For Olivia Ford
Thank you
Contents
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
Letter from Ann M. Martin
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
“Claudia? Do you think Shea is playing that song right?” Jackie Rodowsky wanted to know. He gazed at me from under a fringe of red bangs.
I listened carefully to the piano music drifting from the living room. “What’s he supposed to be playing?” I asked.
Jackie shrugged. “ ‘A doggie-o.’ ”
“ ‘A doggie-o’?” I repeated. I had never heard of “a doggie-o.” Then again, I don’t know much about music, except that I like certain groups and singers. And that I have recently started to like Bach. No kidding. His music is awesome, if you really listen to it.
From the other room I heard plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. (Oops.) Shea started over. Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam.
“Bullfrogs!” Shea yelled.
“I guess he isn’t playing it right,” said Jackie.
“I guess not.”
“Duh,” added Archie, who is Jackie and Shea’s little brother.
It was Monday afternoon and I was baby-sitting at the Rodowskys’ for three freckle-faced redheads. Shea is nine, Jackie is seven, and Archie is four. Shea was practicing for his upcoming piano recital. I hoped he would be ready.
Blam. “Bullfrogs!”
Jackie and Archie giggled.
Then Jackie looked up from the enormous rocket ship he and Archie were building with Legos. The Rodowsky boys have a Lego supply bigger than what you could find in most toy stores. “I wish I could play the piano. Or some instrument,” Jackie said. He reached for a handful of Legos — and knocked a fin off the spaceship. The fin fell to the floor and split into pieces just as Bo, the Rodowskys’ dog, tore into the rec room. He skittered on the Legos and crashed into the table on which the spaceship was being built.
“Cowabunga!” shrieked Archie, as the table collapsed and the rocket ship slid to the floor and smashed.
Jackie looked at me balefully. “Was that my fault?” he asked.
I tried to smile. “Not really,” I told him. “Bo helped. Maybe Bo needs some exercise. Why don’t you take him outside? Archie and I will try to put the spaceship back together.”
Jackie sighed. “Okay,” he replied. “But don’t be surprised if I ram into the toolshed or wreck up the lawn or something.”
Jackie is the teeniest bit accident-prone. Sometimes this bothers him — but mostly he is pretty happy-go-lucky.
Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. “Bullfrogs!”
“You know what I wish, Claudia?” Archie said when Jackie and Bo were safely out the door. “I wish I could be in a play. Or in a show. I want to stand on a stage in front of a lot of people. I want the people to clap for me, and laugh at my jokes.”
“You want to be an entertainer?” I said. “Hmm. And Jackie wants to play an instrument, and Shea is getting ready for his recital. You guys must like show business.”
“Yup,” replied Shea. “Don’t you?”
To be truthful, I hadn’t given it much thought. I have other interests. Like art and baby-sitting. And junk food.
My name is Claudia Kishi. Claudia Lynn Kishi, to be exact. I’m thirteen years old. I live here in the small town of Stoneybrook, Connecticut. I have a mom and a dad and an older sister. I don’t have any pets, but I do have lots of friends. My best friends are the members of a business called the Baby-sitters Club. I happen to be the vice-president of that club (which us members call the BSC).
I’ve been the vice-president of the BSC ever since the club started, which was back at the beginning of seventh grade. Now I’m in eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I’ll tell you a secret about school and me. I am not a very good student. I am especially not a good speller. It isn’t that I’m dumb, although sometimes I feel dumb. It’s just that I don’t think school is very interesting. Except for art class. And when I’m at home I can usually find about a dozen things to do that are more exciting than homework. My parents say I have to learn discipline and responsibility. I say I am disciplined and responsible … but who needs to know about hypotenuses (hypotenusi?) or what letter “psychiatrist” begins with? (Anyone with half a brain would spell that word “sikiatrist.” It would make much more sense. Furthermore, if you really think about it, in general, you hardly need the letter “c” at all. You could spell most “c” things with an “s” or a “k.” You only need that “c” for spelling “chocolate” or “cheesecake,” which by the way, could be spelled “choklit” and “chezkak.” Just a thought. But is it any wonder I’m a bad speller?)
I’ll tell you something. I bet I wouldn’t feel dumb sometimes if my sister Janine wasn’t so smart. Janine is a genius. She is sixteen and basically a junior at Stoneybrook High, but already she takes courses at the local college. She did that last year, too. Can you imagine? She was fifteen and going to school with students who were, like, six years older than she was. Well, some of them were. And Janine’s grades were as good as theirs. Or better. I think I’m just dumb by comparison. What I mean is I’m not dumb. But next to Janine I look dumb.
Maybe if I got glasses and dressed in frumpy, dowdy clothes like Janine — no. I could never do that. I hope this doesn’t sound conceited or shallow, but clothes and fashion are very important to me. Well, they are. They’re almost as important as art and children and baby-sitting. I like to look good, and I’m good at looking good. All my friends say so. Sometimes they even copy my style. I wear pretty trendy clothes, and I like to be imaginative and try new things. I have to admit that the money I earn baby-sitting goes for art supplies (first) and then for jewelry and accessories and stuff. I have not saved much at all. (Unlike my friends Kristy and Jessi who hoard their money like squirrels hoard acorns.)
As Archie and I knelt on the floor and picked up pieces of the rocket ship, I thought about the upcoming meeting of the BSC. My friends and I hold our meetings in my bedroom, and we were due for one later that afternoon. Mrs. Rodowsky had said she would be home before five, and the meeting would begin at five-thirty. Perfect. That would give me just enough time to fly home and straighten up my room. Ordinarily I don’t bother. (My friends are used to my messes.) But that day my room was extra messy because I’d been experimenting with making ceramic mobiles, and little figures and pieces of wire were everywhere. (Along with Snickers bars and M&M’s and Neccos and Fritos and ranch-style potato chips and crackers and popcorn …)
The back door opened and Bo bounded into the room, followed by Jackie. “The toolshed is still standing,” Jackie announced. “If I broke anything out there, I don’t know about it.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry. You didn’t mean to bump into the rocket ship. It was just an accident.”
“Another accident,” Jackie corrected me.
“Well, anyway, Archie and I have already put most of the spaceship back together. See? It broke into big pieces.”
Jackie the walking disaster grinned. “Good,” he said.
Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. “Bullfrogs!” yelled Shea. (This time even he giggled.)
&
nbsp; “Hey, Shea! You can stop practicing now!” I called. “Time’s up.”
“Okay!” he called back. But he didn’t stop. I think he was getting worried about the recital.
“Lucky-duck Shea,” said Archie as we lifted the spaceship back onto the table. “I could put on a show, too, you know. I can play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ on the piano.”
“With one finger,” murmured Jackie. Then he hurried on. “I bet I could play the … the, um, the … well, I could play something.”
“And I could dance,” added Archie, “and sing. I could be a star.”
* * *
Mrs. Rodowsky came back promptly at 4:45 that afternoon. As soon as she had paid me, I climbed onto my bicycle and pedaled home. As I rode along, I thought about Jackie, who wished he could play an instrument, and about Archie’s words: “I could be a star.” It was time for my friends and me to cook up a musical project for the kids we sit for. Obviously the Rodowsky boys would want to be involved in something like that. And I was sure other kids would, too.
I was so lost in thought when I reached home that I nearly tripped over Janine who was sitting on our front stoop reading one of her sociology texts. Her bookbag was perched beside her.
“Oof! Sorry,” I said. “What are you doing here?” The weather that day was gorgeous — warm and sunny — but Janine prefers to study in her room. She is not an outdoor person.
“I’m locked out,” she said. “I can’t find my key.”
“Well, I’m here to save the day,” I replied.
Our parents both work, so at my house forgetting or losing your key could mean trouble. Dad is a broker with a company in Stamford, Connecticut, which is the nearest city, and Mom is the head librarian at the Stoneybrook Public Library.
I unlocked the front door and let Janine inside.
She checked her watch. “You have a meeting soon, don’t you?”
“Yup,” I said. “I’m going to clean up my room. Want to keep me company?” Janine may be dowdy, and she may be a genius who makes me look dumb next to her, but she is still my sister, and I love her.
“All right.” Janine followed me upstairs and along the hall to my room. “Goodness. What are you working on?” she asked. She cleared a space on my bed so she could sit down.
“Mobiles,” I answered. “Want to see?” I held up a half-finished one with ceramic cowboy boots, a cactus, and a coyote hanging from delicate curving wires. Then I showed her a still life I was painting, a charcoal sketch I was finishing up, and an idea for making jewelry with beads, sequins, and lace. And then I began to tidy up.
Janine watched with a half smile as I dug a package of Ring-Dings out from under a pile of papers and drawings on my desk, and tried to make order out of chaos. “Are you going to be ready in time?” she asked.
“Barely,” I answered.
And at that moment I heard our front door open and close, and then feet running up the stairs. “I’m here!” yelled Stacey McGill.
By five-thirty, Janine had left my room and settled herself in front of her computer. In her place were the six other members of the Baby-sitters Club: Kristy Thomas, Mary Anne Spier, Stacey McGill, Dawn Schafer, Jessi Ramsey, and Mallory Pike.
“This meeting of the BSC will now come to order,” announced Kristy. She was sitting in my director’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, a visor perched on her head, a pencil stuck over her ear, and a notebook open in her lap. Kristy is the president. She gets to call meetings to order. (She has a mouth which is suited to that purpose.)
It seems like forever that my friends and I have met in my room every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon from five-thirty until six but, as I mentioned, the BSC has only been around since the beginning of seventh grade. The club was Kristy’s idea, and when it first began, there were just four members — Kristy, Stacey, Mary Anne, and me. As business grew, so did the club. Soon Dawn joined, and later Mal and Jessi joined, too.
How does our business work? It’s simple, really. When parents in Stoneybrook (especially in our neighborhood) need a sitter for their children, they call us during one of our club meetings. Since they reach seven capable sitters at once, they’re bound to line up someone with just one call (instead of making a million phone calls, trying to find a sitter who’s free). My friends and I get tons of jobs this way, which is great, since we adore children. (We like the money we earn, too.)
As president, Kristy runs things smoothly and professionally. Every club member has her own duties and responsibilities. Kristy’s duties are to be in charge, and to keep coming up with her good ideas. Kristy is famous for her ideas. She thought up the club, and she thought up a lot of other things. Like Kid-Kits. A Kid-Kit is a cardboard box (we each have one now) that we’ve decorated and filled with our old books, toys, and games, plus art supplies, activity books, and so on. We often take them along when we go on a sitting job. Kids love to explore them, which is one reason we’re popular sitters.
Kristy also decided that keeping a notebook and a record book would help our club to be efficient and organized. The notebook is more like a diary. In it, each of us writes up every single job we go on. Then we’re responsible for reading the notebook once a week to find out how our friends solved sitting problems, and to stay in touch with the lives of our clients. The record book is where we keep track of all kinds of information: our clients’ names, addresses, and phone numbers; the rates they pay; and notes about the children we sit for regularly, such as whether they have food allergies or special fears, or have to take any kind of medication. These things are extremely helpful to us.
Sometimes when I think about all the great ideas Kristy has had for the BSC, I’m amazed. At other times I think that’s just part of who Kristy is. She’s always had great ideas. I should know since she and Mary Anne and I grew up together. Before our lives began to change, our families lived on Bradford Court. Kristy lived across the street from me, and Mary Anne lived next door to her. (Now I’m the only one who still lives on Bradford Court.) Anyway, even when we were little kids Kristy had one great idea after another. Who knows why?
Kristy’s family is a pretty interesting one, as far as I’m concerned. She has two older brothers, Sam and Charlie (they’re in high school with my sister), and a little brother, David Michael (he’s seven). Her dad walked out on the family when David Michael was just a baby. For a long time, Kristy’s mother struggled to support her four kids by herself — and she did a terrific job. She’s some kind of big executive with a company in Stamford. When Kristy was in seventh grade her mom met and fell in love with a man named Watson Brewer. Guess what. Watson is an actual millionaire. And during the summer between seventh and eighth grade, Watson and Kristy’s mom got married, and Watson moved the Thomases into his mansion (yes, mansion) across town. So Kristy acquired a stepfather. At the same time she acquired a little stepsister and stepbrother, Karen and Andrew, who are seven and four. Later, she acquired an adopted sister! Not long ago, Watson and Kristy’s mom adopted Emily Michelle, a two-and-a-half-year-old girl who had been born in Vietnam.
As you can imagine, the Thomas/Brewer household is pretty wild sometimes. Even though Karen and Andrew live there only part time (mostly, they live with their mother and stepfather, who are also in Stoneybrook), the house is zooey, what with all those kids, Kristy’s grandmother Nannie (who moved in to help care for Emily), and various pets.
What sort of person is Kristy? Well, she’s energetic and outgoing and she talks a lot. Even she admits she has a big mouth. She loves sports and kids, which is why she decided to organize and coach a softball team for little kids, called Kristy’s Krushers. Kristy has a fun sense of humor, and she’s a good student. She’s brown-eyed and brown-haired and the shortest kid in her class. (By the way, Kristy is thirteen, like me. So are the other members of the Baby-sitters Club, except for Mal and Jessi who are eleven and in sixth grade.) One thing that does not interest Kristy is clothes. She’s happiest wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, maybe
a turtleneck, baggy socks, old running shoes, and sometimes a baseball cap. If forced, she will put on a little makeup or jewelry, but she rarely thinks of that herself.
Would you be surprised to find out that Kristy has a boyfriend? Well, she does, although I think she’d kill me if she heard me say that. But she and Bart Taylor, who lives in her new neighborhood, have been spending a lot of time together, and not just on the softball field (Bart coaches a rival team, Bart’s Bashers). They’ve even gone to a few school dances together.
Let’s see. On to the vice-president of the BSC, and that’s me. You already know a lot about me and my family, but let me tell you why I was elected V.P. It is mainly because I have a phone in my room. Not only that, I have my very own phone number. This is important, considering how many calls we usually receive during a club meeting. Using a parent’s phone would be pretty inconvenient (we’d tie it up three times a week and get calls during meetings that were for other people). So we’re lucky to have my phone. As vice-president, I also offer around my supply of junk food when my friends and I meet. More importantly, I deal with calls that come in when we’re not meeting.
One last thing about me. I’m Japanese-American. This is what I look like: extra-long black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a good complexion, especially considering the amount of junk food I eat.
Mary Anne Spier is the secretary of the club. Her duties are complicated — to schedule each and every job that is phoned in. To do that, she has to know when I have art lessons, when Mal has orthodontist appointments, when Jessi will be at her ballet classes, and so forth. She keeps track of our jobs on the appointment pages in the record book. As far as anyone knows, she has never made a mistake. Mary Anne is also in charge of keeping the entire record book up-to-date and in order.
When I tell you about the kind of person Mary Anne is, I think you’ll be surprised to find out that she’s Kristy’s best friend. I’m still surprised — and I’ve known Mary Anne and Kristy all my life. Okay, remember that Kristy has a big mouth? Well, Mary Anne is quiet and softspoken, shy and sentimental. She cries easily. She is so sensitive. Not that Kristy is insensitive; but she’s tough-skinned, and Mary Anne is not. Still, Mary Anne is a survivor. Her life hasn’t been exactly easy. Her mom died when Mary Anne was little and, after that, Mary Anne was raised by her very strict father. Mr. Spier loves his daughter, that’s for sure, but he overprotected her and treated her like a baby. Only recently was Mary Anne allowed to wear her hair long (instead of in braids) and to choose her own clothes (which are slowly becoming trendier and less little-girl-like). It’s practically a miracle that she has a steady boyfriend, Logan Bruno. But she does. They’ve been going out for quite awhile now (except for the time when they were going through The Big Separation). Logan is a really great guy. He’s sweet, and he’s very understanding of Mary Anne. He’s also an associate member of the BSC. Honest. He’s a terrific baby-sitter, so we call on him at those times when a job comes in that the rest of us can’t take. (Or we call on Shannon Kilbourne. She’s our other associate member; she lives across the street from Kristy.)
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