Baby-Sitters Club 094
Page 6
"We're going to shoot water through the strainer so it will spray all over the place and create a wall of ice over our fort." "Byron, you'll get wet and freeze out there," Kristy protested as she wiped Claire's face.
"Besides, Dad shut the outside faucets off for the winter," Mallory added.
Just then, something crashed in the living room. Kristy and Mallory ran to see what had happened.
Nicky lay by a bookcase with a heap of Mr. Pike's books lying around him. "Are you all right?" cried Kristy, helping Nicky to his feet.
"What were you doing?" Mal asked.
"Nothing," said Nicky, rubbing his knee.
Mallory reached under the couch and pulled out a skateboard. "Is this the nothing you were doing?" she asked.
"Sort of," Nicky admitted. There was a two-foot edge of wood floor around the living room rug that Nicky had been trying (unsuccessfully) to navigate.
Just then, the phone in the kitchen rang. "I'll get it," said Kristy, heading into the kitchen. "Pike residence," she said as she picked up the receiver.
"Is this Crusty?" asked a kid's voice.
"Do you mean Kristy?" "No Crusty. Crusty Toenails. That's you!" Click. The kid on the other end hung up.
Shaking her head, Kristy hung up. Was that call meant for her, or would the caller have asked for Crusty Toenails no matter who picked up?
"Who was that?" Mal asked, rejoining Margo, Vanessa, and Claire at the kitchen table.
"Just a prank call," Kristy reported.
At that moment, the front doorbell rang. "I'll get it," said Kristy. When she opened the door, no one was there. "Hello?" she called out. She checked to see if anyone was hiding in the bushes. No one was there.
When she returned to the kitchen, the triplets were raiding the refrigerator looking for treats to load into the snow chest they'd built inside their fort. "You can't take all that stuff outside," Mallory told them as they grabbed ice cream from the freezer and cupcakes from the top of the refrigerator.
"Yeah, like we're really scared of you, Mallory," Adam said as he filled his arms with containers of juice and chocolate milk from the refrigerator.
Mallory looked to Kristy for help.
"Drop it, you guys," Kristy commanded. Then she gave them the Look.
Without another word, the triplets began putting back the food.
The front door bell rang again. Kristy sighed in exasperation. "I'll get it." This time, she went to the window first and peeked through the curtains. She didn't see anyone, but the bushes beneath the window were shaking as if someone were moving below them. Kristy sprang to the door and pulled it open.
Looking sharply to the right, she saw a kid's jeans and boots disappear around the corner of the house. She tore out of the doorway and ran to the side of the house. Whoever had been there was fast because he'd completely disappeared.
It wasn't until Kristy returned to the front door that she noticed the envelope taped to it. On the front was written Crusty.
Kristy opened the envelope as she entered the house. She took out a piece of paper and saw written on it in a child's handwriting: "What's that?" Mallory asked, looking over Kristy 's shoulder.
"Just some hate mail from a few of my fans," Kristy replied wryly.
"How dumb," Mal commented as she read the note. "Vanessa!" she cried.
Vanessa came in from the kitchen. "What's the matter?" "You like to write poetry," Mal said, showing her the note. "What do you know about this?" Vanessa read the note then looked up with wide, innocent eyes. "I didn't write this," she said.
"Do you know who did?" Mallory asked.
"I never saw it before in my life." Vanessa turned and hurried upstairs.
Kristy and Mal looked at one another. "That may be so," said Mal, "but she didn't say she doesn't know who wrote it." Mallory headed for the stairs. "I'll get to the bottom of this," she said.
"Don't bother," said Kristy. "It's just kids being dumb. I wonder if it has anything to do with Kristy's Krushers? I sometimes get this kind of stuff when the Krushers win a lot of games in a row. The Bashers get angry. You know, sore losers. But it's winter. The season hasn't even started." The phone rang again. This time Mal picked it up, but all she heard was a click as someone on the other end hung up.
By the time Mrs. Pike returned at five, the doorbell had rung two more times, and Kristy had found an unflattering picture of herself drawn in crayon shoved under the front door. Also, someone on the phone had muttered, "Beware, you are headed for doom, Crusty." "What's going on?" Mal asked as they headed to Claudia's house. , "I have no idea," said Kristy. And for Kristy, that was a first.
Chapter 10.
"Well, you're turning into your father's daughter," Mom said to me on Saturday morning as she came into my bedroom and opened the curtains, letting in a flood of sunshine.
I peeked out from under my covers. I couldn't believe how tired I was even though I'd slept eight hours. At least I thought I'd slept eight hours until I glanced at the clock on the stand beside my bed. It was ten o'clock. I'd slept twelve hours! I never do that! Rubbing my eyes, I sat up in bed. "What do you mean, my father's daughter?" I asked Mom. What was she talking about?
"You're becoming a workaholic just like your father." "Huh? Why did you say that?" Mom turned to me and smiled, but her smile seemed forced. "Well, in the morning, you're up and running to school. Then you race to the Cheplins'. Three days a week you hurry from there to your club meetings. You gulp down dinner so you can get to your homework. When you finish it, you're so exhausted you fall into bed. Just like your father." I knew what she meant. My dad would leave for work early, come home late, and even work on weekends.
Tossing off the covers, I swung my legs to the floor. "But I'm making so much money," I told Mom.
A breathy, surprised laugh escaped Mom's lips. "That's exactly what your father says." "Maybe we are alike," I said. Mom and I had always agreed that Dad's being a working maniac was a giant pain for us. But I had never understood how it felt from his point of view. Now I did. When you have an opportunity to make money you take it. And making money can be exciting. All of a sudden, you can think about having and doing all sorts of things that once seemed out of reach. (My red convertible sports car, for example.) Mom suddenly looked sad. I realized she hadn't expected me to admit I might be like Dad. "I might be like him but I'm not a workaholic," I said, hoping to make her feel better. "I'm not working this weekend." "Good," Mom said with a genuine smile.
Of course, I could very well have been working that weekend if a job had come up at a BSC meeting. Luckily, though, the others were interested in the weekend jobs so they didn't need me to take any of them.
"I know," Mom said brightly. "Since I've barely seen you these last few weeks, why don't we do something together this afternoon? We could go see a really, really sad movie. I'm in the mood to sit and cry into a large popcorn." "You are?" I said, concerned.
Mom grinned sheepishly. "I am," she admitted. "Nothing's wrong, just a mood. There's nothing like a good movie-generated cry once in awhile." "Sorry," I said. "I have an English paper due on Monday and I have to finish up my research today because the library's closed tomorrow." "What about going tonight?" she suggested.
I grimaced. "I made plans to go out with Robert tonight. I haven't seen much of him lately, either." I could see the disappointment in Mom's eyes. "All right," she said.
"Want to go tomorrow?" I asked.
"I don't know. I could really use that cry today. Maybe I'll go to the movies by myself." As she left the room I knew I'd seen that look on her face before. The last time I'd seen it was when Mom and Dad were still married and he told us we'd have to take our vacation on Martha's Vineyard without him because he suddenly had to give a huge presentation to the board members of his company.
What else could I do, though? The paper had to get done. I was sure Mom wouldn't want me to let my schoolwork slide just to go to the movies with her. I'd thought I could get it done during the week, bu
t by the time I finished my homework each night I was too tired to start researching the life of F. Scott Fitzgerald, which was the topic of my paper.
I decided Mom would feel better after she had her good cry.
And I'd feel better after that paper was out of the way. I dressed in jeans and a thick red sweater, tied my hair back in a red scrunchy, and headed downstairs. After a quick breakfast I grabbed my backpack and my jacket and hurried to the Stoneybrook library.
Mrs. Kishi, Claudia's mother, is the head librarian. "Hi, Stacey," she greeted me as I flipped through the F section of the card catalogue.
"Hi, Mrs. Kishi," I replied. "What's Claudia up to today?" Mrs. Kishi shifted the armful of books she was carrying onto the top of a low cabinet. "Nothing much. I think she's working on an outfit to wear tomorrow." "What's happening tomorrow?" I asked.
"Aren't you two going to the Valentine's Day Craft Fair at the community center?" My hand flew to my mouth. Claudia and I had made plans weeks ago to go to the fair. "That's right! I forgot about it completely," I admitted.
Mrs. Kishi replaced the stack of books one by one onto the shelf. "I think Claudia's working on an outfit and making up business cards to give out to people at the fair who might be interested in having similar outfits made up for Valentine's Day." I now remembered Claudia mentioning this plan to me. She hoped people would comment on her customized sweat outfit decorated with lace and satin hearts, and order some for Valentine's Day or other occasions. She figured she could make some easy and fun money that way.
I'd been so busy with the Cheplins it had completely slipped my mind. I was glad Mrs. Kishi had reminded me.
I said good-bye to her and gathered up my research books on Fitzgerald. There was a lot more to know about him than I realized. This paper counted for a fourth of my grade this term, too. It was supposed to be well-researched with footnotes and a bibliography- 1 threw myself into the project. I barely lifted my head until a few hours later when I sensed someone staring at me. I looked up into Robert's eyes. "Hi," I said, smiling. "How did you find me?" "Your mother told me you were here," he said as he took a seat beside me. "How's the work coming?" "Not good," I said with a frown. "I haven't even begun writing this thing yet. I'm hours away from starting to write and it's due Monday." I looked at him and sighed. "Robert, would you hate me forever if we don't go out tonight?" "Why not?" he asked unhappily.
"Because I'll never get this thing done otherwise." "Do it Sunday." "Can't," I told him. "I promised Claudia I'd go to this crafts fair with her." "Cancel that, then," said Robert.
"Robert, I made the plans with her weeks ago. I just can't cancel them now." "Then how come you can cancel your plans with me?" "Well . . ."I said in a quavery voice. "I made my plans with you after I made the plans with Claudia. At the time I thought I could do both, but I can't." "Stacey, I've hardly seen you at all in the last few weeks," Robert pointed out, getting to his feet.
I wanted to tell him that one of the reasons I was so busy was because I was earning money for his birthday present. That would have spoiled the surprise, though, so I kept quiet. "I promise we'll do something next weekend," I said.
"All right." He forced a smile. "I'll leave so you can finish your paper." He turned and left without looking back at me once. I felt terrible.
Once he was gone, I stared at the library door, thinking about Robert. Then I told myself to get back to work.
I read about Fitzgerald and took notes until the library closed at six o'clock. When I got home, Mom was making dinner. "Did you finish your paper?" she asked.
"Not yet," I reported as I gulped down my chicken. After dinner I hurried to my room to begin writing my paper from the notes I'd put on index cards at the library. The work went more slowly than I expected. Somehow the words just didn't flow out of me. I don't know, maybe I was too tired to think straight. Normally, I would have let the work go until Sunday, but I wouldn't be free on Sunday.
It was sometime in the middle of the night when I fell asleep on my bed with my research material spread out around me. Mom must have come in during the night because in the morning I awoke, still fully dressed, but under my covers with my index cards, books, and notebook neatly stacked on my night table.
I'd barely opened my eyes when Mom came into my room. " Claudia's waiting for you downstairs," she said. "Were you supposed to go to a crafts fair with her today?" "What time is it?" I cried, bolting out of bed. It was after noon. Still half asleep, I charged out of my room and down the stairs.
Claudia was at the bottom of the stairs. "What happened to you?" she gasped.
I realized I probably looked like a crazy person with my rumpled clothes, sleepy face, and tangled hair. "I overslept," I admitted. "Can you wait a few minutes?" Claudia glanced toward the door. "My father's waiting in the car, but I guess so. Hurry up, though." I staggered a few steps up the stairs, then stopped short.
"What's wrong?" Claud asked.
"My paper," I said. "It's still not written." I turned and faced her. "But that's okay," I said, backing up the stairs, "Don't worry. I can do it tonight." "Do you have much more to write?" Claudia asked.
"You could say that." "How much more?" "Half." "You'd better just stay home," Claudia said. "You're not in any shape to go out." "Yes, I am. I am," I assured her. "Just give me a minute." "Stacey!" "What!" "I'm leaving without you. You're a wreck. Go back to sleep." "I'm fine! Just wait for me." " 'Bye," Claudia said, waving to me from the bottom of the stairs. "See you tomorrow. Get some rest." I watched with mixed emotions as she went out the door. I felt bad about letting her down.
But I was not in the mood to go and I was glad to be let off the hook.
With sleepy eyes, I stumbled back to my room. And fell face first onto my bed. In an instant I was sound asleep.
Chapter 11.
The next day, I was still thinking about F. Scott Fitzgerald as I waited for Adam and Dana's bus to arrive. I'd handed in my paper, but I had no idea whether or not it was any good. I'd been so sleepy while writing it that I could barely remember what I'd written.
The bus pulled to a stop and I met Dana and Adam. As usual, Adam talked in a steady stream as we climbed the hill. Dana was unusually quiet, though. "Is something wrong?" I asked her while I unlocked the front door.
"No," she said with a shrug.
"Do you feel all right?" She nodded dully. "Yup." We walked into the house and I picked up Mrs. Cheplin's note. "I don't believe this," I muttered. It was two pages long.
"Okay, kids," I said, shrugging off my jacket. "I'll fix you a snack, then you have to go play until homework time. I have a lot to do today." As quickly as I could, I smeared peanut butter on some crackers for Adam and tossed an apple to Dana.
The kids took their snacks upstairs and I honestly didn't know what they were doing for the next hour as I swept the kitchen floor, unloaded the dishwasher, sorted a load of dirty laundry, shifted a load of wet clothes from the washing machine into the dryer, and put another load into the washing machine. Then I called to cancel Mrs. Cheplin's subscription to a magazine, confirmed Adam's dentist appointment, and called to find rates on the gymnastics lessons he wanted to take.
I was in the middle of peeling potatoes for dinner (the third to last item on my list) when Dana came into the kitchen. "I don't feel so good," she said.
I continued peeling potatoes over the sink. What doesn't she want to do this time? I wondered. "I don't have the time for this, Dana," I said with an edge in my voice.
"Fine!" Dana whirled around and stomped out of the kitchen.
Instant remorse. I shouldn't have been so crabby with her. Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I left the kitchen and found Dana lying on the loveseat in the living room.
"Sorry, Dana," I said. "What hurts?" "Forget it," Dana mumbled. "Don't bother." "Come on, Dana," I pleaded. "I said I was sorry." I noticed that Dana did look pale. I remembered how listless she'd seemed on the way home. "I'm going to get your kit and test your blood," I told her.
Upstairs, I found the glucose testing kit on top of Dana's dresser. "Dana's being a big crab," Adam called to me from his room.
"I know, but she's not feeling well," I told him. A glance into his room made me cringe. Over the weekend he'd managed to undo two week's worth of daily tidying (which was the second to last thing on my list that day): "Adam, start cleaning your room, okay?" I said.
"I'll wait for you," he replied. Oh, well, I hadn't really expected that to work, anyway.
"Get away from me with that!" Dana shouted when I returned to the living room. She'd never reacted this badly to having her blood tested. Her sudden unreasonableness worried me. Irritability can be a sign that a person's blood sugar is low.
"Dana," I said sternly. "I'm going to test your blood so you might as well cooperate and we can get it over with quickly." Dana covered her face with a pillow and shot her free arm out at me. I took firm hold of her finger, pricked it, and wiped away my tiny blood sample.
In less than a minute I had a reading.
Dana's blood sugar was dangerously low.
A wave of panic swept over me. What should I do? Calm down, I ordered myself. Think! Running to the kitchen, I flung open the refrigerator and grabbed an orange. I peeled it as I walked back to the living room, letting the peels drop on the floor. "Eat this," I ordered, handing Dana the orange.
Dana ate the orange, but five minutes later she looked just as listless as before. I had to do something quickly.
I ran back to the refrigerator and found the name and phone number of Dana's doctor. An answering machine picked up and said the doctor was on vacation. What could I do now?
"Dr. Johanssen," I said aloud. I could take Dana to her house. I knew she was home on Monday afternoons. Just then, the phone rang. I snapped it up, hoping it would be Mrs. Cheplin. "Hello?" It was Mrs. Kleinsasser calling to reschedule Dana's piano lesson. I was desperate. "Could you drive us somewhere?" I blurted out. "I need to get to a doctor." I explained what was going on and Mrs. Kleinsasser said she'd be right over.