Claudia, Queen of the Seventh Grade

by Ann M. Martin

  The Brewer/Thomases nearly fill up the place now. Start with Kristy’s mom, Watson, Kristy, and her three brothers. Then add Watson’s kids from his previous marriage, Karen and Andrew, who live there during alternate months. Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, lives there year-round. She helps take care of Emily Michelle Brewer, Kristy’s little two-and-a-half-year-old adopted sister who was born in Vietnam. Throw in a puppy, a cat, and a few other pets, and you can picture what life is like there.

  Sort of like my room at 5:28 on a Monday. Crazy and crowded.

  As I picked up the last of the fallen marshmallows, the other BSC members began arriving with a flurry of hellos. Mary Anne Spier and Stacey McGill sat cross-legged on my bed. Mallory Pike and Jessi Ramsey plopped themselves down on the floor next to Abby.

  Kristy was now sitting in my canvas director’s chair, juggling marshmallows.

  “Hey, I’m doing it!” she shouted.

  As my clock clicked to 5:30, Kristy caught one of the flying marshmallows in her mouth. “Doof mifftiff —” She quickly chewed and swallowed. “This meeting will come to order!”

  Kristy never — never — misses that 5:30 call.

  Reaching into her backpack, Stacey pulled out an old manila envelope. “Dues day!”

  That reminded me of something. I reached behind my headboard for a hidden bag of candy. “Pay Days!”

  The grumbling was canceled out by the cheers.

  Yes, we do have to pay dues out of our earnings. Some of the money helps pay for my phone bill. Kristy’s oldest brother, Charlie, gets a gas allowance for driving Kristy and Abby to meetings. And we always need a little cash for special events and for Kid-Kit items (Kid-Kits are boxes of toys, books, games, and kid-friendly stuff, which we often take with us on our jobs).

  As you might have guessed, Stacey’s our treasurer. She is an absolute math whiz, who recently led the SMS Mathletes team to a state championship. Personally, I think growing up in New York City helped her. Have you ever asked a New Yorker how to find someplace? Everything is measured in numbers: “Go three stops on the Number One, switch to the uptown Three and take it to Ninety-sixth, walk two crossstown blocks and three downtown blocks to One Hundred Ten West Ninety-third …”

  Numbers weren’t all Stacey picked up from the city. Her fashion sense is totally NYC, totally cutting-edge. She can practically smell what the year’s next hot outfits will be. I adore the way she dresses — sleek and urban, lots of black, which really sets off her blonde hair and fair skin.

  How did she end up in a nice suburban place like Stoneybrook? Divorce. After her parents split, they gave her a choice: stay in NYC with her dad or move to Stoneybrook with her mom. Well, Stacey had already lived here for a while, when her dad’s company had transferred him to Connecticut temporarily. She had joined the BSC and made such fabulous friends, she just had to return. (Boy, was I glad she did. Stacey and I are best friends.)

  In one major way, Stacey and I are opposites: She cannot eat sweets. Stacey has a condition called diabetes, which means her body goes seriously bonkers if she eats refined sugar. She could pass out or become terribly ill. Don’t worry, though. As long as she eats regular meals and gives herself daily injections of this stuff called insulin, she can lead a perfectly normal life.

  Okay, now that you know the club’s finances and eating habits, I’ll tell you about the O.P. (Kristy-talk for “Operating Procedure”). When a parent calls during meeting hours, we take the information about the job and turn to our secretary, Mary Anne. She’s in charge of the record book. It contains a calendar, full of all our baby-sitting appointments and personal schedules — family events, doctor and orthodontist appointments, after-school activities, and so on. For any given day, Mary Anne can figure out exactly who’s available. We discuss who should take the job, then call the client back. But knowing who’s free is only part of her job. She also keeps an updated client list in the back of the book, including addresses and phone numbers, rates charged, and any important information about the children.

  Organized? That’s Mary Anne’s middle name. But that’s probably not the first thing you’d notice about her. She’s sweet and shy, and she’s the best listener and most generous friend. She also tends to cry a lot. Her copy of the book Mrs. Fish, Ape, and Me, the Dump Queen is warped from tears.

  Maybe that’s because the narrator of the book lost her mom. Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was a baby. Her dad raised Mary Anne by himself, with super-strict rules. He insisted she wear these conservative, little-girl outfits right through seventh grade.

  Boy, has Mary Anne’s life changed since then. For one thing, she has a cool, short hairstyle now and dresses in neat, preppyish clothes. For another, her family has more than doubled in size. What happened? Well, Richard loosened up. And he became so attractive that his old high school sweetheart married him.

  Okay, it wasn’t quite that simple. You see, his former girlfriend, Sharon Porter Schafer, had been living in California for years. She and Richard had completely lost touch. When the Schafers divorced, Sharon moved back to Stoneybrook with her daughter and son, Dawn and Jeff. Dawn ended up joining the BSC, and when she and Mary Anne figured out their parents’ little secret, you can guess what happened. Fireworks. Romance. Wedding bells. Mary Anne gained a sister, brother, and mom. Plus a new address, when she and her dad moved into the Schafers’ rambling old farmhouse.

  Happily ever after? Not really. Dawn became homesick for California and her dad, and moved back (following in the footsteps of Jeff, who had already done the same thing). Mary Anne was pretty upset, but she and Dawn talk all the time, and Dawn visits a lot. (She’s the honorary member I mentioned earlier.)

  Besides, Mary Anne’s social life keeps her busy. She has a boyfriend named Logan Bruno, who’s cute and athletic and funny. He’s also a great baby-sitter — great enough to join the BSC! As an associate BSC member, he doesn’t usually come to meetings, but he takes jobs whenever he can (which isn’t too often, because he’s involved in after-school sports).

  Our other sports-minded member is Abby. She’s not a jock or anything, just an incredible natural athlete. Kristy is a little jealous of her, but Abby takes it with a sense of humor. In fact, she takes everything with a sense of humor. Since she joined the BSC, our meetings have become laff riots.

  Abby used to live on Long Island. She, her mom, and her twin sister, Anna, moved to Stoneybrook right around the time Dawn left. What timing. We needed sitters badly, and we asked both sisters to join. Abby agreed, but Anna said she wouldn’t have enough time. She actually practices the violin two hours a night. (Can you imagine?)

  Two things you’ll notice about Abby: her hair, which is thick and curly and seems to have a life of its own; and her allergies, which make her sound as if she has a cold all the time. She reacts to dust, shellfish, dogs, strawberries, and a million other things (fortunately, not junk food). Abby also has asthma, so she has to carry inhalers with her at all times.

  Abby does have a quieter side. You see it whenever her dad is mentioned. He died in a car wreck when she was nine, and the memory is still sharp and painful. She was especially sad he couldn’t attend the twins’ Bat Mitzvah. That’s a coming-of-age ceremony for thirteen-year-old Jewish girls. Everyone in the BSC attended. Boy, was I impressed. Not only was it beautiful and moving, but Abby and Anna had to recite in Hebrew! (I don’t know what they said, but it sounded great.)

  Abby, by the way, is our alternate officer. She fills in whenever one of the main officers is absent.

  Our junior members are Jessi and Mallory. They are eleven years old and in sixth grade. Their parents refuse to let them baby-sit at night, but we manage to fill up their afternoons and weekends with jobs.

  Jessi and Mal are best friends. You can usually find them gabbing about horses. Ask either one about the tiniest detail of any Saddle Club book, and they’ll give it to you instantly, in unison. If you want to stay on their good sides, don’t ask them whether they like being the
oldest in their families. They’re both convinced that parents are much more lenient with younger siblings. (Jessi has a younger brother and sister, and Mal has seven younger siblings.)

  Two peas in a pod? Not exactly. Jessi’s African American, elegant and graceful, an incredibly talented ballerina. Mallory’s white, short, and not very athletic, and determined to become a professional writer. (Can you see it now? Baby-sitters Club, the musical — book and lyrics by Mallory Pike, choreography by Jessica Ramsey, and award-winning sets designed and painted by Claudia Kishi!)

  The minor characters in our play would be Logan Bruno and Shannon Kilbourne. Well, minor in stage time but not importance. I’ve told you about Logan already. Shannon, our other associate, attends a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, where she’s involved in tons of after-school activities.

  Now you know all my best and oldest friends. Who I never see in school anymore, now that I’ve been sent back to seventh grade. (Sigh.) Even our lunch periods are at different times. I look forward to BSC meetings soooo much now.

  I don’t even mind Kristy’s bossiness.

  “Okay, new business?” Kristy asked, then immediately answered, “Yes. Mrs. Addison called before the meeting started. You know how the Addisons have their own business now, and work at home? Well, for the next month, they have this big outside meeting on Thursdays. Starting this week, they’ll need a sitter after school for Sean and Corrie. Can we give her a schedule? Do we want to take the job?”

  Let me explain that last question. Awhile back, Sean set some small fires in the public library, mainly because he was upset about having to be part of a Readathon. The BSC caught him in the act and turned him in. He apologized tearfully, but we hadn’t heard from the Addisons since.

  “They’ve been in family therapy,” Stacey said. “Maybe things are better now.”

  “Does anyone have a problem with this?” Kristy asked.

  We all shook our heads, and Mary Anne began writing a schedule. “Me this week, Abby next …”

  Kristy called back and confirmed the next month with Mrs. Addison. When she hung up, I said, “Okay. I have some new business. Big, serious news. You won’t believe it.”

  “You have a math test coming up,” Kristy guessed.

  “I’ll tutor you,” Stacey volunteered.

  “Nope,” I replied. “I’m totally caught up.”

  “I know!” Abby exclaimed. “You met Picasso.”

  “He’s dead,” I informed her.

  “Then that is big news!” Abby said.

  Hopeless.

  “I have been nominated,” I barged on, “for — are you ready for this? — Queen of the Seventh Grade. Ta-da!”

  “Yaaaaay!” Mallory cheered.

  “Cool,” Jessi said.

  “You must be joking,” Kristy remarked.

  “I’m not,” I replied. “Joanna and Josh put my name up —”

  “Who and who?” Abby asked.

  “They’re my friends,” I explained. “I mean, I know it’s ridiculous, but I think it’s hilarious.”

  “Imagine,” Stacey said. “Well, even if you were elected, you couldn’t accept it.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “That would be cheating,” Stacey answered. “You’re thirteen, Claudia. Technically, you’re an eighth-grader.”

  “I am? Well, I wasn’t allowed to go to the eighth-grade Halloween party. I’m not allowed to eat with the eighth-graders. Officially, I’m as seventh-gradish as you can be.”

  “What kind of time commitment is this … Queenship?” Kristy asked.

  “Kristyyyy,” I said. “This is a goof. A joke.”

  “You mean, you weren’t really nominated?” Mary Anne asked.

  “I was, but I’m not going to win or anything,” I answered. “I just think it’s funny. Why are you all taking this so seriously?”

  Kristy smiled. “For your sake, Claudia. We’d hate for you to actually have to kiss a seventh-grade boy or anything.”

  “Depends on the boy,” Jessi remarked.

  “Eeeeew, Jessi!” Mallory said.

  They both dissolved into giggles.

  Rrrrring!

  Mary Anne picked up the phone, and we were back to baby-sitting. I didn’t bring up the Queen of the Seventh Grade again. No one seemed to think it was as goofy as I did.

  Oh, well. It didn’t really matter.

  I still thought it was nice to be asked.

  “So, let’s move now from Call of the Wild to Hatchet,” said Ms. Chiavetta. “How do we compare them? Anyone?”

  Point of view, I thought.

  From the seat behind me, Joanna said, “I liked Hatchet much better.”

  “Haaaa-chet!” a boy sneezed from the back of the room.

  “Bless you,” said Ms. Chiavetta. “Why do you suppose you liked it?”

  “Haaaa-CHET!” Now the whole group of boys in the back of the room was giggling like crazy.

  Joanna looked befuddled. I tried to send her a telepathic message that said, Point of view.

  “How about point of view?” Ms. Chiavetta asked.

  (Brilliant of me, huh? Not really. I’d been through this discussion the year before.)

  “Uh …” Joanna said.

  “Through which character do we experience the story in each book?” Ms. Chiavetta asked. “Claudia?”

  “In Hatchet, it’s the boy, Brian,” I replied. “In Call of the Wild, it’s the dog, Buck.”

  “Buck-buck-buck-buck …” clucked one of the boys quietly.

  “HAAAAAAAACHET!”

  I turned around. The sneezer, a boy named Mark Jaffe, sat in the last seat of my row. All around him, kids were cracking up. Mark had this deadpan look, as if he were hanging on Ms. Chiavetta’s every word.

  The biggest gigglers were a couple of the girls, Loretta Jorgensen and Jennifer Kline. They were looking at Mark as if he were a rock star who happened to have floated into the classroom.

  Puh-leeze.

  I mean, yes, Mark is cute. He has high cheekbones and long brown hair that flops across his face. His eyes are a deep, luscious brown and he seems older, more like a high-school kid. But looks aren’t everything, and all his muttering in the back of the class can be pretty obnoxious.

  “We get the joke, Sneezy Snyder,” Ms. Chiavetta said patiently. “No need to repeat it.”

  “Sorry,” Mark said. “Allergies.”

  “Anyway, how does the point of view change the way we feel about a story?” Ms. Chiavetta droned on. “Ron?”

  The most positive thing about being sent back: Things are definitely easier the second time around. Last year I felt forced to read those two books. It was about as much fun as a math assignment. Reading them again this year, I could not believe they were the same books. I couldn’t put them down.

  “Well, it’s like the story is … you know, viewed with a different … point, like,” Ron Tibbets answered. “What was the exact question again?”

  Ugh. I was eager to move past the easy stuff and really talk about the plot. I checked the clock on the wall. It was already eleven seconds until the end of class.

  Eleven seconds until lunch.

  My stomach began churning. This was the call of the wild. Forget about English.

  “We will pick up this discussion tomorrow,” Ms. Chiavetta said. “For those of you who haven’t finished —”

  Rrrringggg!

  Everyone stood at once, gathering up books.

  I heard something smack to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a paperback facedown near Mark’s right foot. All at once, Loretta and Jennifer stooped to pick it up. Loretta reached it first. Red-faced, she returned it to Mark, while Jennifer giggled like crazy.

  “So mature,” Joanna murmured as we left class.

  “Why is he so popular?” I asked.

  “He is pretty cool, you have to admit,” Joanna said with a shrug. “I heard that Loretta nominated him for King of the Seventh Grade.”

  “He d
oesn’t need to be King,” I said. “He already has people waiting on him hand and foot.”

  “Well, I guarantee he’s a shoo-in.”

  “Hi, Claudia!” a voice piped up from across the hallway. “Good luck!”

  A red-haired girl waved to me. I smiled and waved back. “Who was that?” I whispered.

  “Bonnie Lasher,” Joanna replied. “I told her in math that you were running for Queen. She said she’d vote for you.”

  “Really?” I felt all shivery. I didn’t even know Bonnie.

  As we turned left toward the cafeteria, the smell of over-boiled broccoli wafted toward us. (Whoosh. There went the old appetite, out the window.)

  Near the cafeteria doors, Shira was trying desperately to close her locker. Joanna and I ran to help her.

  “What do you have in there?” Joanna asked, throwing her weight against the narrow metal door.

  “Nothing!” Shira replied. “Just, you know, clothes and books and food and stuff.”

  “Maybe if you move some junk around …” Joanna opened the locker, and two cans of chicken noodle soup crashed to the bottom.

  “Snack?” I asked.

  “My mom put them in my backpack,” Shira said with a sigh of frustration. “She says I should set them up on a table or something in the middle of the front lobby and start a food drive.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You know my mom,” Shira said, rolling her eyes.

  I didn’t, really. Although I had seen her once on the local news, leading a protest against something. And you couldn’t miss the seventeen bumper stickers on her car, all from environmental and humanitarian groups.

  “Ready?” Joanna said, leaning her shoulders toward the open door. “One … two … three!”

  With a lunge, the three of us managed to slam the door shut.

  “Just promise you’ll help me open it later,” Shira murmured.

  Together we entered the Chamber of Mush. Josh was standing at the end of the lunch line with a group of friends. When he saw us, he pretended to hold up a fake microphone. “And here we are in the lunch line with the Claudia Kishi fan club. Don’t look now, folks, but here she is, the leading candidate for Queen of the Seventh Grade!”