The Baby-Sitters Club #109: Mary Anne to the Rescue (Baby-Sitters Club, The)

by Ann M. Martin

  Kristy and I look alike. Sort of. We both have brown hair and brown eyes, and we’re both just a little over five feet tall. Personalitywise, we’re not alike at all. I could never be as forceful as Kristy. Or as opinionated. I’m shy, I hate confrontation, and I tend to cry a lot. (My boyfriend, Logan Bruno, keeps extra tissues in his pocket whenever we go to a sad movie.)

  Some people are surprised that Kristy and I are best friends. But it doesn’t surprise me at all. We’ve known each other since we were babies. Kristy used to live next door to me on Bradford Court with her mom, dad, and brothers. But shortly after David Michael was born, Mr. Thomas abandoned the family. Just walked away without warning. (Needless to say, Kristy does not like talking about him.) Things were tough for a long time. Kristy and her older brothers worked hard to make up for Mr. Thomas’s absence. Then one day Kristy’s mom met and married a Prince Charming who whisked her off her feet and took her away to a castle on a hill. Well, actually, the prince was a middle-aged businessman named Watson Brewer who happened to be a millionaire. The castle was a mansion in Stoneybrook’s wealthy neighborhood.

  Kristy’s family has doubled in size, from five to ten. First of all, Watson’s two children from a previous marriage, Karen and Andrew, live at the mansion every other month. Second, Kristy’s mom and Watson adopted a two-and-a-half-year-old girl named Emily Michelle, who was born in Vietnam. Then, to help take care of Emily, Kristy’s grandmother moved in with the Thomas/Brewers. Actually, if you count the pets in the house at any given time (a puppy, a cat, a hermit crab, two goldfish, and a rat) I guess you could say the family has more than tripled.

  Not every BSC member has had family-morphs like Kristy’s and mine. Claudia, for example, has had the same family since birth — her mom, her dad, and her sister, Janine. Janine is an honest-to-goodness certified genius. She’s in high school but takes college courses. Mr. and Mrs. Kishi are like grown-up versions of her. They’re very proper and hardworking. When the Kishi girls were younger, their parents used to put colored stars on a chart for every test score over 90 — pink stars for Claudia, yellow for Janine. They stopped when the yellow ran out and the pink box hadn’t been opened.

  Claudia has always felt out of place in her brainy family. In fact, she’s been sent back to repeat seventh grade (where she’s done really well, by the way). Her grandmother, Mimi, was her real soulmate. Mimi lived with the Kishis. Even though her native language was Japanese and Claudia speaks only English, they communicated beautifully. Mimi helped Claudia realize how special she is. You see, Claudia has something no other Kishi has — an incredible talent for art. She can sculpt, draw, paint, and make gorgeous jewelry. You can tell she’s an artist just by looking at her. She puts together the most striking outfits from clothes she buys at flea markets. At our meeting, for example, she was wearing an old-fashioned felt hat, a billowy button-down white shirt, a super-wide tie hand-painted with a Hawaiian sunset, cuffed khaki shorts, and brown-and-white bucks with knee-high white socks. I could never dream up an outfit like that.

  Actually, art is not Claudia’s only field of expertise. Junk food is, too. If she had the choice, she would live on candy, ice cream, and potato chips (the greasier the better). Of course, her parents permit only wholesome food in the house, so Claudia hides her junk food all over her room. She also has to hide her Nancy Drew books, because Mr. and Mrs. Kishi think they’re not serious enough literature. (You know what I think? If Claudia’s parents didn’t forbid all that stuff, Claudia wouldn’t crave it as much.)

  Claudia sure doesn’t look like a high-calorie-food addict. She’s not an ounce overweight, and I’ve never seen a pimple on her face. Actually, she’s quite stunning. Her hair is a silky jet black and her eyes are full of humor. I love her smile, too. It can lift you out of your worst mood.

  Claudia, by the way, is the club vice-president. Her main duties are official meeting host, head of snacks, and club telephone supplier.

  No, we don’t stick Claudia with the whole phone bill. We contribute to it every month. That’s where Stacey comes in. She’s the club treasurer. Each Monday she collects dues from us, which she stores in an old manila envelope. At the end of the month she pays our bills. (Besides the phone, our main expense is gas money for Kristy’s brother Charlie, who chauffeurs Kristy and Abby to meetings.) Stacey also makes sure to set aside funds for Kid-Kit supplies. Then, if enough cash is left over, we treat ourselves to something special, like a pizza party.

  Stacey’s the only BSC member with the patience for all those numbers. Math comes naturally to her. Recently she joined the middle school math team and she became the state scoring champ.

  I know. You’re picturing some kind of math nerd with bad hair and a calculator in each pocket. Well, don’t. Stacey is proof that stereotypes are stupid. She’s sophisticated and friendly. And as far as clothes go, you can predict the next YM cover just by looking at her outfits. She loves fashion. Lately her favorite styles are really angular and urban. Her favorite color is black, which looks striking against her blonde hair.

  Looking at Stacey’s wardrobe, you wouldn’t be surprised she grew up in New York City, the fashion capital of the USA. She moved to Stoneybrook (and joined the BSC) after her dad’s company transferred him to its Connecticut office. But then the company transferred him back, and Stacey became a New Yorker again. All the moving around took its toll on Mr. and Mrs. McGill, who hadn’t been getting along well anyway. Soon they divorced, and Stacey was back in Stoneybrook, this time with just her mom.

  Stacey weathered that crisis very well. It’s a good thing she’s so strong, because she is under doctors’ orders to avoid stress. You see, she has a medical condition called diabetes. That means her body can’t handle refined sugar. A nondiabetic’s body has a kind of sorting system for sugar. Some is released slowly into the blood over time, some converted to energy, some stored as fat. In Stacey’s case, all the sugar rushes right into the blood, which could cause serious problems. Fortunately Stacey can lead a normal life. She has to eat regular meals, stay away from sugary foods, and give herself daily injections of a hormone called insulin. (It used to make me queasy to think of that, but Stacey assures me it’s pretty painless.)

  Stacey is not the only BSC member from New York. She’s also not the only one with a health condition. Abby qualifies on both counts. She grew up on Long Island, not far from the Big Apple. (I have to say “on Long Island”; Abby says “in” is wrong.) She also has asthma and major allergies. Her backpack always contains inhalers and lots of tissues.

  Abby is our alternate member, which means she substitutes for any officer who misses a meeting. She took Dawn’s place in the BSC. And just in time, too. After Dawn’s move, we tried to get by with only six regular members, but we were swamped. Right around then, Abby moved to Stoneybrook with her mother and sister, two houses away from the Thomas/Brewers. When Kristy found that her new neighbors included twin girls our age — hallelujah!

  Yes, Abby has a twin. Her name is Anna, and she’s a lot like me. She’s quiet, thoughtful, and unathletic. I was hoping she’d join the BSC, too. We invited her, but she said she didn’t have the time. She practices violin several hours every day. She’s determined to become a professional musician.

  For twins, the girls couldn’t be less alike. Abby has zero interest in playing an instrument (except, perhaps, air guitar). She’s a phenomenal natural athlete. Even her hair is different from Anna’s. Well, it’s the same color — dark brown, almost black. But Anna wears hers short and straight, with bangs, while Abby’s is like a big hair fountain that cascades in ringlets around her face.

  Abby is outgoing and full of jokes. She fit in to the BSC instantly. (If I had to do what she did, hopping into a club that had consisted of tight friends for so long, I’d have been petrified.) We’ve all become very close to her. She even invited us to her Bat Mitzvah ceremony. That’s an extremely important rite that thirteen-year-old girls in the Jewish faith go through. It was so moving, especial
ly when Abby and Anna recited in Hebrew from the Torah, the holy book of Judaism.

  Lately, Abby’s been psyched because at the end of the summer she’ll be playing on a unified Special Olympics team. (She’s already practicing!) It’s sad that her dad won’t be around to see it. He died in a car accident when she was nine. (I don’t know the details. Abby doesn’t like to talk about it, and we respect that.)

  Now you know about our officers. Like Abby and Anna, we’re all thirteen. And except for Claudia, we’re in eighth grade.

  Jessi and Mallory are our junior members. They’re both eleven years old and in sixth grade. They do everything we do, with two exceptions: They don’t have official duties at our meetings, and they don’t baby-sit at night because their parents won’t let them.

  Both girls hate that no-night-sitting rule. They consider themselves victims of the “oldest-child syndrome” in their families. Jessi has a little sister and brother, and Mallory has seven younger siblings. According to Jessi and Mal, their parents let the younger ones do whatever they want.

  To be fair, that’s not entirely true. But they like to complain anyway. It’s part of their bond, I guess. Jessi and Mal are absolute best friends. They’re also the world’s biggest horse-book fans. They know to the day when each Saddle Club book is going to arrive in the stores.

  In certain ways, Mal and Jessi are very different. For one thing, Mal’s white and Jessi’s black. Mal has thick reddish-brown hair and wears glasses and braces. She’s happiest when she’s writing and illustrating her own stories. Jessi pulls her hair back into a tight bun and walks with the elegant grace of a dancer. She has taken ballet classes all her life, and she dreams of being in the American Ballet Theatre someday.

  Junior or not, all regular BSC members are required to attend meetings and pay dues. Our two associates, however, don’t. They help out when we’re overloaded with jobs.

  One of our associates is my boyfriend, Logan. He can’t be a full-time member because he’s involved in after-school sports. Logan is fantastic with kids. He also happens to be incredibly handsome: blue eyes, a dimply smile, and curly, light brown hair. He has a great sense of humor and he speaks with this wonderful hint of an accent he picked up from his hometown, Louisville, Kentucky.

  (Okay, okay, I’ll stop gushing. I can’t help it.)

  Our other associate is Shannon Kilbourne. She attends a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, and her schedule is pretty much packed with after-school activities. That day, for example, she was dying to see Dawn, but she had to go to a drama club rehearsal.

  As for me, even an appointment with the President of the United States wouldn’t have been more important than Dawn’s first BSC meeting of the summer!

  We were in Extreme Snack Mode, munching away on chips and Yodels. Dawn was leaning against Claudia’s wall, happily chewing her molasses bread. “Looks like you guys regained your appetites,” she remarked.

  “Never lost them,” Claudia said.

  “You didn’t,” Kristy piped up. “After seeing that guy hurl that chunk of food, I thought I’d never eat again.”

  Stacey made a face. “Kristy, puh-leeze.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Kristy retorted. “It was pretty gross.”

  “I think that was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life,” I said.

  “Really?” Claudia asked skeptically.

  “Sure. I thought he was going to die in front of us.”

  “I knew he’d be okay,” Claudia said. “I’ve been much more scared than that.”

  “When?” Stacey asked.

  “Crossing a street in New York City,” Claudia answered. “No, not really. It was when Mimi had her stroke, I guess. That was the first time I realized she wasn’t going to live forever.” She sighed deeply. “How about you, Stace?”

  Stacey thought a moment. “The time in New York when my diabetes got out of control and I ended up in the hospital. I thought I was going to die.”

  “My scariest moment was when my dad was laid off from his job,” Mallory volunteered. “I was sure I’d end up in an orphanage like Oliver Twist.”

  “For me it was that car accident with Aunt Cecelia,” Jessi said, “and seeing my little brother all limp in the backseat. I’m still so grateful every time I see him jumping around the house now.”

  “My parents’ divorce,” Dawn spoke up. “I kind of knew it might happen, but when it did, I went into shock.”

  Abby was munching away, looking very thoughtful.

  “How about you?” I asked her.

  Right away I wished I could reel in those words. Abby’s face clouded over. “My dad’s accident,” she said softly.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to —”

  Abby smiled. “It’s all right, Mary Anne.”

  Stacey said quickly, “Well, thank goodness Sharon saved the day.”

  “That guy was lucky,” Kristy added.

  “You know what bothers me?” I asked. “What if Sharon hadn’t been there?”

  “Mary Anne, that’s morbid,” Dawn replied.

  “I’m serious. Who would have saved that man? I mean, none of us tried.”

  “I’ve never really done that Henrick thing,” Claudia remarked.

  “Heimlich,” Kristy corrected her.

  “I saw a poster about it in the cafeteria,” Mallory said. “But it was near the bathrooms.”

  “I’ve seen that poster a million times,” Abby said. “But it kind of goes in one eye and out the other.”

  “I know the basic idea, but not enough to try it,” Kristy remarked. “I guess you only learn stuff like that by practicing.”

  “How?” Stacey asked. “By hanging out in restaurants and asking people to choke?”

  “Classes,” Kristy said. “You take a first-aid class.”

  “Stoneybrook Community Center gives them,” Jessi said. “My mom took one when our family signed up for the pool.”

  That sounded like a great idea. “Can kids our age take it?”

  “I’ll find out,” Jessi said.

  Kristy sat forward. “We should all take it! You’re right, Mary Anne. We were totally unprepared. Think of what would happen if one of our charges started choking like that man did. Or if some worse accident happens and we need to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Would any of us know how to do that?”

  We all just sat there, too ashamed to say no.

  “If the SCC gives a first-aid class, I move that the entire BSC take it,” Kristy announced. “All in favor?”

  “AYE!” It was unanimous.

  I was excited. Things were going to change. I was going to de-chicken myself.

  From this moment on, Mary Anne the Meek would be a thing of the past.

  I think it was the photo of the sliced-up heart on the wall that got me. Or the one of a man performing CPR on an unconscious baby.

  Or maybe it was the fact that Alan Gray, the most obnoxious boy in the eighth grade, had signed up for the Basic Life Support for Teens class at the Stoneybrook Community Center.

  Whatever it was, I was feeling ill.

  Our instructor was a young, dark-haired woman dressed in shorts, running shoes, and a chambray shirt tied at the waist. It took all the concentration I had to focus on her. I was afraid I would faint.

  All the feelings I had had at the airport cafeteria were rushing back in, even though the incident had happened four days before. And I realized they were the same feelings I have when I see a violent movie or a gruesome newscast.

  Fear. Nausea. Stomachache.

  I hate violence. Seeing people in pain makes my heart stop. I can’t stand the sight of blood. I can’t stand the thought of blood.

  Basic Life Support for Teens was four sessions long. It was going to cover every horrible thing that could possibly occur. The course description mentioned choking, heart attacks, drowning, knife wounds, snake bites, and head trauma.

  Why was I doing this to myself?

  I looked around. Ab
out fifteen kids were taking the class. Kristy, Stacey, and Claudia were deep in conversation. Jessi, Mallory, and Dawn were cracking up over an imitation that Abby was doing. Alan Gray was goofing off with his friends Pete Black and Irv Hirsch.

  Logan had told me he’d be coming to the class, but he was nowhere to be seen. Which was too bad. If he were there, I’d feel calmer.

  “Hello, I’m Shelley Golden,” announced the instructor.

  “Hello, I’m Alan Gray,” chirped Alan.

  “I’m Pete Black,” said Pete.

  “And I’m Little Boy Blue,” muttered Irv.

  Well, they thought that was the funniest exchange ever spoken. They were laughing so hard, they sounded like braying mules.

  “How long have they been practicing that one?” Stacey murmured.

  Boy, were we off to a bad start. Of all the first-aid classes and all the time periods to take them, why did we have to choose the same one as Alan Gray?

  Shelley Golden was fixing the three boys with a hard stare. Then she smiled slyly and cleared her throat.

  “You know,” she said, “I recommend you boys apply your gray matter to this course, because someday, when one of you is black and blue, you’ll all be sorry you missed a golden opportunity.”

  “All riiiight!” Abby said, bursting into applause.

  Alan and friends sank into their chairs.

  Shelley Golden was quick. I already knew I liked her.

  “Now, before we start,” she went on, “I insist you call me Shelley. And ask as many questions as you want. When it comes to first-aid preparedness, no question is stupid.”

  I could see Alan itching to prove her wrong, but he kept a lid on it.

  “How many of you know about the Firefighters’ Fair at the end of this month?” Shelley asked.

  Most of us raised our hands. The Firefighter’s Fair is an annual Stoneybrook event. It’s basically a big town festival given by the fire department.