Starring the Baby-Sitters Club!

by Ann M. Martin

  “What will he say?”

  “He’ll say no. So there’s no point in asking.”

  “Well … well …” Kerry glanced at David Michael. “Well, bullfrogs!”

  Logan grinned. “You’re a regular old Indian, sis. You better get used to it.”

  The rehearsal continued. It was almost over when Mr. Cheney said, “May I have your attention, please? Will everyone gather onstage? Crew, too.”

  Now this was interesting. What kind of announcement was Mr. Cheney going to make? Maybe he had decided on a small change in the cast. A change involving Kristy and me…. No, he probably wouldn’t haul off and formally announce something like that. More likely he would take the two of us aside. Then, privately, he would break the news.

  “Kristy,” he would say, “I’ve been working with you for several weeks now and, well, simply put, you are not learning your lines fast enough. I’m getting worried about opening night. I’m not sure you’ll be prepared. So I’ve decided to replace you.”

  “With my understudy?” Kristy would ask.

  “No, with Jessi Ramsey, the person I should have cast as Peter Pan in the first place. Kristy, please turn in your costume.”

  Compared to the dialogue I was imagining, Mr. Cheney’s announcement was fairly tame. But it was interesting.

  “The students in the print shop,” he said, “are getting ready to go to press with the programs for the play. They want to make sure no one’s name is missing from the program, that your names are spelled correctly, and that your proper role or title follows your name. Every member of both the cast and the crew should be included. Please check the list before you leave today and make any corrections. Younger kids, ask for help if you need it. And if you can think of anyone who isn’t here this afternoon, please let me know. Thank you.”

  The list was on a desk at one side of the stage. Within seconds, everyone had surged around it. Ms. Halliday put an end to the madhouse by organizing us into a line. I was somewhere in the middle of the line. Just in front of me was Kerry Bruno.

  When we reached the table, Kerry leaned over to peer at the list. She stamped her foot angrily. Then she turned to me and whispered, “Jessi, after my name it says ‘Indian.’ Could I change that to ‘Indian Princess?’”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Kerry. Besides, the list will be checked later. Mr. Cheney or someone would just change it back.”

  “Bullfrogs,” said Kerry, but I don’t think she was too upset.

  When Kerry left, I ran my finger down the list to the R names. I saw:

  JESSICA RAMSEY: Assistant Choreographer

  Assistant Choreographer? Was that all Mr. Cheney thought I did? Hadn’t he seen me coaching some of the kids? Hadn’t he seen Mallory asking me for advice? I came to each and every rehearsal, and I worked hard. (Not to mention that I should have been Peter Pan, in which case I would have worked even harder. And I would have known my lines by now.)

  For a moment I hesitated over the list. Then I left it, and walked backstage. I sat on a plastic milk crate. I considered my options. I could change my credit — but I had just told Kerry not to change hers. I could talk to Mr. Cheney.

  Or I could cross my name off the list.

  I stood up slowly and returned to the desk on the stage. Four people were still standing in line. Everyone else had gone home. The auditorium was silent. And except for the five of us onstage, it was empty. When the other kids had checked the list and were putting on their coats, I stood by the desk. I looked at my name again. Then I removed a pen from my purse and drew a single heavy line through my name and my credit.

  I put the pen back.

  When I turned around, Mr. Cheney was standing behind me. “Why did you do that?” he asked quietly.

  “Because — Because —” Suddenly I just couldn’t think of a single thing to say. For weeks I’d been imagining scenes, confrontations, between Mr. Cheney and me. Now nothing I had planned to say sounded quite right.

  “I do understand that you wanted to be Peter Pan,” said Mr. Cheney gently. “You may not think so, but I do. However, I explained to you why I gave the part to a less experienced student. Also, Jessi, your dancing ability and your stage presence are phenomenal. But your singing and acting are, well … you don’t have much more experience in those areas than Kristy does. Anyway, I appreciate how helpful you’ve been at rehearsals. Everyone has been helpful, really, but you’re working wonders with the younger children. I’m glad you’re associated with the production.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  Mr. Cheney hadn’t said anything about crediting me as assistant producer. Maybe I didn’t deserve it. I had no idea. What I did know now was that there was not a chance, not a single chance, I would somehow wind up as Peter Pan. Yet Mr. Cheney seemed glad I was working on the play. Feeling totally confused, I walked out of the auditorium.

  Maybe I was just a teeny bit panicky, but really. A week until opening night and all these mistakes. Or could it be that I was concentrating on everyone else so I wouldn’t have to concentrate on Sam and me? Am I making any sense? Let me explain things by describing a typical rehearsal, the Friday afternoon rehearsal. Then you’ll see what I mean.

  Mr. Cheney planned for us to run through the play from beginning to end in our costumes. But we were not holding an actual dress rehearsal, since we were not bothering with makeup, and since Mr. Cheney had told us he was going to feel free to interrupt us at any given moment.

  So the play began. The Darling children are the first people on the stage. They are playing in their nursery, and it is very early in the evening. In the story, Sam and I, who are the Darling parents of the Darling children, are getting ready to go out to dinner. I am dressed in a long, lovely white evening gown, and Mr. Darling is also dressed formally, except that he has not yet tied his tie.

  When Sam and I are onstage, we call each other Mother and Father. Or I call him Father dear and he calls me dearest. Things like that. It is a good thing I’ll be wearing a lot of makeup during the performances, because every time I have to call Sam “Father,” I blush terribly.

  Sam, however, does not blush back.

  Furthermore, guess what he calls me when we are not onstage. He calls me Mrs. Darling, Mother, and dearest. When he telephones me at home he says to Mom, “Is Mrs. Darling there, Mrs. McGill?” When he wants to get my attention during a rehearsal, he yells from the wings, “Hey, Mother! Mother, my darling, my dear!”

  My cheeks are permanently red.

  On Friday, while the Darling children and Nana were onstage, Sam and I, all dressed up, waited in the wings to make our entrance.

  “Mother, you look divine,” said Sam. He thought for a moment. Then he added, “Mrs. Darling, you look darling.” He burst out laughing.

  Oh, wonderful. I was performing with Jerry Lewis. Worse, I was going out with Jerry Lewis. I smiled weakly at Sam.

  Sam glanced around, caught sight of a couple of his friends from the high school, and threw his arm around my shoulders. He was being playful.

  “Stop!” I hissed. “We have to listen for our cues.”

  Moments later we were onstage with our Darling children and Nana. I was supposed to help Sam tie his tie. (Frankly, I’ve never understood why men can’t do that themselves. They can tie their shoes, can’t they?) I was standing so close to him we were almost embracing.

  I heard a giggle.

  I don’t think Mr. Cheney heard it. If he had, he would have stopped the rehearsal. He absolutely expects us to act mature and responsible. When we don’t, he calls us on it. (To be perfectly honest, he has been much worse about this ever since Logan yelled, “Mutiny!”)

  The giggle had come from Cokie. I couldn’t look around to see where she was, since the script did not read Mrs. Darling checks around the stage to see who’s making fun of her, but I was sure she was nearby, probably in the wings.

  I was wrong. She was sitting in the front row of the auditorium, dressed as Tiger Lily. Grace Blume was
next to her. I caught sight of them as I began the “Tender Shepherd” number with Dawn and Jackie and Barry Soeder. Which is another thing. Dawn and I can sing okay, but we are not exactly professionals. Sometimes our voices fade away. When they do, Mr. Cheney yells, “Sing out, Louise!” which apparently is a line from something, only no one knows what, except for Ms. Halliday who always grins while Dawn and I get flustered and then try both to compose ourselves and to sing out.

  So here is the scene. Mr. Darling had left the stage, much to my relief, and much to the amusement of Cokie and Grace, although I don’t know why they thought that was funny. Maybe Sam was doing some Jerry Lewis thing that Mr. Cheney and I missed. I was onstage with my children, and we were performing “Tender Shepherd.”

  “… let me help you count your sheep,” we sang.

  “Sing out, Louise!” called Mr. Cheney, meaning Dawn and me.

  We raised our voices. “One in the meadow, two in the garden …”

  Finally the song ended and I made my exit.

  “Lovely, my darling Mrs. Darling,” Sam greeted me backstage.

  I gave him another of my weak smiles.

  “Yo, Sam!” called his friend Brian (softly enough so Mr. Cheney wouldn’t hear).

  In a flash, Sam’s arm was around my waist. “Brian. Mr. Durang,” he said heartily. “Have you met my mother? I mean, my wife?”

  Brian extended his hand toward me. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mrs…. um …” He pretended to look embarrassed.

  “Darling,” Sam supplied.

  “Excuse me?” said Brian.

  By now, this was an old, old routine. Sam could not stop playing with our names. “Mrs. Darling,” repeated Sam. “Mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “My dearest dar —”

  I tried to extricate myself from Sam. “Excuse me,” I said. “Sam?”

  “Yes, dearest?”

  “Let’s see what’s happening onstage. Kristy has made her entrance.”

  “Okay.” Sam tore himself away from Brian. We edged closer to the stage. Peter Pan was in the darkened Darling nursery talking to Wendy. Michael and John were pretending to be asleep in their beds. Wendy was preparing to sew Peter’s shadow onto his feet.

  “I daresay it will hurt a little,” she said.

  “Oh, I shan’t cry,” Peter replied.

  Dawn pretended to sew on the shadow. Then she stepped back to admire her work. She frowned. “Perhaps I should have ironed it…. I mean, perhaps I should have shown you how to iron it.”

  “Stop!” yelled Mr. Cheney. “Dawn Schafer —”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Dawn repeated the line correctly.

  Peter Pan began to jump gleefully around the stage, as if he had sewn on the shadow by himself. “How clever I am!” cried Kristy.

  This was followed by silence.

  Dawn and Kristy looked expectantly at each other.

  “Your line,” Kristy said to Dawn, as if they were playing chess, and Dawn had lost track of whose turn it was.

  “Not until you finish your line,” replied Dawn.

  “Uh-oh,” said Kristy.

  Karen, in her Tinker Bell costume, leaped gracefully off the windowsill where she had been perched during this part of the scene. She tossed a handful of silver glitter in the air and cried, “Tinker Bell to the rescue! Your next line is, ‘Oh, the cleverness of me!’ Kristy.”

  “Stop!” yelled Mr. Cheney again. “Karen, thank you for trying to help, but you may not do that during a performance. You know that, don’t you?” Mr. Cheney was massaging his temples, his eyes closed.

  “Yes,” said Karen contritely. She retreated to the windowsill.

  The first act continued without incident.

  Act II began.

  Sam and I were not in Act II. We relaxed backstage. We watched Mallory and Savannah help Pete into the crocodile costume. The costume was spectacular. That’s the only word for it. It was a green suit, which Pete got into standing up, but then lay in on the floor, stomach facing down, arms and legs extended. The crocodile’s back, and the tops of his legs and tail were sequined. His stomach and the undersides of his legs and tail were felt, to help him slide across the stage. Pete had perfected his slither and could scoot across the stage crocodile-style, looking quite realistic, and moving fast when necessary. In order to see, he peered out through the croc’s gaping jaws with its rows of plastic teeth.

  When Pete had been zipped into the costume, he sprawled onto his stomach and waited in the wings for his cue to slither onstage.

  Sam and I watched him go.

  Several seconds later we heard a scream. It was followed by a scuffle.

  Jackie Rodowsky flew into the wings where Mary Anne caught him.

  “Save me!” he screeched.

  Sam watched this calmly. Then he turned toward me, looked at me tenderly, and said, “There seems to be some sort of problem with our youngest child, my dearest darling Mrs. Darling.”

  Suddenly I had had it. Maybe Kristy had been right all along. Maybe her brother was nothing but a jerk. I stepped away from him. “Cut it out,” I whispered loudly.

  Sam looked at me, shocked and hurt. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. Leave me alone.” I stalked off. I needed a place to sulk.

  Stacey McGill is terrific. She really is. She’s gorgeous and sophisticated and funny and smart and popular. I’ve liked her for a long time. Over the summer, when I finally got around to telling her that, she said (at first) that basically she thought I was a jerk. That was understandable. Kristy has brainwashed all of her friends into thinking just that. Then Stacey confessed that when she first moved here, when she was in seventh grade, she had a crush on me.

  I guess our timing was a little off.

  “Get it together, Sam,” Charlie said to me.

  We got it together. We’ve been going out for awhile now, mostly to movies, or hanging around Stacey’s house. Stacey keeps asking why she can’t meet more of my friends. She wants to do other things, like go to school dances or parties. But I’m having a little problem with that. The problem is that I go to the high school and Stacey goes to the middle school. I’m in tenth grade and Stacey is in eighth.

  My friends call me a cradle-robber.

  They refer to Stacey as my “grade-school girlfriend.”

  And they say things like, “What time does she have to go down for her nap?” “Do you have to get a permission slip from her mommy before you can take her out?” “Are you going to take her to dinner or just give her a bottle?” They think these things are hysterical.

  Stacey would die if she knew what my friends said. So I’ve been trying to keep them apart.

  Then came the play and, as I heard some actor say once, our worlds collided. I guess that’s a little strong. What I mean is, I could no longer file Stacey in one part of my life, and my friends in another. They had been brought together naturally.

  I guess I didn’t have to try out for the play. If I hadn’t, then nobody would have seen Stacey and me together. But I wanted to be in the play. And I’ll tell you the truth: I think I also kind of wanted people to see Stacey and me. I was tired of playing “keepaway” with her. I was tired of hiding out.

  I did not, however, expect that Stacey and I would wind up as Mr. and Mrs. Darling. I know Stacey was embarrassed by that. Well, guess what. So was I. But I figured there must be some way to overcome the situation.

  I decided to talk to Charlie.

  Now, Charlie is not exactly Mr. Stud. He is not the Dating God. But he is my brother and he’s two years older than me and he has had several girlfriends. So I asked him for advice.

  “Do you and Stacey have fun when you’re together?” Charlie wanted to know.

  “Sure.”

  “As much fun as you’d have if she were a couple years older?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So just let your friends know that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  �
�When you and Stacey are together — at rehearsals or whatever — show everyone how much fun you’re having.” Charlie shrugged, as if to say, “Why couldn’t you have thought of that?”

  “Oh. All right.”

  So that’s what I’d been doing. I was making a big joke out of the Mr. and Mrs. Darling thing. I was practically screaming out, “See? See how much fun my grade-school girlfriend and I are having?”

  Only Stacey never seemed to be having quite as much fun as I was pretending we were having. I would approach her, grinning, and say something like, “Good evening, my dearest Mother.” And Stacey would just sort of smile awkwardly at me.

  But she had never backed away and told me to leave her alone. How was I supposed to react to that? At first, I did leave her alone. But by Act III we had to appear onstage again together. And since, as far as I know, Mr. and Mrs. Darling have not had a fight during Act II, we had to be civil with each other. More accurately, we had to appear happy. After all, our children had come home from Neverland and besides, we love each other.

  Stacey and I made it through the rehearsal with gritted teeth — when we were together. The rest of the time we steered clear of each other. But I kept my eye on Stacey.

  I watched her and Mary Anne try to calm down Jackie Rodowsky.

  “I turned around and that crocodile was right behind me!” said Jackie, gasping. “He looks like a monster.”

  “But he isn’t,” Mary Anne replied gently. “You have to remember that.”

  “Yeah. It’s just a costume, a crocodile costume, and Pete Black is inside,” added Stacey. “You know Pete. He’s inside the Nana costume, too.”

  “I know, I know. But when I see him and I’m not expecting him, he scares me,” said Jackie, sounding frustrated.

  “Well, the show must go on,” said Stacey. “I hate to say this, Jackie, but you can’t be afraid of the croc and be in the play. Because you absolutely cannot go screaming off the stage on opening night the moment the crocodile appears. I know I sound mean, but this is true. Mr. Cheney isn’t going to allow it much longer.”