The Secret Life of Mary Anne Spier

by Ann M. Martin

  We also use dues money to restock Kid-Kits. Each of us has her own box full of toys, coloring books, art supplies — all sorts of fun stuff. We don’t bring them on every job, but they often come in handy if a kid is sick or if he or she is a new client.

  If there’s any money left over, we do something fun, such as hold a pizza party like we did last week.

  Stacey passed the envelope around, not listening to our complaints. I smiled to myself, thinking of the earmuffs that I’d bought as part of her Christmas gift. I was going to tell her I’d bought them for her so she wouldn’t have to listen to us grumble anymore.

  Of course, there was more to the gift than earmuffs. I’d bought her a cheetah-print set: a hat, leather-trimmed gloves, and a scarf. I was pretty sure she’d like it but not positive. I bought it because I know she likes clothing. I was worried, though. Stacey’s sense of style is much more sophisticated than mine. That’s probably because she grew up in New York City. And in a way, she still lives there part-time. Her parents are divorced and her dad has an apartment in the city. She stays with him on a lot of weekends.

  As I mentioned, Stacey is beautiful, with giant blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde, wavy hair. Despite being gifted with brains and beauty, her life isn’t perfect. One big problem is her diabetes. That’s a serious condition in which the levels of sugar in her bloodstream can become dangerously high. To keep those sugar levels under control, she has to give herself injections of insulin daily and keep to a strict diet.

  Stacey doesn’t let this get her down, though. (At least most of the time she doesn’t.) She does what she has to do and pretty much leads a normal life.

  “Oh, please, Mrs. Scrooge, don’t take my last dime,” Abby joked, pretending to cower as Stacey presented the dues envelope to her. “Tiny Tim needs this coin.”

  “Cough it up, Abby Cratchit,” Stacey said.

  Everyone laughed. But then, Abby often keeps us laughing — and she’s always a little offbeat. She claims her oddball sense of humor comes from living on Long Island, outside of New York City. “Everybody there is like me,” she claims. I simply can’t believe that’s true, though. Abby is one of a kind.

  Well … not entirely one of a kind. Abby has a twin sister, Anna. Their father was killed in a car accident when they were nine. So it’s just the girls and their mother, who works in publishing in New York. Kristy was the first of us to meet Abby, when the Stevensons recently moved in only one house away from Watson’s mansion. She thought Abby might be a good replacement for Dawn, and she’s been a member ever since.

  Since Abby’s our newest member, she was the hardest for me to pick a gift for. But I know she likes sports, so finally I bought Kristy and Abby the same gift — a catcher’s mitt. Logan (my boyfriend) told me it was a terrific one. (It had better be, for the price I paid.)

  Speaking of Logan, I should tell you that he’s adorable, wonderful, has sandy-colored hair and a smooth southern accent (he grew up in Kentucky). He’s on the football team, and he’s also an associate member of the BSC. (Doesn’t he sound perfect? He is. Most of the time, anyway.) Being an associate member means that we call him when we have more work than we can handle but he doesn’t attend meetings regularly.

  Our other associate member is Shannon Kilbourne, who lives near Kristy and Abby. Originally, we wanted her to take Dawn’s place. But that didn’t work out. Shannon attends a private school, Stoneybrook Day, and she was already committed to after-school activities. She can still fill in when we really need her, though.

  The phone rang again. This time it was Mrs. Rodowsky, who needed a sitter for Archie, Jackie, and Shea for the next afternoon. Claudia took that job.

  Almost as soon as Claudia hung up, the phone rang a third time. It was Mrs. DeWitt wanting a sitter for her gang of kids and stepkids, also for the next afternoon. “Is something special going on tomorrow?” asked Kristy, who’d taken the call. She listened, nodding for a while. “That’s terrible,” she said seriously. “Okay. We’ll call you back.”

  “What’s terrible?” Jessi asked, looking up from the club notebook.

  Kristy told us what Mrs. DeWitt had told her. Dr. Johanssen had called together a group of volunteers to discuss the Toys for Kids program. In previous years, the program was run by the hospital where Dr. Johanssen works. It provided gifts for sick kids who’d have to spend the holidays there. Due to budget cuts, the program wasn’t being sponsored this year.

  “I wonder if there’s a way we could help?” Kristy said as she sat forward in her chair.

  I was looking in the record book for a sitter for the seven Barrett-DeWitts. (Two sitters, actually. We always send two for more than four kids.) I glanced at Kristy and could almost hear the wheels in her brain turning. She was working on the Toys for Kids situation.

  Kristy is one of the most remarkable people I know. Although, like me, she’s petite in size, she has a big personality. She’s a can-do person who gets a lot done. She runs the club like a pro. She also coaches a kids’ softball team called Kristy’s Krushers.

  Kristy’s not into clothes or her looks. Mostly she wears jeans or sweats, and pulls her shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail. But she always makes an impression on people. Maybe it’s because she’s so direct and sincere.

  Even though, as I mentioned, her stepdad’s a millionaire, Kristy hasn’t always had things easy. Her birth father abandoned the family soon after her little brother, David Michael, was born. Her mother had to raise and support four kids on her own. (Kristy also has two older brothers, Sam and Charlie.) It was a real struggle. Eventually, though, Mrs. Thomas met Watson and they married, and she got a huge promotion at her job. Now Kristy and her brothers live in Watson’s mansion. Karen and Andrew, her two younger step-siblings, live there every other month. And Watson and Kristy’s mom adopted a baby girl from Vietnam, Emily Michelle, who is two and a half. Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, has come to live with them. All these people, along with assorted pets, make a very full house.

  And, speaking of people with full houses — I assigned the Barrett-DeWitt job to Abby and Jessi.

  “I know!” Kristy said. “The BSC will run a fund-raiser to help Toys for Kids.”

  “Great! What will we do?” Mallory asked.

  Kristy frowned. “I’m still working on that part.”

  I was filled with Christmas spirit when I returned home from our meeting that afternoon. My Christmas shopping was finished. I was pleased with my purchases. I’d found just the right gift for each person. And now I could look forward to wrapping, which I enjoy.

  The fireplace in the living room of our old farmhouse (built in 1774!) blazed. In the corner stood the huge Christmas tree Dad and I had chopped down ourselves at a tree farm the weekend before. Sharon and I had put twinkly lights on the tree and wrapped it in the gold-beaded garlands we’d taken from the attic. We were leaving the rest of the decorations for when Jeff and Dawn arrived.

  Dad sat on the couch by the fireplace, paging through a jewelry catalog. (I guess he was looking for Sharon’s gift.) “Whoa!” he said with a wary laugh as I dragged my shopping bags into the room. “More gifts? I thought you finished yesterday.”

  “No, but now I’m done,” I said, settling the bags around my feet.

  Dad frowned at the bags. “It looks like you were very … generous.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You put all this on my card?” he asked.

  Digging out my wallet from my purse, I handed the card back to him. “Yes, but I’m paying you back. Remember?”

  “With interest?” he asked.

  Now it was my turn to look disturbed. I didn’t like the sound of this. “What do you mean?”

  Putting down his catalog, Dad sat forward. “If a person doesn’t pay his credit card bill in full, then the card company charges a percentage of the total outstanding balance until it’s completely paid off. It can really add up.”

  “Do you mean that the things I bought c
an wind up costing me more than I paid for them?”

  Dad nodded. “A lot more.”

  I thought for a moment, then smiled. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll be able to pay you as soon as the bill comes in. So interest is of no interest to me.”

  “Very funny,” he said dryly, looking relieved. I sniffed the air. Something wonderful was cooking. “Hungry?” he asked. “I made stew.”

  “Yes!” I cried. I like Dad’s cooking so much better than Sharon’s. She’s not a bad cook, she just likes to eat the weirdest stuff. It was a major problem when our families blended. Sharon and Dawn were grossed out by all the meat and packaged foods Dad and I eat. Dad and I were equally disturbed by seaweed, tofu, miso, sprouts, and all that healthy stuff they like. One tiny benefit of Dawn’s leaving is that now Dad and I rule the kitchen. “Did you make it with beef or tofu?” I asked, concerned that the answer might be tofu. (Dad tries to be fair to Sharon.)

  “Both,” he replied, getting up from the couch.

  Okay, I thought, fair is fair. I’d pick out the tofu. Sharon would pick out the beef. Dad would eat both, and we’d all eat the vegetables.

  At dinner, Sharon, who is usually pretty disorganized, was really beside herself. She put some butter in the microwave to soften it, and it melted into a yellow puddle. She forgot about the instant biscuits she’d stuck in the oven. Then the smoke detector went off.

  “Where’s my fork?” she asked just as she was about to eat.

  “Right there,” Dad told her, pointing to the breast pocket of her blazer.

  She took the fork out and laughed. “Oh, gosh. I must have put it there when the phone rang.” She set the fork on the table. “I guess I’m just so excited about Dawn and Jeff coming that I can’t think of anything else.”

  “I found the best gift for Dawn,” I told her.

  She lifted her hand to silence me. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I like to be surprised by everyone’s gifts.”

  After dinner I helped clean up and then brought the rest of my shopping bags upstairs. I put them in Dawn’s room, where I’d left the others. Popping a disc of holiday music into Dawn’s CD player, I settled in for an evening of wrapping.

  I’d bought the most beautiful wrapping paper at the mall. My favorite had a cream background with old-fashioned Santas all over it. I bought another with penguins in Santa suits skiing down a hill. And another one had golden stars on a deep blue background. I’d probably gone overboard on buying ribbon — metallic fuchsia, gold, bright green, one extrawide roll with a calico print — but who can resist ribbon? I can’t.

  As I wrapped, I felt overwhelmed with happiness. It was one of those moods you can’t exactly explain. But why shouldn’t I be happy? I adore the holidays. I have a happy family, good friends, and Dawn was coming home. And, thanks to Dad’s credit card, I’d be able to show all the important people in my life how much they mean to me.

  I spent hours wrapping, enjoying every bow. With each package, I grew more creative, expanding the bows with extra ribbon, combining papers and ribbons. What fun!

  The results were beautiful. By eleven o’clock, I sat amid a sea of gorgeously wrapped packages. I pictured how awesome they’d look sitting under the tree.

  Then I thought: Why wait? Why not put them under the tree now? Dawn and Jeff would feel so festive when they arrived and saw packages already under the tree.

  After several trips up and down the stairs I’d finally placed all my packages around the tree. “Wow!” Sharon said as I put the last ones into place. “Look at all those gifts! Did you win the lottery this year?”

  I saw what she meant. The presents made a small mountain around the tree. I couldn’t believe it. Why did it seem like more than other years? I’d bought gifts for all the same people.

  I realized that the boxes were all on the large side. And this year I’d bought some people more than one gift. Even Dawn’s small jewelry boxes looked large since I’d stacked the three of them on top of one another and tied them together with gold ribbon.

  “Did you save all your baby-sitting money this year?” Sharon asked, circling the tree. “How did you ever afford this?”

  “I saved for the last two months,” I told her. “And since I used Dad’s credit card, I can use the money I make in the next thirty days. I was figuring I actually have six weeks because he doesn’t have to pay the bill right away.”

  “Two weeks,” Sharon said.

  “What?”

  “That bill comes in at the end of the month,” she told me. “And your dad always pays right away. So you can use the money you earn in the next two weeks. You don’t have six weeks.” She must have noticed my horrified expression. “I’m sure your dad will give you extra time if you can’t pay,” she added.

  Dad came into the room. “Sure, with interest,” he said.

  “You’d charge her interest?” Sharon gasped.

  “Sure I would. Why should I pay the interest on her gifts? I’d wind up buying my own gift,” he replied sensibly.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Sharon objected.

  “No. What’s harsh about it? If Mary Anne is responsible enough to use a credit card, then she has to be held responsible for everything that goes with it. It doesn’t matter, though, because she says she has the money. Right?”

  Sharon looked at me but didn’t mention that I’d thought I had six weeks to earn the money I didn’t yet have. I was grateful. I’d enjoyed using the card and wanted to be able to use it again. Besides, I’d have the money.

  At least I thought I would.

  But I was suddenly uneasy. It wasn’t as though I’d done an exact mathematical tally. I’d estimated what I thought I had, what I thought I’d make, and what I thought I was spending — very roughly.

  Maybe it was time to be exact.

  Sharon took her camera from the mantel. “The tree looks so lovely with the gifts around it. I have to take a picture.” She began snapping.

  “Want some hot cider, Mary Anne?” Dad offered. “I’m heating it.”

  “No thanks,” I replied absently. “I have something I need to do right now.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re wrapping more gifts,” Dad teased.

  I shot him a quick smile. “No, something else.” I ran upstairs and searched through the debris I’d left on Dawn’s floor — the old bags, the crumpled tissue paper, the empty ribbon spools, and scattered wrapping-paper clippings. From under it all I pulled a small brown bag in which I’d been stuffing the receipts of my purchases in case anything needed to be returned.

  Sitting cross-legged on Dawn’s bed, I dumped out the receipts. With the pen I’d been using to write out gift tags, I transferred prices from the receipts onto the empty bag. My heartbeat quickened as I kept adding. The list seemed almost endless. As I reached the bottom of the bag I had to write smaller and smaller to fit everything on.

  The first time I added the numbers, I scratched out my answer. It had to be wrong. I could not possibly have spent that much money. Could I have? No! I added again and discovered that, as I thought, I had been mistaken. I’d actually spent five dollars more than the first number I’d reached.

  The next two times I added I came up with the same astronomical figure — three times the amount of money I had saved.

  Three times!

  I didn’t understand how this could have happened. At the mall, it just hadn’t seemed as if I was spending that much money. Maybe it was the credit card. When you don’t actually see the money leaving your hand it doesn’t seem as though you’re spending it.

  What should I do? What could I do? The gifts were already wrapped and under the tree. I couldn’t take them back. Well, I supposed it was possible, but I’d feel like such an idiot. What would I tell Sharon and Dad? “Never mind. These gifts were just a joke!” They’d think I was crazy. Dawn and Jeff would be here by Monday. They’d see all the gifts too.

  Calm down, I urged myself. So what if you have to pay a little
interest? How bad could it be?

  It would probably be a good idea to find out.

  I used the phone in Sharon and Dad’s room to call Stacey. “What’s the matter, Mary Anne?” she asked. “You sound panicked.”

  “A little, maybe,” I admitted. “What do you know about interest?” As she spoke, my heart sank. She told me that most store credit cards charge interest between fourteen and twenty-two percent.

  Then she calculated twenty-two percent of the sum total of my purchases. “Are you kidding?” I gasped. “I’ll have to keep working and working just to pay the interest!”

  “Kind of, yeah,” Stacey said.

  I thanked her, then hung up, stunned. There was only one answer. I had to get my hands on enough money to pay the full bill in two weeks. But how?

  That night, I took out the BSC record book and did some math of my own. I checked how much I’d earned in the last two months. I’d earned a lot more in November than I had in October, probably because people start going out more once the holiday season begins, which is before Thanksgiving.

  I’d probably earn the same amount in the next two weeks as I’d earned during the first two weeks of December.

  It wasn’t nearly enough.

  I needed another source of income. I didn’t want to borrow it, and, besides, there wasn’t anyone I could think of to borrow from. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, worrying until almost one in the morning. Even though I exhausted my brain, I drifted off to sleep without an answer.

  In the morning, though, I had an idea. I remembered Kristy commenting on the fact that the mall was still looking for Christmas help so late in the season.

  I’d get a job at the mall!

  “What are you up to this morning?” Dad asked at breakfast as he ate his granola, a health food Sharon had converted him to.

  “The mall,” I replied, popping in a toaster waffle.

  “Mary Anne!” Dad said sternly. “How many more —”