our house, what with David Michael and footballs and baseballs and friends coming over all the time, breakable stuff is practically against the law.

  Then I saw that the area we were standing in—the foyer and the living room—was blocked off with baby gates. That explained the china, but it didn’t seem to be very nice for Pinky and Buffy.

  It also occurred to me that I couldn’t hear any children’s voices or giggling. Suddenly, I began to feel suspicious. What had I gotten myself into? The McKeevers were strangers to me. Maybe I’d been lured into—no, that was silly. At breakfast that morning, when I’d told my mother where I would be after school, she’d just raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t said, Don’t go, Kristy. We’ll never see you again!

  I smiled brightly at the woman. “So,” I said. “Wher
e are Pinky and Buffy?”

  “Oh, they’re in the laundry room,” she replied.

  The laundry room? Were they being punished? I’d gotten angry with David Michael a few times, but I’d never stuck him in the laundry room.

  “Let me introduce myself,” the woman went on. “I am Miss Hargreaves, Mrs. McKeever’s niece. Mrs. McKeever is away for several days, which is why we need help with Pinky and Buffy. I have an important appointment this afternoon, and we find that we need someone with Pinky and Buffy at all times.”

  Well, if they were only three, what was she expecting?

  “They’re a bit unruly,” Miss Hargreaves added.

  “Ohhh,” I said knowingly, wondering where the signs of unruliness were in the quiet house. “Well, that’s okay. I know all about ‘unruly.’ I’ve got three brothers.”

  “Do you?”

  I nodded. “Well, let’s go let them out of the laundry room. They’re probably ready to play. Maybe we could all take a walk to the brook.”

  “That would be lovely,” replied Miss Hargreaves, “but it might be difficult for you to manage.”

  “Oh, I’ve had lots of experience.”

  “That’s fine, then.”

  “Are Pinky and Buffy boys or girls?” I asked.

  “Well, it doesn’t much matter, of course—”

  It doesn’t?

  “—but Buffy’s a boy and Pinky’s a girl.”

  “Oh, that’s easy to remember,” I said. I was trying to sound pleasant, but already I had a very bad case of the creeps.

  “Here we are!” Miss Hargreaves announced. We were standing by a door next to the kitchen. “Now, get ready. These two monsters of my aunt’s will practically break the door down,” she said affectionately.

  My eyes opened wide. “They will?”

  “Stand back.”

  I stood back. I wished I could stand all the way back at my house.

  Miss Hargreaves opened the door. Two huge, fluffy, drooling, barking Saint Bernards hurled themselves into the hall, almost knocking each other and Miss Hargreaves over.