Claudia and the Perfect Boy

by Ann M. Martin

  “You can come see Pow any hour of the day or night, any time, ever,” said Jordan.

  “Any time?” Buddy repeated.

  “Call first if it’s after midnight,” Mal told him, smiling. “But, otherwise, just come right over.”

  “All right!” Buddy cried. Suzi looked as if she felt a lot better, too.

  “Is there more to the ceremony?” Jordan asked Mal and me.

  “There’s a large package of Oreos on top of the refrigerator,” Mal said. “I think we should celebrate now.” Mal ripped open the package and proclaimed, “Here’s to Pow, one of the few shared dogs in the history of dog ownership.” Then she handed out the cookies. The kids touched their Oreos together, saying, “Here’s to Pow!”

  “Do you want to see some tricks Pow can do?” Suzi asked the Pike kids.

  Of course they did, so the kids moved back into the living room where Pow demonstrated his ability to roll over, play dead, and bark exactly three times on command.

  “Is he a good watch dog?” Byron Pike wanted to know.

  “Well, he likes to watch Scooby-Doo on TV,” Buddy told them, which sent everyone into a fit of laughter.

  At about five-thirty, Mrs. Barrett called and said she was coming by for the kids. “Franklin and I are taking them out for pizza and a movie to cheer them up,” she told me.

  “They’re doing pretty well,” I told her. “I don’t think you have to worry.”

  But when the time came for them to part from Pow, it wasn’t quite as easy as I’d hoped. Suzi started crying, and Buddy’s nose grew red from holding in his tears. “We’ll take really good care of him,” Vanessa Pike told the kids. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”

  “Okay,” said Buddy, pressing his lips together. “Or-revor, Pow.”

  “Come on, kids,” Mrs. Barrett urged gently. “Let’s go.”

  They waved to Pow one last time, then turned to leave with their mother. Pow barked and scrambled to the door, ready to leave with them.

  Mallory caught Pow by the collar and held him back. “You’re staying here, Pow,” she said softly. “This is your home now.”

  By the time I had suffered through a third bomb of a date, I was completely disgusted. I’d answered an ad placed by a boy named Kurt. Like Brian and Rock, he’d sounded great on paper, but the reality hadn’t been even close to my Mr. Perfect. Kurt was okay — for someone else. But to me, he was boring!

  That Friday night after my date, as I glumly dragged myself up the stairs (we had gone to a movie, and then Kurt spent another hour at a video game arcade), I decided it was time to take the situation in hand. I was going to place my own ad in my own column.

  I flopped on my bed and then hung upside down to find my Mexican-print stationery under the bed. That’s where I’d stashed my perfect guy list. With that in hand, it would be easy to write my ad.

  I put my list beside me, then reached across to my desk and grabbed my spiral notebook. Maybe it was because I was becoming desperate, but the words seemed to flow pretty easily that night. Here’s what I wrote: Eigth-grade girl how loves art, misteries, and lafter seeks boy who is handsum with some musles, medium height or taller, atheletic, sensative, artistic, a good dreser, not too criticil, has no tattos, and can make me lagh. Write Chosey but Fair at…. I included my address but not my phone number. I didn’t want to be put on the spot over the phone. I wanted time to go over the responses to my ad and pick just the right ones.

  I decided to put the ad into the next issue and not think about it anymore. But, as the weekend wore on, I found myself changing my ad just a little here and there. I changed the beginning to Pretty eighth grade girl with long black hair, and I took the muscles off my list since I thought that sounded shallow. If the guy was handsome, that was good enough.

  I’m not sure what did the trick, but not long after my ad came out the responses started pouring in. Luckily I would arrive home from school before my parents arrived home from work, so I could gather up all the letters addressed to Choosey but Fair. (I’m not sure they would have loved the fact that I was advertising for a boyfriend. They might have thought it was undignified.) Each afternoon I ran upstairs with my letters and tore them open.

  Honestly, I don’t know why some of them even bothered to write. One boy said: I’m a guy who loves sports, especially football. I don’t know much about art, but you can teach me. (Ha! Ha!) I love girls with long black hair. Do you look like Paula Abdul? I hope so.

  What a jerk!

  The other letters weren’t much better. It was pretty disappointing.

  One afternoon I was in the Express office sorting through more ads when I pulled out a letter addressed to me. I recognized the handwriting, but I couldn’t remember why. I opened the letter and this is what it said: Dear Claudia, Please don’t print this. I’m writing to thank you for sending me to Dr. Reese. She’s really cool and understands what I’m going through. She’s helped me realize that my parents’ divorce isn’t my fault and that they both still love me. Thanks for taking the time to care. Yours, Sean.

  “I don’t believe it! You’re actually reading something and smiling.” Stacey had come into the office as I was holding the letter. “Don’t tell me. It’s another ad that looks perfect to you.”

  “No,” I said with a laugh.

  I handed her the letter. “Oh, that’s so nice,” she said. “That’s even better than finding Mr. Perfect.”

  “I’ve practically given up on that.” I made a disgusted face. “It makes me feel like a fraud. I mean, here I am fixing up all these couples and —”

  “Oh, by the way,” Stacey interrupted me. “I just saw Brian Hall walking down the hall with Rose Marie Montey. They looked very cozy.”

  “Motormouth Montey?” I laughed. “She’s got to be Rambling Rose. She doesn’t stop talking for two minutes. She and Brian will be perfect. He’ll never have to say a thing!”

  “Another success,” said Stacey.

  “But what about a success for me?” I demanded. “Why can’t I find someone for myself?”

  “Maybe your standards are a little … I don’t know … too high,” Stacey suggested delicately.

  I plunked my chin onto my hands. “I’m not going to settle for someone I don’t really like,” I told her. “But it’s pretty discouraging. I put my ad out there saying exactly what I wanted and not even one guy was able to write a decent ad. They are all so obviously not Mr. Perfect that it’s scary.”

  “Well, maybe Mr. Perfect hasn’t seen your ad yet,” said Stacey. “Why don’t you place it again in this issue?”

  “I guess I will. Though I don’t think it will do much good. The letters have started to dwindle down in the last few days. I think I’ve gotten all the responses I’m going to get.”

  Stacey shrugged. “You never know.”

  I didn’t have much hope, but I ran the ad again anyway. Two days went by and nothing came in for me. Then, on the third day I found a letter in my mailbox addressed to Choosey but Fair.

  Dear Choosey, it said. I’m an eighth grade boy at SMS. I love track, going to art museums, reading mysteries, and great works of literature. I’m five foot eight, haven’t got a single tattoo, and I’ve been told that I look like Jason Priestly. I don’t see how I could ever be critical of someone who sounds as lovely as you. Your Guy.

  My heart started to beat faster as I read the letter a second, and then a third time. I snatched up my list and looked at my requirements. If he looked like Jason Priestly, that was handsome enough for me. If he ran track he probably had just the right kind of muscles I was looking for. (And he wasn’t making that up to impress me, since I’d crossed muscles off my list.) He was definitely taller than me. We had mysteries in common and if he liked great literature that meant that he was probably both sensitive and interesting. He loved art museums, which was artistic enough. (I said I was fair. He didn’t have to be Picasso to be artistic.) And, best of all, he thought I sounded lovely. That fulfilled my last two
important requirements — he wasn’t critical and he was crazy about me.

  He was Mr. Perfect. Mr. Right. My dream guy.

  I just had to read his letter again. But my heart skipped a beat as I realized something about his letter. There was no real name, no phone number, and no address on it!

  Was my Mr. Right being mysterious? Or was he just plain stupid? No, not this guy! He was definitely not stupid. Maybe another letter was coming. Maybe he just wanted to build up the suspense before showing up on my doorstep with a dozen roses.

  The next day I couldn’t think of anything but finding him. In the hall I smashed into my history teacher because I was so busy gawking at the boys who passed by, searching for a Jason Priestly lookalike. I saw one guy who had the Jason Priestly look. I ran to him, but then slowed down. He was shorter than me. “Sorry,” I apologized. “I thought you were someone else.”

  At lunch, I barely ate a bite. I didn’t want to miss him while I looked down to cut my turkey plate special. “What if he thinks he looks like Jason Priestly but he really doesn’t?” Kristy wondered. (I’d told my friends about Mr. Right.)

  “This guy wouldn’t lie,” I insisted. “He sounds too down to earth.”

  “If I were you, I’d narrow my search to the track team,” Mary Anne suggested. “Maybe Logan knows who you’re talking about.”

  “Great idea,” I said. “Too bad it’s not track season. I could watch a practice if it was.”

  Kristy shook her head skeptically. “There are no Jason Priestlys on our track team, I can tell you that.”

  “You wouldn’t know,” I said. “The only guy you pay any attention to is Bart.”

  Kristy shrugged. “Well, I never noticed anyone who looks like Jason Priestly. That’s for sure.”

  “I don’t see why you have to find him,” said Stacey. “If it’s meant to be, he’ll find you eventually.”

  “No way. I’ve waited long enough. I’m not waiting any longer.” I threw my napkin on top of the gluey gravy covering my turkey and got up.

  “Where are you going?” Mary Anne asked.

  “I’m using the rest of my lunch break to find him. First I’m going to the boys’ gym to get a list of guys on the track team. Then I’m going to the library to try to find out if any guys have checked out art books or mysteries. And don’t wait for me when school’s over,” I told them. “I’m going to stand at the front door and check out every guy who passes. If that doesn’t work, I’ll be at the side door tomorrow morning.”

  “Gee,” said Mary Anne. “You’re some detective.”

  “I haven’t been reading all those Nancy Drew books for nothing,” I said with a smile. I was determined to find my dream guy.

  * * *

  Just when I thought I was about to collapse from my exhausting (and unsuccessful) search for Mr. Right — he showed up. Well, to be exact, another letter from him showed up in my mailbox. It said: Hi, Choosey. It’s me again. I just wanted to tell you that I will show up — someday. Right now I might seem mysterious, but believe me when we meet you’ll know it. Until then, you can be sure that I am Your Guy.

  Again, no name, no address. I was ready to tear my hair out.

  I went to my room and called Stacey. “I can’t stand it another second,” I told her. “He wrote again but he didn’t tell me how to find him.”

  “Well, maybe he just wants you to know he’s out there,” said Stacey.

  “What good does that do me?” I cried. “Knowing he’s there but I can’t find him is far, far worse than not finding the perfect boy.”

  “It is?” Stacey asked in a strange voice. “Then I’d better come over right away.”

  Why? I wondered. I guess I’d really worried her. I must have sounded as if I were going crazy or something. I was going crazy! She was right.

  Ten minutes later, Stacey appeared in my room. “That was fast,” I said.

  “Claudia, I have something to tell you.”

  “What?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I wrote those letters.”

  “What letters?”

  “Mr. Right’s letters.” She cringed, waiting for me to explode.

  Which I did.

  “What?” I yelled. “Why? Why would you do such a terrible thing?” I was so disappointed — and hurt, and furious, and confused. “Was this your idea of a joke?”

  “No, no,” Stacey said, taking a few steps toward me. “I thought you might feel better if you knew the perfect guy at least existed.”

  “How could you think that?” I demanded angrily.

  “I thought it would be like with Pow. Buddy and Suzi feel better knowing he’s out there, knowing he’s at the Pikes’, if not at their house.”

  “Well, I wasn’t looking for a dog! I was looking for a person!”

  “I know it’s not the same,” Stacey said, her voice full of apology. “Once I saw that Your Guy was torturing you, I wrote the second letter hoping to make things better. But when you called I could tell I’d just made everything worse. So that’s why I’m here — to set things straight. I’m really sorry, Claud. Please forgive me.”

  “I can’t,” I said, turning away from her. “I think you better go.” I stood with my back turned until I heard Stacey’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Then I sat on my bed and dissolved in tears. I don’t know which was worse, the trick Stacey had played, or knowing that Mr. Perfect really wasn’t out there.

  The next day, I went back and forth between being angry and sad. When I saw Stacey, I’d feel angry. Maybe she hadn’t meant to hurt me, but she had. Best friends should know one another better than to do something so completely stupid.

  Then I’d feel sad as I watched the guys go by and realized there was no longer any sense in looking for Mr. Right. He simply wasn’t there.

  I stayed mad through Tuesday, but by the BSC meeting on Wednesday, I was starting to soften. After all, Stacey had meant well. And I couldn’t look at her puppy-dog eyes and please-forgive-me expression much longer without caving in.

  It was Kristy, though, who (in her own bossy way) patched things up. “What is going on between you two?” she demanded to know shortly after the meeting started.

  “Claudia is mad because I did a really dumb thing,” Stacey spoke up. “I don’t blame her for being mad,” she added.

  “What did you do?” Shannon asked.

  Stacey told her story. “Oh, no!” Jessi cried. “Do you mean Claudia was looking for a guy who didn’t exist?”

  “Exactly,” I said. Somehow hearing the story out loud made it seem more funny than tragic. “Pretty dopey of me, wasn’t it?” I said, starting to laugh.

  My laughter opened a floodgate of laughter. “It wasn’t dopey. You didn’t know,” Mary Anne said loyally between giggles.

  “I’m sure you’ll find somebody nice some day,” Shannon said reassuringly.

  “Do you know what?” I told her. “I’m giving up my search for him. If he does exist, he and I will probably find one another when the time is right.”

  “That’s all I was trying to say to you,” Stacey said cautiously.

  “I know,” I said, reaching over and hugging her. She hugged me back. It was good to be friends again.

  The phone rang. Mrs. Barrett was looking for a sitter. “She says whoever takes the job will have to walk Buddy and Suzi to the Pikes’ to visit Pow,” said Kristy, who had taken the call. “They visit him every single day.”

  “That’s great,” said Shannon.

  “The baby-sitter who goes will also have to feed the gerbils, make sure the hermit crabs don’t escape, and feed the fish,” Kristy went on. “The Barretts are accumulating nonallergic animals fast.”

  “Good for them,” said Stacey. “I’m glad they’re adaptable.”

  Adaptable — flexible. Able to change depending on what was happening. Was I being adaptable? Or was I sticking too rigidly to my made-up idea of the perfect guy? When I found him, would he be anything like I’d imagined?

&nb
sp; I gave myself credit for being at least a bit adaptable. I’d started a column to find Mr. Right. Instead, I’d discovered a new talent (as well as the wonders of Spellcheck). I could run a column, give advice, and actually help people. This was an important discovery.

  I also discovered that finding Mr. Perfect wasn’t so important after all. I had my friends. And I had myself. Everything I needed to be happy had been right here all along.

  * * *

  Dear Reader,

  In Claudia and the Perfect Boy, much to her surprise, Claudia finds herself writing for the school newspaper. I never wrote for our school paper, but I loved to write, and all during sixth grade, I wrote and distributed a neighborhood newspaper. It took a lot of work, but I managed to put out an issue every week with a lot of help from my best friend, Beth, and my neighbor across the street, Jessi. In those days nobody had computers, and you could only find Xerox machines in offices and libraries. So, in order to make copies, I had to use carbon paper. It took forever, and there was no erasing a mistake, but it worked.

  Once a week, I walked from house to house in the neighborhood collecting news. Just about anything anyone told me could turn into an article for the paper. I wrote about family vacations and new pets, who had won awards, and who was home sick. Also, once a week I ran a contest for the kids in the neighborhood. I didn’t have a personals column like Claudia did, and I didn’t write about gossip like Karen Brewer did in her neighborhood paper, but I had a lot of fun.

  Happy reading,

  * * *

  The author gratefully acknowledges

  Suzanne Weyn

  for her help in

  preparing this manuscript.

  About the Author

  ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.

  There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.) In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.