Jessi and the Superbrat

by Ann M. Martin

  Those four are the eighth-grade members of the club. Then there’s Mallory and me, the lowly sixth-graders. We are the junior officers. We came into the club when one of the other girls, Stacey McGill, moved back to New York City. (My family moved right into her old house!) Since we’re younger, we mostly take jobs in the afternoons or weekends. The only night jobs we’re allowed to take are with our own families.

  You know pretty much about me already, and you know that Mallory is one of eight Pike kids, so I’ll just add that Mallory loves to read and that sometimes she even writes and illustrates her own stories. She has glasses and braces (which she hates), and pierced ears (which she loves), and she’s just about the best friend I could have hoped for when I moved to Stoneybrook.

  I think that’s all you need to know about the club members. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. We also have two associate members, Shannon Kilbourne and Logan Bruno. (Logan’s not just Mary Anne’s boyfriend. He’s also a great baby-sitter.) We call our associates to help us out if we get too many jobs to handle ourselves. Logan and Shannon don’t come to the meetings or anything. They’re kind of like our standby crew.

  Anyway, I was telling you about that Monday’s meeting, wasn’t I? When I slipped into Claudia’s room that afternoon, I found a place on the floor next to Mallory. Kristy waved that pencil of hers through the air like a baton.

  “This meeting will now come to order,” she said.

  I always sit up straighter when Kristy starts a meeting.

  “Any business?” she asked.

  “Dues are due.” Dawn smiled.

  We all groaned. Really, none of us minds paying dues. The money goes for things we need, like Kid-Kits, which are these neat boxes of toys and games we sometimes bring on jobs with us. I think we just like to groan every week because it’s fun.

  “All right, all right,” Kristy cut us off. “Any other club business?” she asked, after Dawn had collected our money.

  “Anyone want M&M’S?” Claudia asked. She fished a bag of candy out from under her bed and passed it around.

  Kristy heaved a loud sigh. She doesn’t consider Claudia’s snacks to be “club business.” (But I notice that she always takes something when the bag comes around.)

  Of course, I was dying to bring up the matter of Waldo, but I knew that if Kristy didn’t consider snacks to be official enough business, she’d hardly approve of my bringing up Waldo. I knew that I’d have to wait until the end of the meeting for that.

  Kristy flipped through the club notebook. We use the notebook to write down all the important things that happen on our jobs — things about the kids, the families, anything the other sitters should know. Then, once a week, we’re supposed to read what everyone else wrote. That’s Kristy’s way of keeping us all informed.

  I was still thinking about Waldo when the first couple of calls came in. Mary Anne scheduled some sitters. The phone rang a third time. Kristy took the call.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Masters,” she said. “Yes, I’ve heard of your family…. You’re back in town? … Sure…. Sure…. We’d be delighted to sit for your boys.”

  Mallory nudged me and grinned. I shot her a questioning look. I hadn’t recognized the name.

  Kristy hung up and gave us the news. Someone named Mrs. Masters was looking for an afternoon sitter for her two boys, Derek and Todd.

  “Derek!” Now I got it. “Derek! You mean Waldo? Are you saying that that was Waldo’s mother calling us for a baby-sitter?”

  Kristy shot me a look that said, Calm down, Jessi, this is a baby-sitting job, not a meeting of the Derek Masters Fan Club.

  Mary Anne checked the appointment book.

  “Someone for Wednesday?” she asked. “Well, it looks like the only one who’s free is Jessi.”

  Often on Wednesdays I sit for a family called the Braddocks, but the other club members had started to take over some of those jobs. That had left me with a little more free time.

  “Me?” I squeaked. “You want to send me to baby-sit for Waldo?”

  “Derek,” Kristy corrected me. “Derek and his four-year-old brother, Todd. Anyway, that would work out well, Jessi. The Masterses live only two blocks away from you.”

  “They do?” I cried. How come I didn’t know anything about that? I guess I thought the house should have a big neon star on top of it. Or Waldo’s handprints pressed into the sidewalk outside, like at that famous Hollywood theater.

  Well, this was more than I had bargained for. When I came to the meeting, I had only wanted to talk about Waldo. Now it turned out I was going to be baby-sitting for him.

  Kristy called back Mrs. Masters and told her to expect me on Wednesday afternoon.

  As you can see, things were already going awfully fast. That’s what happens when you get involved with show biz.

  The thing about my life is that my schedule is so crazy, I don’t have time to dwell on any one thing for very long. After the meeting that day I rushed back to my house to dinner and homework. Then, the next day, right after school, I had dance class…. Or, as Mme Noelle would say, “donce closs.”

  Mme Noelle is my ballet teacher and she’s perfect for the role. I can’t imagine her doing anything else. She’s an older woman, and she teaches class in a leotard and a long rehearsal skirt. Instead of wearing ballet slippers she wears dance shoes with heels on them. Apparently, she was quite a beautiful ballerina in her time. You can still see it in the graceful way she moves her arms, and in her carriage in general. (I love that word “carriage.” And I don’t mean the horse-drawn kind. I mean the way she walks and moves and carries herself.)

  “Modemoiselle Romsey, point thot toe.”

  That was Mme Noelle. Did I forget to tell you that she’s a stern taskmaster? Well, she is. When you’re there in class doing the exercises, she watches your every move.

  “Modemoiselle Romsey, turn out the stonding thigh, if you please. Lead with your heel, and drop thot hip.”

  There’s no escaping the watchful eye of Mme Noelle. Now, the crazy thing about dance class is that part of you doesn’t want a teacher to be scrutinizing you and giving you a zillion corrections, but then again, part of you does. When a teacher pays attention to you, it means she thinks your work in class is worth paying atttention to. And, of course, the only way you get better is to find out what you’re doing wrong.

  “Modemoiselle Romsey, drop that hip!”

  (I know what I just said, but when I’m in class, sometimes it’s hard to remember why it is I like corrections.)

  That day in class it seemed to take forever for my body to warm up and start to move the way it should. We started class with exercises at the barre and I just felt a little off. Then we moved into the room for what we call center work. We always start off slowly and work up to big leaps and things like that. Usually I like to stand in the front of class so I can correct myself from what I see in the mirror. But that day, Mme Noelle had already bombarded me with so many corrections that I decided to stay toward the back. It didn’t matter, though. Mme Noelle saw me anyway.

  “Modemoiselle Romsey! How many times do I have to say? Straighten thot back leg!”

  Oh, my head was swimming. In ballet, sometimes there’re just too many things to remember at once.

  I was starting to feel a little discouraged toward the end of class, but then, when we lined up in the corner to do the final leaps across the floor, the man who accompanies us on the piano struck up a really different and wonderful piece of music. Usually he plays a lot of classical themes, which I do enjoy, but all of a sudden he switched to a lively waltz from an old Broadway show. I looked at Katie Beth, one of my friends in the class, and we both grinned.

  Mme Noelle walked us through a series of steps and then we did them to the music. Something about that music gave me energy. The footwork Madame had given us was fast, and when it was my turn my feet practically flew and I felt myself soar into the air. I caught a quick glimpse of my reflection in the mirror while I was at the height of my
leap. Good grief! I looked like … like a ballerina! I mean, I know that’s what I’m supposed to be, but it really feels super when all the hard work comes together.

  This may sound corny, but every once in awhile in class my overwhelming love for ballet just comes flooding into me. Nothing else gives me so much pleasure. And no other art form seems as beautiful or as moving.

  When the class ended we all applauded Mme Noelle. She bowed her head graciously as she always does and then held up one hand to get our attention. She had an announcement to make.

  “Mes petites,” she said. (That’s what she calls us. It’s French for “my little girls.”) “I want to advise you thot the Stoneybrook Civic Center will be holding aw-di-see-ons for Swan Lake.” (Did you get that? She meant auditions.) “The aw-di-see-ons, as I understond it, are Soturday next. Those girls who feel ready might be brave to try out.”

  Auditions for Swan Lake! At the Stoneybrook Civic Center! That was really something. Swan Lake is a ballet about an enchanted swan, and it’s one of the most beautiful ballets ever choreographed. And now it was going to be performed at the Stoneybrook Civic Center, which is a wonderful theater. The theater’s not in New York City, but it’s so good that it might as well be. A lot of famous stars you would have heard of are always performing there.

  I sat down on the floor to unlace my toe shoes. I was thinking that someday I’ll be good enough to audition for a ballet like that. Maybe a few years from now. Three years, two … if I were lucky. Who could tell? Maybe even next year. I picked up my dance bag and started to head for the dressing room.

  “Modemoiselle Romsey.” Mme Noelle caught me just as I was almost out the door. Oh, no. My heart sank. Was she going to give me one last correction? Just when I had been able to end the class on such a good note. I braced myself to hear what she had to say.

  “Ma petite, do you think you might aw-di-see-on for Swan Lake?” she asked.

  “Me?” My voice came out in a high-pitched squeak. “Well, I don’t think this year. Maybe I’ll be ready next year. I mean —”

  “You’re a gifted doncer,” Madame cut me off. “This production will be quite professional. It would be a wonderful experience for you. Broadening. I do hope you consider, dear.” She handed me a flier with the information. Then Madame smiled at me and gestured for me to go ahead of her out the door.

  “Thank you, Madame,” I managed to sputter.

  I glanced at the flier. It said that there would be three audition calls altogether, with eliminations after each one. As I walked to the dressing room, my thoughts were flying. Mme Noelle had singled me out to encourage me to audition. Maybe I actually should try out.

  In the dressing room the other girls were all talking about Madame’s news.

  “The Stoneybrook Civic Center!” said one. “You know, the productions in that theater get reviewed by the papers in New York City.”

  “I bet a lot of dancers from New York will come out for the auditions,” said another. “I bet the competition will be really stiff.”

  “Yeah, like A Chorus Line.”

  “Oh, no!” groaned Katie Beth.

  Katie Beth was still wearing her toe shoes. She leaped to the center of the dressing room floor and began turning pirouettes as fast as she could.

  “Do I get the part? Do I get the part?” she called out.

  After her last pirouette, she struck a pose from the ballet, nuzzling her cheek against her shoulder as a swan might do to preen its feathers.

  We all applauded.

  “Encore!” we shouted. “Encore!” Katie Beth collapsed on the floor, breathless and panting.

  “No way,” she said, laughing. “I guess I’m no enchanted swan. All I am is a tired ballet student.”

  After I had changed, I stuffed my sweaty tights and leotard into my bag. Then I slung the bag over my shoulders and waved to my friends.

  “Do you think you’ll try out?” asked Katie Beth, as we left school.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.” That was true. I didn’t.

  Outside the school, Mama was waiting for me in the car. Becca and Squirt were with her. I slid into the backseat next to Squirt. He grabbed my cheek and gave me a spitty kiss.

  “How was class?” Mama asked.

  “Good,” I said. I told her about the auditions for Swan Lake. I told her that Mme Noelle had drawn me aside at the end of class to encourage me to try out.

  “That’s wonderful, honey,” Mama said. I could see her smiling in the rearview mirror.

  “It is,” I replied with a sigh, “but I don’t know. Maybe it’s too professional for me right now. I mean, how can I compete with dancers from New York? I mean, do I even want to?”

  “It’s up to you,” Mama said. “It does sound like an opportunity. You might want to go ahead and go to the audition even if it is scary. But that’s your decision, Jessi. You just let me know.”

  Parents. Doesn’t it seem backwards that they always want to make decisions for you when you don’t want them to? Like, “No, you can’t stay out past 9 PM,” or “No, you can’t get your ears pierced.” But when you actually might want them to go ahead and tell you what to do, what do they say? “It’s up to you. You just let me know.”

  Mom pulled the car into traffic and turned on the radio.

  I stared out the window. I pictured myself onstage in a swan costume. I couldn’t be Odette, of course. Odette is the queen of the swans and the star of the ballet. But maybe I could be one of the swan maidens who dance in the corps. In my fantasy I did quick turns across the stage. I was a graceful, mysterious swan escaping from hunters.

  Okay. The fantasy did it. I was hooked. Yes, I did want to be in Swan Lake. More than anything, in fact. Right then and there I decided to try out. Yes, I’d go to the audition, all right. I would do it.

  Before I knew it, it was Wednesday afternoon, and time for me to baby-sit for DEREK MASTERS! and his little brother, Todd. If you think I was excited, you should’ve seen Becca. When I was getting ready to leave, she followed me to our front door, firing questions at me all the way.

  “Ask him if he knows Lamont. I mean, of course he knows Lamont. Ask him if Lamont’s as nice as he is on TV. Ask him what kind of games Lamont likes to play. Ask him … ask him what Lamont likes to eat for breakfast.”

  Honestly.

  “Becca, I’m baby-sitting for Waldo, not for Lamont.” I heaved a big sigh. “Look. Now you’ve got me all confused. I mean, I’m baby-sitting for Derek. Anyway, I thought you said you didn’t have a crush on Lamont.”

  “I don’t!” Becca said hotly. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like a pretty serious crush to me,” I said.

  Becca whirled around in a huff and stomped off to her room. I grabbed my sweater and was out the door.

  Well, Becca may have been a bit over the edge about Lamont, but to tell you the truth, I was not much calmer about Derek. As I walked down the street to the Masterses’ house, my heart started racing. I was going to meet a real TV star! Every week people all over the country watched P.S. 162 and every week they laughed at Waldo and his silly science. Hmm. It suddenly occured to me that maybe Derek would be able to help me with my science homework. (I had been having a little bit of trouble with it lately.) At any rate, this would be a good opportunity to get his autograph. If I wanted to be clever, I could even get him to autograph my science book!

  I stood at the front door of the Masterses’ and brought my finger up to the doorbell. I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. This was as bad as an audition. I certainly had as many butterflies in my stomach.

  “Go on,” I said to myself. Sometimes I have to take myself in hand and tell myself what to do. “Just go ahead. Ring that bell.”

  B-R-R-R-R-I-I-I-I-N-G!

  I jumped at the sound of the bell. The door opened and a nice-looking woman stood there smiling. Behind her were two boys.

  I looked past them into the house. I was looking for Derek, for a boy wea
ring thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Hello,” the woman said cheerfully. She extended her hand to shake mine. “You must be Jessi. I’m Mrs. Masters, and, come here, boys.” She beckoned to the two children behind her. “This is Todd,” she said, putting her hand on the little one’s shoulder. “And this is Derek.”

  “Derek?” I don’t think I hid my surprise. The boy she introduced as Derek was just a regular-looking kid. Where were the glasses? And what about his spiky hair?

  “I look different from on the show, huh?” Derek said. I guess my mouth was still hanging open.

  “No glasses,” I managed to say.

  “Waldo wears the glasses,” said Derek. “I have 20-20 vision.”

  Mrs. Masters ushered me into the house and started showing me around. Well, the famous Derek Masters was not only regular-looking himself, he also lived in a perfectly regular house. In fact, it was kind of messy. There were newspapers all over the floor in the living room and dishes piled up high in the kitchen sink. What had I expected? A Hollywood set?

  Mrs. Masters showed me where she kept the emergency numbers and then she set out a snack for the boys and me in the kitchen. She was just going to be gone a couple of hours, so she said good-bye to Todd and Derek and left me there in charge.

  “Well,” I said to the boys. They looked up at me over their glasses of juice. “Tell me about L.A. What’s the TV business like, Derek?”

  “Yuk,” Derek said. “Work. Actually, I like it okay, but I’m glad we’re on a break.”

  “P.S. 162 feels like work?” I said. “Gee, it looks like so much fun on TV.”

  “It can be fun,” Derek said, “but it’s long hours.”

  “Then when do you go to school?” I asked.

  “I have a private tutor there,” said Derek. “He works with me on breaks between tapings, whenever we can fit it in.” Derek stuffed a whole fig cookie into his mouth. “I’m starting school here again next Monday,” he grinned. The words were all garbled with cookie. Derek was a regular kid, all right.