Contents
Title Page
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
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
Click. As I placed Dad’s credit card on the counter at the BookCenter in the Washington Mall, the plastic made the softest sound. It’s amazing how a little thing like the click of a credit card can send thrills through you.
Glancing at my friend Kristy Thomas, I grinned. “I’ve never done this before,” I whispered with a shiver of excitement.
“Really?” Kristy raised an eyebrow. “It’s no big deal.”
Maybe it’s not to her. Her stepdad, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire, after all. But my father had never before allowed me to use his credit card. It made me feel so incredibly grown-up, so sophisticated, to be doing my Christmas shopping with plastic this year.
Click, again — the sound of the saleswoman picking up the card. She read it and then turned to me. “Do you have any identification?” she asked.
“Sure.” I fished through my wallet for my Stoneybrook Middle School student identification card and handed it to her. The woman studied it intently. Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed unsure that the picture on the card was of me.
“I had long hair when that picture was taken,” I explained. “But I had it cut shorter. You can tell it’s me, though. Mary Anne Spier. See? The same name as on the credit card. Well, not the exact same name. My dad is Richard Spier, of course, but the last name matches.”
The woman looked up and smiled as she handed the I.D. card back to me. “Yes, it’s you, all right. Sorry, but I have to check.”
“No problem,” I assured her. “I guess you can’t be too careful, especially now, around the holidays.”
The woman nodded as she processed my sale. I’d bought my stepmom, Sharon, a thick book called Veggies Rule. She’s a vegetarian and eats only healthy foods. The book wasn’t only a cookbook; it also had great art and amusing stories about vegetables. “She’ll like this, don’t you think?” I asked Kristy.
“When you put it together with the automatic bread maker you bought her, it makes an awesome gift,” Kristy replied. “It might be a little too awesome.”
The woman returned Dad’s card and handed me the book in a bag. I thanked her and turned to Kristy. “What do you mean?”
“One or the other would have been enough, don’t you think?”
“Oh, but Sharon’s so great and she’s had such a hard year with Dawn moving away and all,” I said, defending my spending. Dawn Schafer, my stepsister, is Sharon’s daughter. This year she decided to move back to California to live with her father, brother, and her father’s new wife.
Dawn’s decision to move took us all by surprise. She had seemed happy living with Dad, Sharon, and me. For a while, I was so upset that I didn’t notice how sad it was making Sharon.
No matter how much Dawn tried to explain that she wasn’t moving because of us — she simply missed the West Coast — it hurt. We all miss her.
“I know you’re softhearted and generous,” Kristy told me. “I admire that. But didn’t your father give you a limit on what you could spend?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?” Kristy is a get-to-the-point person and has no patience for vague answers. But sometimes the truth isn’t so clear-cut.
“He said not to spend more than I could afford to pay back,” I explained.
“Well? How much is that?”
“It depends.”
Kristy blew out a puff of air and her brown bangs flew up. She didn’t have to say anything. I knew she was thinking, Can’t you be more specific than that? Kristy and I have been close friends since we were little.
“I can’t be exactly sure!” I cried, throwing my arms out. (Which caused all the shopping bags I had slung on my arms to slide back and hit me on the sides.) “I don’t know the number of baby-sitting jobs I’m going to be able to take between now and Christmas. I can’t tell how many will come in or who else will want them. It’s been so busy, though. I think we’ll all do well.”
I was talking about the Baby-sitters Club, otherwise known as the BSC. It’s a club Kristy founded. Clients call one number and reach several qualified baby-sitters at once. (I’ll tell you more details later.) Ever since Thanksgiving, business had been outrageously busy. We could hardly handle the number of clients who called. So, even though I couldn’t predict exactly the amount of money I’d earn, I was sure it would be plenty.
We left the bookstore and were in the mall again. “Why don’t we go to Stuff ’N Nonsense next?” Kristy suggested. “Dawn likes the earrings they sell there.”
“Okay,” I agreed. We headed toward Stuff ’N Nonsense, a funky store with lots of trendy jewelry. I’d shopped for my friends yesterday, so today I only had family left to shop for, and then I’d be done.
I couldn’t believe how crowded the mall was. People knocked into us and didn’t even realize it.
We passed through the center court on the first floor. The fountain that usually spurts pink water had been turned off and a huge Christmas tree stood in front of it. Beside it, some mall workers were busily hammering a platform into place. Soon a Santa would sit on the platform, taking gift orders from the excited kids who would line up to meet him. (Other years, Lear’s department store had run a North Pole Village featuring Santa. This year, though, the mall was running what it called Winter World.)
“Look at that,” said Kristy, pointing to a sign propped up against the half-built platform. It read: HOLIDAY HELP WANTED. APPLY AT SPECIAL EVENTS OFFICE. “Only two weeks until Christmas, and they’re still hiring extra help?” she asked.
“Hanukkah comes after Christmas this year, and so does Kwanzaa,” I pointed out, “so there’s really more than two weeks until gift-buying ends.”
“That’s true,” Kristy replied. “Do people exchange Kwanzaa gifts?”
“I don’t think it’s in the actual tradition of Kwanzaa, but sometimes people do give gifts anyway,” I said, trying to remember what I’d learned in school, and from my friend Jessi Ramsey. “And even if they’re not buying gifts, they still buy new tablecloths and candles and baskets — things like that.”
For a moment we stood and watched the workers assemble the platform. “I wonder what it’s like to be a mall Santa,” Kristy said. “Do you think it’s fun or totally weird?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Embarrassing, maybe. What do you do when people you know come along?”
“Duck behind an elf,” Kristy said.
I started laughing, thinking how ridiculous that would look. “I don’t think that would do Santa much good. He’s too fat to fit behind an elf.”
“You’re right. I guess he’d have to find a fat elf.”
Still laughing, we continued on to Stuff ’N Nonsense. Kristy had been right. They had earrings I was sure Dawn would love. After looking at almost every pair in the store, I spotted metallic linked hoops in red, silver, and blue. They were totally Dawn. “She has two holes in each ear so I’ll have to buy two pairs,” I said.
“Isn’t that going overboard?” Kristy asked.
“No, she’ll wear them all
together,” I said, confident that I knew Dawn’s taste. “And look at this,” I added, reading the piece of cardboard they were attached to. “They’re made from recycled aluminum cans.”
“She’ll love that,” Kristy agreed. Dawn is very committed to the environment, especially when it comes to recycling.
“There’s a matching necklace!” I cried as I crossed the store to it.
“I think the earrings are enough,” said Kristy.
“Please! Dawn will love this. I have to buy it for her.”
“If you say so.”
I frowned at her. “Aren’t you excited about seeing Dawn?” I asked. I put the earrings and necklace on the counter and handed the salesclerk the credit card. “She and Jeff are arriving this coming Monday.” (Jeff is my younger stepbrother.)
“Sure I want to see Dawn,” Kristy replied.
“Well, me too. I want to get her something really nice to let her know how happy I am to see her.” The salesclerk handed me my bag. “Where do you want to go next?” I asked.
Kristy checked her watch. “We better head to Claudia’s house. We have a meeting in forty-five minutes. Can you imagine what would happen if I was late?”
I laughed and rolled my eyes in pretend horror. “It would be the end of the world!”
The reason I’d said it would be the end of the world was because Kristy has never been late for a BSC meeting without having an airtight excuse. And she insists that everyone else be on time too. If you’re late, she stares at you in a glowering way that makes you want to disappear. We call this the Look. We avoid it at all cost.
That day, Kristy and I came extremely close to being late. The bus from the mall was caught in horrible, crawling holiday traffic. Two women sitting in front of us debated if it was because there was construction on the Connecticut Turnpike, or if it was simply because holiday shopping was heavier than usual this year.
I had no clue. I only knew Kristy was tense. Her hands were clenched into fists. She chewed her lower lip. I could almost read her mind. If she was late she’d have to endure endless teasing. Then everyone else would think that if she was late, they could be late sometimes too. Chaos would overtake the club. No one would want us anymore. The club would fall apart completely.
I didn’t think any of this would happen, of course. But it was the kind of thing Kristy worried about. You see, she’s the club president. After she came up with the idea for the BSC, she asked me and another friend, Claudia Kishi, if we wanted to form the club, which is really a baby-sitting business. We would all be available in Claudia’s room (she has a private phone line) between five-thirty and six on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to take calls from clients. We recruited Claudia’s friend, Stacey McGill, to join us and we placed flyers and posters around town.
We were an instant success. Business grew so busy that when I met Dawn I asked her to join. (Before we were stepsisters, we were friends.) The BSC has been a huge part of my life — of all our lives — ever since.
But, of course, Kristy wasn’t thinking about the past as the bus crawled at a snail’s pace through downtown Stoneybrook. Instead, she was thinking about the present — the meeting that was going to start any minute.
We raced off the bus at 5:25 and soon were charging down Bradford Court. Mushy patches of slush flew out from under our feet, splattering our shopping bags. We didn’t care.
Kristy is very athletic and soon outdistanced me by a half block. When I arrived, panting, at Claudia’s doorstep, my heart hammering, Kristy was just standing in front of the door, looking stricken. “What’s the matter?” I said, puffing.
“What if I’m late?” she asked.
I grabbed her wrist and pushed open the door. (Mrs. Kishi leaves it open on club days.) “Come on and find out,” I said, half dragging her up the stairs.
When we stepped into Claudia’s room, all the regular club members were there. “Rats!” cried Abby Stevenson, swinging back her dark curls. “It’s five-thirty on the dot. We were hoping you’d be late.”
Kristy grinned at the digital clock on Claudia’s dresser. Then she scowled. “Why were you hoping we’d be late?”
“So we could do this,” Stacey answered. She furrowed her brow and glared at Kristy. At the same time, so did Abby, Claudia, Jessi Ramsey, and Mallory Pike, each giving Kristy her own version of the Look.
I burst out laughing. Even Kristy — who takes this matter deadly seriously — smiled.
The phone rang and the meeting started. Claudia was closest to the phone, so she grabbed it. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club.” It was Dr. Johanssen. She needed someone to sit for Charlotte the next day, Saturday afternoon. “I’ll call you right back,” Claudia told her.
That’s how we always operate. We take the information about the job, then hang up. As club secretary, it’s my job to check the club record book and see who’s available. Everyone’s schedule is in the book — not only their baby-sitting jobs but their doctor appointments, after-school activities, vacations, everything. I saw that Stacey was free, and I know she loves Charlotte Johanssen, so I offered her the job first. “Absolutely,” she replied. “I’ll be there.”
Claudia called Dr. Johanssen back and reported that Stacey would be coming.
From my usual spot on Claudia’s bed, I gazed around the room and thought of all the cool gifts I’d gotten my friends. I couldn’t wait to see their faces when they received them.
“Notebook!” Kristy said, holding up a spiral notebook. “Who wants it first?”
“Not me,” Claudia said, waving it away. The club notebook is where we write about our baby-sitting jobs. Kristy insists we do it because it’s good to know which kids are difficult, or scared of certain things, or have allergies, or whatever else. If a sitter goes to a new job, she can refer to the book and instantly know what to expect.
Most of us don’t like to be bothered with the notebook, especially Claudia, who’s a terrible speller and hates writing in general. In fact, she has such a difficult time with schoolwork that she was switched back to the seventh grade for a while. She’s returned to eighth grade now, but school is still a struggle. To make matters worse, her older sister, Janine, is an actual genius. But I think Mr. and Mrs. Kishi have given up comparing the girls.
For Christmas I found the best art set for Claudia, complete with pastels, oils, watercolors, and markers. I knew she’d love it. Art is Claudia’s passion. There, no one can come close to her. She is so talented.
Claudia is also beautiful, with long black hair and almond eyes (she’s Japanese-American). She looks great in the unique outfits she creates for herself with beads, feathers, fabric paint, and anything else that pops into her always-creative mind.
Since we meet in Claudia’s room and use her phone, she’s the club’s vice-president. She’s also in charge of hospitality. It’s a natural job for Claudia, because all she has to do is pull bags of junk food out from under her bed, behind pillows, or the back of her closet. She loves junk food but has to hide it (like she hides her Nancy Drew books) since her parents don’t approve.
“I’ll write in the notebook!” Mallory volunteered. She’s the only one of us who really enjoys writing in it because she wants to be a writer. Actually, her goal is to be an author-illustrator of children’s books.
Mallory says she never wants her picture to appear on the dust jacket of a book she writes because she doesn’t like her looks, especially her nose. She has reddish-brown hair, glasses, and braces (the clear kind). Maybe she’s not gorgeous (like Claudia or Stacey), but I think she’s cute. Besides, she’s only eleven. Her looks might change a lot in the next few years.
“Jessi and I sat for my brothers and sisters yesterday,” Mallory reported as she opened up the notebook. “What a zoo!” This was no big surprise. Mal’s the oldest of eight kids. She’d have plenty of pictures to put into the big photo album I’d bought her for Christmas.
Jessi looked over Mallory’s shoulder and giggled at what Mallory was writing. �
��When Nicky got stuck in the basket, it was hard not to laugh,” she said to Mallory, who is her best friend.
Like Mallory, Jessi is eleven. They’re our two junior officers. They can only sit in the daytime (unless they’re sitting for their own siblings). But that’s okay. It frees the rest of us, who are all thirteen, to take night jobs.
I was sure Jessi would love the tickets I’d bought her at the Ticket Booth at the mall. They were for a Saturday matinee of The Nutcracker being performed in Stamford, the nearest city to Stoneybrook. (I’d already marked Jessi unavailable for that day in the record book.) I knew she’d be thrilled because Jessi is a talented ballerina who has appeared in several professional productions. She studies at a dance school in Stamford.
You can tell Jessi is a dancer simply by looking at her. She’s tall and slim with long legs and graceful posture. She even wears her black hair the way dancers often do, pulled off her face.
Like Mallory, Jessi’s the oldest kid in her family. Her sister, Becca, is eight, and her baby brother, Squirt, is nearly two. (His real name is John Philip, Jr.) Their aunt Cecelia lives with them and takes care of Squirt while Jessi’s parents are at work. The Ramseys moved to Stoneybrook because Mr. Ramsey was transferred here by his company. The Ramseys are African-American, so some people in mostly white Stoneybrook gave them a hard time at first, but things are better now.
“I’m collecting dues today since we were too busy to do it on Monday,” Stacey announced to a general chorus of groans. Monday is usually dues day. But the phone didn’t stop ringing all day Monday or Wednesday. So she never had the chance to collect. Stacey jiggled the few remaining coins in the manila envelope where she keeps the BSC’s money. “Come on, we’re nearly broke after last week’s pizza party,” she announced. “Open your wallets, kiddies. You didn’t actually think you’d get away without paying this week, did you?”
Stacey’s the treasurer because she’s our math whiz, so she has to perform this very unpopular job. No one wants to fork over, but we know we have to. The money pays for things we need. For instance we pay part of Claudia’s phone bill. And we pay Kristy’s brother Charlie to drive Kristy and Abby to meetings since they live on the other side of town.
The Secret Life of Mary Anne Spier Page 1
