This book is for the real Claire and Margo:
Claire DuBois Gordon and Margo Méndez-Peñate,
Class of 2006.
Contents
Cover
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
Chapter Sixteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
About the Author
Scrapbook
Copyright
“Kristy! Hey, Kristy!” I called.
It was Monday afternoon, almost five-thirty, and time for a meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. I had just stepped onto my front porch. At the house next door, I could see Kristy Thomas stepping onto her front porch.
Kristy is the president of the Baby-sitters Club. She’s also my best friend in the whole world. We’ve grown up together. And since my mother died when I was really little, leaving just Dad and me, Kristy’s been like my sister, and Mrs. Thomas is like my mother. (Kristy’s parents got divorced a few years ago and her dad walked out, but my father has not been like a father to Kristy. He’s not warm and open like Mrs. Thomas.)
“Hi, Mary Anne,” Kristy answered.
We ran across our front lawns, crunching through the remains of a January snow, and met between our houses. Then we crossed the street to Claudia Kishi’s house. Claudia is the vice president of the club. We hold our meetings at her house because she has a telephone in her bedroom.
The Baby-sitters Club is really more of a business than a club. This is how it works: On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, the club meets from five-thirty until six o’clock. Our clients call us on Claudia’s line to tell us when they’ll need baby-sitters. Then one of us takes the job. It’s simple — but brilliant. (It was Kristy’s idea.) The great thing is that with four of us taking the calls, anyone who needs a sitter is bound to find one.
Of course, our club isn’t perfect. For instance, the members — Kristy, Claudia, me (I’m the secretary), and Stacey McGill, who’s our treasurer — are only twelve years old. The latest we can stay out is ten o’clock. In fact, only Stacey is actually allowed out that late, although recently sometimes Claudia has been allowed to sit until ten, too. Kristy and I have to be home by nine-thirty on the weekends, and nine o’clock on weeknights. That nearly cost us our club. Recently, another bunch of girls copied us and set up a business called the Baby-sitters Agency. They were older than us and could stay out until all hours. A lot of our clients started using them instead, but the agency folded because the kids who worked for it weren’t great baby-sitters, so now we’re back to normal, glad that the new year is starting off smoothly.
Kristy rang the Kishis’ bell, and Mimi answered the door. Mimi is Claudia’s grandmother. She lives with the Kishis and watches out for Claudia and her sister, Janine, since both Mr. and Mrs. Kishi work.
“Hello, girls,” said Mimi in her pleasant voice. The Kishis are Japanese. Claudia and Janine were born in the United States. Both of their parents came to America when they were little. Mimi was in her thirties, I think, when she left Japan, so she still speaks with an accent. I like her accent. It’s soft and nice to listen to.
“Hi, Mimi,” we replied.
“How is the scarf coming, Mary Anne?” she asked. (Mimi taught me how to knit. She’s helping me make a scarf for my father.)
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m almost done, but I’ll need you to help me with the fringe.”
“Of course. Any time, Mary Anne.”
I kissed Mimi quickly on the cheek. Then Kristy and I got prepared to run up the stairs and into Claudia’s room. We have to do it fast. If Janine is home, we like to try to get by her bedroom without having to talk to her.
Janine is a genius. Honest. She’s only fifteen and already she’s taking classes at Stoneybrook University. She corrects absolutely everything you say to her. Kristy and I avoid her as much as possible.
That day, we were lucky. Janine wasn’t even home. When we ran by her room, it was dark.
“Hi!” we greeted Claudia.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice muffled. Claudia had her head in her pajama bag as she rummaged around at the bottom of it. In a moment she straightened up, proudly holding out three Ring Dings.
Claudia is a junk-food addict. She buys candy and Twinkies and Yodels and other things and hides the stuff all over her room. She eats it at any time (and eats her meals, too) and never seems to gain an ounce, or to get so much as the hint of a pimple.
She handed us each a Ring Ding, but I turned mine down. Dad gets upset if I don’t eat a proper dinner (or breakfast or lunch), and I don’t have a very big appetite. Claudia tossed the Ring Ding back in her pajama bag. She wasn’t going to offer it to Stacey when she arrived, since Stacey has diabetes and can’t eat most sweets.
“Any calls yet?” I asked. It was just barely 5:30, but sometimes our clients called early.
“One,” replied Claudia. “Kristy’s mom. She needs someone for David Michael on Thursday.”
Kristy nodded. “Our regular two-day-a-week sitter finally quit. Mom’ll be calling more often for a while.”
Kristy has two brothers in high school, Sam and Charlie, and a little brother, David Michael, who’s six. Sam, Charlie, and Kristy are each responsible for David Michael one afternoon a week. Mrs. Thomas had had a baby-sitter lined up for him for the other two days, but I knew the sitter had been canceling a lot.
“Hey, everybody!” called a voice. Stacey entered Claudia’s room, looking gorgeous, as usual.
If you ask Stacey, she’ll tell you she’s plain, but that’s crazy. Stacey is glamorous. She moved to Stoneybrook, Connecticut, from New York City last summer. She’s very sophisticated, and is even allowed to have her hair professionally styled, so that she has this fabulous-looking shaggy blonde mane, and she wears the neatest clothes — big, baggy shirts and tight-fitting pants — and amazing jewelry, like parrots and palm trees. She even has a pair of earrings that consist of a dog for one ear and a bone for the other ear.
I’d give anything to be Stacey. Not to have diabetes, of course, but to have lived in New York City and to be able to dress up like a model every day. My father lets me dress like a model, too — a model of a six-year-old. I have to wear my hair in braids (that’s a rule), and he has to approve my outfit every day, which is sort of silly since he buys all my clothes. And what he buys are corduroy skirts and plain sweaters and blouses and penny loafers.
Just once, I’d like to go to school wearing skintight turquoise pants, Stacey’s “island” shirt with the flamingos and toucans all over it, and maybe bright red, high-top sneakers. I’d like to create a sensation. (Well, half of me would. The other half would be too shy to want to attract any attention.)
Stacey often creates a sensation.
So does Claudia. Although she’s not quite as sophisticated as Stacey (you can’t top having lived in New York), she’s pretty glamorous herself. Her black hair is long and silky, and she does something different with it almost every day. Sometimes she wears it in lots of skinny braids; sometimes she twists it on top of her head. At the moment, she was wearing it loose, but had pulled the sides back with big yellow clips shaped like flowers.
Luckily, Kristy dresses more like me than like Claudia and Stacey. It’s nice to have someone to feel babyish with. Mrs. Thomas doesn’t put any dre
ssing restrictions on Kristy; it’s just that Kristy doesn’t care much about her appearance. Her brown hair is usually sort of messy, and she wears clothes only because it’s against the law to go to school naked.
“What’s going on?” asked Stacey.
“One call so far,” replied Kristy. “My mom needs someone for David Michael on Thursday afternoon.”
I opened our record book. The Baby-sitters Club keeps two books: the record book and a notebook. The record book is just what it sounds like — a book in which we keep our club records. Not only does it have our baby-sitting appointments, it has the addresses and phone numbers of our clients, and records of things like what rates our clients pay, how much each of us earns at each job, and which of us has paid our club dues. Stacey keeps track of anything to do with money and numbers.
The Baby-sitters Club Notebook is more like a diary. Kristy asked us to write up what happens at every job we go to. This is important because then the rest of us learn about our clients’ problems, habits, and special needs. For instance, after Claudia baby-sat for Eleanor and Nina Marshall the first time, she wrote up the job and mentioned that Nina is allergic to strawberries. Since we all have to read the notebook entries, it wasn’t long before the whole club knew never to give Nina a strawberry.
As you can see, our club is well run and well organized. We have Kristy to thank for that, even if she is bossy sometimes (well, a lot of the time).
I turned to the appointment section of the record book. “Let’s see,” I said. “Thursday … Claudia, you’re the only one free. Do you want to sit for David Michael?”
“Sure,” she answered.
I entered the job information in the book, and Claudia called Mrs. Thomas back at her office to tell her who the sitter would be.
As soon as she hung up, the phone rang.
Claudia answered it, since her hand was still on the receiver. “Hello, the Baby-sitters Club … Yes? … Oh, hi … Saturday afternoon? I’ll check and call you right back…. Okay. Bye.”
I had already turned the pages of the record book to Saturday.
“That was Watson, Kristy. He needs someone for about two hours on Saturday, from two till four.”
Watson is Kristy’s mother’s fiancé. They plan to get married in the fall. Watson’s divorced, just like Mrs. Thomas, and has two little kids: Karen, who’s five, and Andrew, who’s three. They stay with him every other weekend. When Watson becomes Kristy’s stepfather, Karen and Andrew will become her stepsister and stepbrother.
Even though Kristy loves Karen and Andrew and would want the job on Saturday, our club rule is to offer each job to everybody. “Well,” I said, “it looks like nobody is baby-sitting on Saturday so far.”
“No,” said Stacey, “but I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“And Mimi’s taking me shopping then,” said Claudia.
“Well, that leaves you and me,” I told Kristy. “You can have the job. I know you want to see Karen and Andrew.”
“Thanks!” replied Kristy happily.
I was being nice, but I was also being chicken. There’s this weird old woman, Mrs. Porter, who lives next door to Watson. Karen says she’s a witch and that her name is really Morbidda Destiny. She’s very frightened of her. So am I. I didn’t mind passing up the job.
Claudia called Watson back.
The phone rang two more times, and we set up two more jobs.
The next time it rang, Kristy answered it. “Hello, the Baby-sitters Club … Hi, Mrs. Newton!”
Mrs. Newton is one of our favorite clients. She has an adorable little boy named Jamie … and a new baby! Lucy wasn’t even two months old. Mrs. Newton didn’t let us sit for Lucy very often, so a call from her was pretty exciting.
Claudia and Stacey and I listened eagerly to Kristy’s end of the conversation, wondering if Mrs. Newton needed a sitter just for Jamie or for Lucy, too. Each of us was hoping for a chance to take care of the new baby.
“Yes,” Kristy was saying. “Yes … Oh, Jamie and Lucy.” (Claudia and Stacey and I squealed with delight.) “Friday … six till eight … Of course. I’ll be there. Great. See you.” She hung up.
Kristy would be there?! What happened to offering jobs around? Claud and Stacey and I stared at each other. I don’t know what my face looked like, but I could see a mixture of horror and anger on the others’ faces.
Kristy, however, was beaming. She was so thrilled at the possibility of taking care of Lucy that at first she didn’t even realize what she’d done.
“The Newtons are giving a cocktail party on Friday, and they need someone to watch the kids while they’re busy with the guests,” she explained. “I’m so excited! Six till eight … I’ll probably get to give Lucy a bottle —” Kristy broke off, finally realizing that nobody else looked nearly as happy as she did. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Kristy!” exclaimed Claudia. “You’re supposed to offer the job around. You know that. It’s your rule. I’d like to sit for Lucy, too.”
“So would I,” added Stacey.
“Me, too.” I checked our record book. “And we’re all free then.”
“Boy,” said Claudia sullenly. She produced a large piece of chewing gum from under the quilt on her bed, unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, and chewed away. “Some people around here sure are job-hogs.”
“I said I was sorry,” exclaimed Kristy. “Besides, look who’s talking.”
Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn’t sound good.
“What do you mean, look who’s talking?” said Claudia.
“Well,” Stacey began, and I could tell that she was trying to be polite, “you have done that a lot yourself. Remember that job with Charlotte Johanssen? And the one with the Marshalls?”
“And the one with the Pikes?” I added cautiously. It was true. Claudia had forgotten to offer a lot of jobs.
“Hey, what are you guys? Elephants? Don’t you ever forget anything?”
“Well, it has been a problem,” said Kristy.
“I don’t believe this!” cried Claudia. “You” (she pointed accusingly at Kristy) “break one of our rules, and everyone jumps on me! I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent.”
“This time,” muttered Stacey.
“Hey,” said Claudia. “If you’re so desperate to have new friends here in Stoneybrook, don’t argue with the ones you’ve got.”
“Is that a threat?” exclaimed Stacey. “Because if it is, I don’t need you guys. Don’t forget where I’m from.”
“We know, we know — New York. It’s all you talk about.”
“I was going to say,” Stacey went on haughtily, “before I was interrupted, that I’m tough. And I’m a fighter, and I don’t need anybody. Not stuck-up job-hogs” (she looked at Claudia) “or bossy know-it-alls” (Kristy) “or shy little babies.” Me.
“I am not a shy little baby!” I said, but as soon as I said it, my chin began to tremble and my eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, shut up,” Kristy said crossly. Sometimes she has very little patience with me.
But I’d had it. I jumped to my feet. “No, you shut up,” I shouted at Kristy. “And you, too,” I said to Stacey. “I don’t care how tough you are or how special you think you are because of your dumb diabetes, you have no right —”
“Don’t call Stacey’s diabetes dumb!” Claudia cut in.
“And don’t bother to stick up for me,” Stacey shouted back at Claudia. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“No problem,” Claudia replied icily.
“Hey,” said Kristy suddenly. “Who were you calling a bossy know-it-all before?”
“Who do you think?” replied Stacey.
“Me?!” Kristy glanced at me.
“Don’t tell me to shut up and then expect me to help you,” I told Kristy.
Kristy looked as if someone had just informed her that scientists had discovered that the moon was in fact made of green cheese.
“Maybe I am shy,” I said loudly, edging toward th
e door. “And maybe I am quiet, but you guys cannot step all over me. You want to know what I think? I think you, Stacey, are a conceited snob; and you, Claudia, are a stuck-up job-hog; and you, Kristin Amanda Thomas, are the biggest, bossiest know-it-all in the world, and I don’t care if I never see you again!”
I let myself out of Claudia’s room, slamming the door behind me so hard that the walls shook. Then I ran down the stairs. Behind me, I could hear Claudia, Stacey, and Kristy yelling at one another. As I reached the Kishis’ front hall, Claudia’s door slammed again. Two more pairs of feet thundered down the stairs.
I ran home, half hoping that either Kristy or Stacey would call after me. But neither one did.
The last thing I wanted to do after our big fight was eat dinner with Dad, but he expects us to have a proper meal in the evening. Sometimes he fixes it, sometimes I do, but we always sit down in the kitchen and eat dinner at six-thirty.
Luckily, Dad was still at work when I got home from Claudia’s that night. I was crying, and in no mood to speak to anybody. I slammed angrily around the kitchen. I took a pan of leftover pot roast out of the refrigerator, slammed the fridge shut, stuck the pan in the oven, and slammed the oven shut. Then I got out plates and glasses, knives and forks, and slammed two cabinets and a drawer. I banged the things down on the table one at a time. Eight bangs.
Then I went upstairs to wash my face. By the time Dad got home, I looked a lot better and felt a little better.
“Mary Anne?” he called.
“Coming,” I answered. I headed down the stairs, my hair neatly combed, my blouse tucked carefully into my skirt. Dad says it’s important to look nice at mealtime.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello, Mary Anne.” He leaned over so I could kiss his cheek. “Is dinner started?”
“Yes.” (Dad hates when people say yeah. He also hates shut up, hey, gross, stupid, and a long list of other words that creep into my vocabulary whenever I’m not around him.) “I’m heating up the pot roast.”
“That’s fine,” said Dad. “Let’s just toss a salad. That will make a nice dinner.”
Dad and I got out lettuce, tomatoes, a cucumber, and some carrots. We chopped and tossed silently. In no time, a crisp salad was sitting in a glass bowl in the center of the kitchen table. My father took the pot roast out of the oven and served up two portions.
Mary Anne Saves the Day Page 1
