Dawn and the Impossible Three

by Ann M. Martin

  “No,” Stacey replied, puzzled. Then suddenly she caught on. “Oh, David Michael,” she cried.

  “They won’t put Louie in the van. Dogs don’t go in vans.”

  “I hope not. Louie doesn’t like dark places.” “Anyway, you’re only moving across town. Your mom will drive Louie to Watson’s house in the car. Louie likes car rides, doesn’t he?”

  David Michael brightened. “He loves them!” “Has he ever been to Watson’s house?” David Michael nodded. “A few times.” “See? He’ll even know where he’s going. No big deal.”

  A pause. Then, “Stacey, moving vans sometimes have accidents.”

  “They do?” Stacey said, wondering what David Michael was getting at now.

  “Yesterday I saw a TV show where this van was driving along a mountain road and suddenly it had an accident and it skidded and went shwooo” (David Michael demonstrated the van sailing over a cliff.) “down the mountain and the doors flew open and things fell out and a man found the accident and saw a teddy bear on the ground all squashed and ripped. Also a tricycle with the wheels bent.”

  “But, David Michael, there are no mountains here in Stoneybrook. It’ll only take a few minutes to drive from Bradford Court to Watson’s house.

  Anyway, our moving van traveled from New York City to Stoneybrook with no problems at all —”

  “The lamp broke.”

  “— and Dawn Schafer’s moving van traveled from California to Connecticut without any trouble. That’s three thousand miles…. I know our lamp got broken. So did a vase. But moving men aren’t perfect.”

  “Well, I don’t want them moving my space station.”

  “I bet if you tell your mom that, she’ll take it to Watson’s in the car sometime. Or Charlie will. He’ll be able to drive by then.”

  David Michael nodded. He bit an infinitesimally small corner off of one of the crackers. Stacey had the feeling that the moving van wasn’t really what was worrying him. She waited patiently.

  David Michael returned the rest of the cracker to the plate, then let loose with a barrage of nervous questions. “When we move to Watson’s, who will be my friends? Where will I go to school? Will I still see Patrick and Frankie?” (Current friends.) “Where will I sleep? Where will my mom sleep? Where will Louie sleep? What if Louie tries to come back to his old house?” The questions went on and on.

  Stacey did her best to answer them, but she didn’t think David Michael would stop worrying about the move until it was over.

  She mentioned that to Kristy at the next meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. “That’s a long time for a little kid to worry,” Stacey pointed out. “It’ll be three or four months before you move.”

  “Inobutthdobawt.” Kristy had three pieces of saltwater taffy in her mouth. Claudia, the junk food junkie, had been sent a box of it by her aunt and uncle who were visiting Atlantic City in New Jersey. She had hidden the candy in her room, along with her Ho Hos and Ding Dongs and M&M’s, and had handed around pieces at the beginning of the meeting. We all had gooey mouthfuls of the stuff, except for Stacey, who’s diabetic and can’t eat most sweets.

  Stacey giggled. “What?” she asked Kristy.

  Kristy swallowed several times. “I know,” she said at last, “but there’s nothing we can do about it. Mom and Watson aren’t getting married until the end of September. Mom knows David Michael is scared, so they talk about the move sometimes. A little too often, in my opinion.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t want to hear about the move day in and day out. I’m not thrilled with the idea, either — but for different reasons.”

  Mary Anne looked solemnly out the window. “I can’t believe you won’t be next door to me anymore,” she told Kristy. “All my life, when I’ve looked out my side bedroom window, I’ve looked into yours.”

  “Yeah,” said Kristy huskily. “Me, too.”

  Before things got too sad, I said, “Well, when you look out your new bedroom window, Kristy, you’ll look right into Morbidda Destiny’s.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “You know,” said Kristy, “we’ve been saying that a move across town is really no big deal. I’ll still go to Stoneybrook Middle School, and we’ll still be friends and all that. But what are we going to do about the meetings of the Baby-sitters Club? And how am I supposed to sit for Jamie Newton and the Pikes and everyone? No one’s going to want to drive all the way to Watson’s to pick me up, when you guys are right here and can walk to our clients.”

  We chewed in thoughtful silence. We must have looked like we were at a funeral.

  After a while Claudia spoke up. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ll get new clients, Kristy. You’ll have a whole new neighborhood full of kids to yourself. When you can’t handle the jobs, we’ll go. Your move will expand our club. We’ll be baby-sitting all over town!”

  Claudia’s excitement was contagious. She and Mary Anne and Kristy and I reached for more taffy. Stacey reached for a soda cracker.

  “But the meetings,” said Kristy, looking downcast again. “Who’s going to drive me to Bradford Court three times a week?”

  No one could answer her question. I began to have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Can’t you ride your bike over?” asked Stacey. “I know it’s a few miles, but you don’t mind a little exercise, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Kristy answered. “I love to ride my bike. But Mom won’t let me ride from Watson’s to Bradford Court.”

  “How come?” I asked. “She lets you ride downtown and stuff.”

  “Only with a friend. Safety in numbers and all that,” said Kristy.

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, she’s not strict, but she is careful. Even Mom has her limits. Besides, let’s say Mom gave me permission to ride across town alone. Okay. It takes about a half an hour each way when you figure in stopping at lights and running into rush-hour traffic. That means I’d have to leave Watson’s at five o’clock for a five-thirty meeting, and I wouldn’t get home until six-thirty. In the winter, it would be pitch-black by then.”

  The problem was looking bigger and bigger.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Claudia suddenly. “We’re not thinking. We’re assuming we have to go on holding the meetings in my room, but who says so? Just because we’ve held them here since the beginning doesn’t mean it’s the only place for them.”

  “Then our clients wouldn’t know where to reach us,” I said.

  “Oh, right.” Kristy, who had just started to look hopeful, dropped her hands into her lap. “Stupid, stupid Watson,” she muttered.

  “Hey, Kristy, don’t get down on Watson,” I said gently. “It’s not his fault. It’s not anybody’s fault.”

  “A lot you know.” Kristy didn’t even bother to look at me.

  “I may know more than you think,” I said quietly. “You’re not the only one whose parents got divorced.”

  “No, but I’m the only one whose mother chose to get married to a jerk who’s so rich he lives three and a half miles away on Millionaire’s Lane, which is what they should call that gross street he can afford to live on. And I’m the only one who may have to drop out of the club. The club I started.”

  “Oh, Kristy!” I exclaimed, forgetting her jab at me. “You can’t drop out of the club!”

  “No. We won’t let you,” said Mary Anne staunchly. “We couldn’t run your club without you. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Yeah,” said Claudia. “No Kristy, no club.”

  Then we all looked at each other with the awful realization of what Claudia’s words might mean.

  The next day was the beginning of Memorial Day weekend. The Stoneybrook schools were closed on Monday. In California, we usually spent most of the long weekend at the beach. There was no chance of that in Connecticut. Although we lived near the coast and the weather was beautiful, the temperature had dropped back to about seventy degrees. Mary Anne assured me that was normal.
I didn’t care. On Saturday morning, I shouted at my clock radio and called the weatherman a cheesebrain. (Several days earlier, I’d called him a magician and a saint.)

  When I heard that the ocean temperature (the Atlantic Ocean temperature, that is) was fifty degrees, I called the weatherman a moron.

  Nevertheless, my mother, who was giving a picnic on Saturday, decided to hold it outdoors. I told her it was probably going to be the first picnic ever attended by people wearing down jackets.

  Mom just rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “For pity’s sake, Dawn. It’s perfectly pleasant outside.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  I tried to be enthusiastic about the picnic anyway. It had started off as just a small party for my mom and grandparents, but it had grown. First, Mom had invited Mr. Spier and Mary Anne. Then I had asked if I could invite the Thomases, the Kishis, and the McGills. Then Jeff had asked if we could invite the Pikes, and finally I decided to ask the Barretts and (out of guilt) the Prezziosos.

  Most of them couldn’t come, since they already had plans. In fact, apart from my grandparents and the Spiers, the only people who were able to attend were the Barretts, and Kristy and David Michael. (Mrs. Thomas was giving a party for her relatives and Watson and his kids on Saturday night, so she’d be busy getting ready for it during the day, but Kristy said she wanted to come to our picnic anyway. I was very flattered.)

  On Saturday morning, shivering in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, I helped Mom set up a table and our lawn furniture in the backyard. Then, while Jeff hosed everything down (the furniture was dusty from sitting in the barn) and decorated the yard with balloons, flags, crepe paper, and lanterns, Mom and I worked on the food.

  “You know, Mom,” I said, surveying the messy kitchen, “some people don’t like tofu.”

  “Really?” she replied vaguely.

  “And, Mom, before the guests arrive this afternoon, could you find matching socks? Mr. Spier would probably really appreciate it if your socks matched. And your earrings.”

  “My earrings? I know they match, honey. I just put them on…. I wonder if I could substitute raw honey for sugar in this recipe.”

  “They don’t match, Mom. They’re both gold hoops, but they’re different sizes. Here, let me look at that recipe.” I was beginning to feel nervous.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” I said on impulse. “Instead of trying to make this fancy stuff, why don’t we go to the grocery store, buy hamburger patties, hot dogs, buns, and potato salad, and serve that? Grandpa can barbecue. We won’t have to cook at all.”

  “Red meat?” exclaimed my mother. “Hot dogs? Do you know what’s in a hot dog?”

  “Yes, and I don’t even want to think about it. I’d rather eat tofu any day. But we’re in Connecticut. In Connecticut, people barbecue things. Especially at picnics. Don’t you think we should serve food our guests will like?” I tried to imagine Kristy looking at a table of dried fruit, tofu salads, and raw vegetables. She’d go hungry before she’d touch a thing.

  “I suppose,” said Mom. I could tell that the idea of not having to cook was very appealing to her. “Do you really think we can buy ready-made potato salad?”

  “Sure. In the deli section at the grocery. I’ve seen it. Vats of it. We could probably buy ready-made green salad, too. It might be a little expensive, but we won’t have to prepare anything.”

  Mom considered this for all of two seconds. “Let’s go!” she cried. “What a relief!”

  We made a dash for the car. On the way to the shopping center, I realized we didn’t have a grill, so we had to buy one of those, too. It was a costly morning, but it was worth it.

  As we were driving back home, the car loaded down with food and a big red Weber grill, I said casually, “Hey, Mom, I thought when you were in high school your parents didn’t approve of Mary Anne’s father.”

  “That’s right, sweetie.”

  “Well, what’s going to happen when they see each other today?”

  “Oh, nothing. That was years ago,” Mom answered mildly.

  But I thought she looked uncomfortable.

  Our guests were invited for one o’clock. In California, one o’clock means two or two-thirty. Here in Connecticut, every last guest had arrived by 1:15. Luckily, since we didn’t have much to do except start the Weber grill, we were ready anyway. The backyard was decorated and the furniture was clean. All we had to do was carry out the food.

  When that was done, I pulled Kristy and Mary Anne aside so we could survey the scene. Jeff, David Michael, Buddy, and Suzi were playing ball. Mrs. Barrett was bouncing Marnie on her knees and talking to my grandmother. My grandfather was lighting the fire in the grill. And Mom and Mr. Spier were sitting as close together as they could possibly sit, their heads bent in quiet laughter.

  “Keep an eye on them,” I said to my friends. “This is a good opportunity to see how they’re acting with each other these days. And keep an eye on my grandparents and your father, Mary Anne. It could be interesting. We may have to — to avert a crisis,” I said, remembering words Mrs. Barrett had once used.

  “Okay,” whispered Mary Anne.

  “Hey,” Kristy exclaimed, looking awed. “Mary Anne, where are your father’s glasses?”

  “He got contacts,” Mary Anne replied.

  “Your father?”

  Mary Anne nodded.

  “Got contacts?”

  “Yup.”

  I began to giggle.

  “I don’t believe it. I absolutely do not believe it,” said Kristy. “It’s amazing. Get me a chair, somebody. I may have to sit down.”

  Mary Anne made a great show of pulling up a lawn chair, and Kristy made a great show of collapsing into it with one hand pressed over her heart.

  When we calmed down, I dragged a lounge chair next to Kristy’s chair and Mary Anne and I both sat in it. Then the three of us watched the adults.

  It didn’t take me long to realize that my grandmother was only pretending to have a conversation with Mrs. Barrett. All she did was ask questions that required long answers, and while Mrs. Barrett was talking, Granny would keep shooting little glances over at Mom and Mr. Spier.

  Pop-Pop (my grandfather) was watching them, too. Once he got the fire started, there wasn’t much for him to do until the coals were hot. Even so, he stood over the grill, occasionally poking a lump of charcoal, but mostly just gazing at the lovebirds.

  Lovebirds. That’s exactly what they looked like. If one of them had cooed — even Mr. Spier — I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

  I tried to read the expression on Pop-Pop’s face. He didn’t look angry. I nudged Mary Anne and then Kristy. “How would you say my grandfather looks?” I asked them.

  “Well, he looks very nice,” replied Kristy. “This is the first time I’ve ever met him, of course, but I’d say he looks good, although his shirt doesn’t exactly match his pants.”

  “No!” I exclaimed. “I mean, what does he look like he’s thinking about as he watches my mom and Mary Anne’s dad? Mary Anne, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t tell.”

  “Do you think he looks like he disapproves?”

  “No,” answered Mary Anne and Kristy.

  “Do you think he looks deliriously happy?”

  “No,” they replied.

  “Deliriously proud?”

  “No.”

  We weren’t getting anywhere.

  “What about Granny?” I asked. “She’s been watching them the whole time she’s been talking to Mrs. Barrett.”

  “It’s hard to tell,” said Mary Anne. “If you want my honest opinion, she has to pretend she’s interested in what Mrs. Barrett is saying, and there’s no room on her face for any other expression.”

  Adults certainly are hard to understand. Sometimes they seem to have several faces. It’s as if they own masks, and you know they own masks, but you can’t always tell their masks from their real expressions. Why do they make everything so complica
ted?

  The picnic became more interesting when we started eating. Mom settled the little kids — Jeff, David Michael, Buddy, and Suzi — at a child-size picnic table. Then she arranged Marnie and the adults — who were going to eat on their laps — in a semicircle of lawn chairs. She left Mary Anne and Kristy and me on our own, so we just inconspicuously tacked ourselves onto one end of the semicircle. From there we had a bird’s-eye view of the adults.

  The first interesting thing that happened was that Pop-Pop sat himself down next to Mr. Spier and said, “So, Richard, how are things at Thompson, Thompson, and Abrams?”

  “Oh,” replied Mary Anne’s father, “I haven’t been with them in quite some time.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, I started my own firm about four years ago. I practice in Stamford.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s doing very well, too. Leaving Thompson’s was the best decision I ever made.”

  “Oh?”

  (It’s amazing how many meanings the word oh seems to have. Mr. Spier’s oh had sounded surprised. Pop-Pop’s first oh had sounded suspicious. His second oh had sounded impressed. His third oh had sounded sort of awed.)

  Mary Anne and I glanced at each other. That conversation seemed to have gone all right.

  A little while later, Granny leaned over and said, “Richard, are you still living on Taylor Street?” (Taylor Street is the neighborhood Mr. Spier had grown up in.)

  “Why, no,” he replied. “We live on Bradford Court. Mary Anne’s mother and I moved out of the house on Taylor Street several months before Mary Anne was born.”

  Again Mr. Spier sounded surprised. He was probably wondering why my grandparents didn’t know all this stuff. The truth is, Mom and her parents rarely discuss Touchy Subjects. And their three Touchiest Subjects at that time were the divorce, my father, and Mary Anne’s father. I was beginning to think that Mom had brought Granny, Pop-Pop, and Mr. Spier together just so that my grandparents could see how well Mary Anne’s father had done for himself, not to mention the fact that he’s a perfectly nice, normal guy.

  Toward the end of the meal, Pop-Pop got into a discussion of banking laws with Mr. Spier. (Pop-Pop is a banker.) The talk went on and on. Sometimes they seemed to be arguing, but at the same time enjoying themselves. The rest of the time they were agreeing with each other and talking earnestly.