Starring the Baby-Sitters Club!

by Ann M. Martin

  The phone rang again. (This time I did not fall off the bed.) “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” I said. “Hi, Mrs. Newton! … Yeah, we’ll be holding meetings again starting Monday…. Wednesday night? I’ll check. I’m not sure who’ll be available then, but I’ll call you back.”

  Stacey and I looked through the record book, made a couple of calls, and phoned Mrs. Newton back to tell her who’d be sitting. After that, we decided to bring the portable TV into my bedroom so we could relax in front of it and take calls at the same time.

  “What’s on?” Stacey asked, flipping the channels.

  “I don’t know. Slow down. We’ll find something.”

  What we found was an old movie from the 1940s. Guess what it was about. Putting on a Broadway play.

  “Cool,” said Stace.

  We watched the star of the movie as she auditioned for the play, earned the lead, and went through rehearsals. Halfway through the opening night performance — which was a gala affair — a piece of scenery fell over, hit the actress on the head, and knocked her unconscious.

  “Oh, my lord!” I cried.

  “I bet it was sabotage,” said Stacey knowingly.

  “I don’t care what it was. What if that happens tonight? What if the Home Underground collapses on the Lost Boys? What if the nursery set falls over? I don’t want to be responsible for killing Kristy.”

  “Claudia —”

  Ring, ring!

  The phone again. I grabbed it up. “Hello?” (I was so unnerved, I forgot to say, “Hello, Baby-sitters Club.”)

  “Claudia? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Cokie. Listen, Claudia, I’ve been thinking. You know the backdrop you made for the ‘Ugg-a-Wugg’ song?”

  “Cokie, it is not going to fall down. I promise.”

  “Excuse me? Claudia, you are so — Hang on a sec. I’m getting another call.” Cokie put me on hold while I panicked quietly. Then, “Claudia? I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

  “Who was that?” Stacey wanted to know.

  “It was Cokie. And she’s worried about the scenery. Stace, this is eerie. Here we are worrying about the sets killing someone, and then Cokie calls with a question about the sets. Can you imagine if the backdrop did kill her? Everyone would think I had done it on purpose to get rid of her.”

  “No one would blame you,” Stacey replied, smiling.

  But I couldn’t smile back. And by the time I arrived at school that evening — at six o’clock on the dot — I was a nervous wreck.

  I wasn’t even going to go to opening night. I know it sounds babyish, but I was still angry and upset and hurt, and I just did not feel like going. The rest of my family was going, but I didn’t want to. Not even to see my friends, or to see the kids dance after all the rehearsing we’d done. I’d been to the dress rehearsal. That seemed like enough. But on Friday afternoon Ms. Halliday caught up with me at my locker and asked if I’d come to the auditorium at six to be around in case any of the kids had problems, and also to run the Lost Boys through this one dance that had given them trouble at the dress rehearsal.

  I said I’d be there.

  I did not say I’d be happy about it.

  I arrived at the school in my usual bad mood.

  “Hey, Jessi,” said Mal tentatively. She’d been awfully quiet around me lately, and I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t the pleasantest person.

  “Hey,” I replied. I tried to dredge up something nice to say. All I could come up with was, “Your hair looks good.” (Mal had pulled it back with a pale blue ribbon.)

  “Thanks. Um, so does yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sheesh. Mal and I sounded like total strangers. I vowed that the second the closing performance was over I would try to behave like a human being again. I did not want to lose my best friend.

  Mal walked off in search of Savannah, and I glanced around. Everyone connected with the play was supposed to arrive between six and six-thirty, and sure enough, backstage was already becoming crowded. Dawn and Mary Anne came in, Dawn looking pale. Stacey and Claudia showed up. (Claudia made a dash for this backdrop she’d made, and began to examine it before she’d even taken off her coat.) And in streamed the little kids — Myriah and Jackie and Karen and Nicky and Margo and the triplets and more.

  “Lost Boys over here!” I called. “On the double! Bobby, Shea, Linny, Natalie, Bill and Melody, Carolyn, Nicky, Myriah, and David Michael!”

  “In our costumes?” asked Nicky.

  “No, you can put them on later.”

  “What?”

  “You can put them on LATER!” I yelled. Backstage was not only crowded, it was noisy.

  “Hey, Kristy! Come here!” yelled Barry Soeder.

  “Careful! Look out!” said Ben Hobart as he walked by with a huge piece of equipment.

  “Telephone, Mr. Cheney!” called someone.

  “Where’s Pete?” asked someone else.

  I gathered the Lost Boys into an area of the wings that was slightly quieter. At least we weren’t tripping over people. “All right, kids. Try to pay attention,” I said. “I know it’s hard, but concentrate, okay? We’re going to begin with —”

  “Excuse me, Jessi.” Ms. Halliday had joined us. “Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Cheney needs to talk to you. I’ll work with the kids.”

  Mr. Cheney needed to talk to me? Why? A little knot formed in my stomach. “Okay,” I said to Ms. Halliday. I walked backstage and practically bumped into Mr. Cheney.

  “Oh, Jessi. Good. There you are,” he said. “Listen, Pete Black just called. Actually, his mother did. Pete had an accident after school today.”

  “He did?” I said. (That word “accident” makes my stomach flip-flop.)

  “He fell off his bicycle, and he broke his nose.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “He’s going to be all right,” said Mr. Cheney, “but he won’t be able to be in the show tonight. He may not be able to be in it tomorrow night, either. Jessi, could you please play Nana and the crocodile? You know the roles. You’ve watched Pete dozens of times.”

  “Me? What about Jason Henderson or one of the other understudies?”

  “Jessi, they all have parts in the play. They’re pirates, mostly. You know that. And I think they’d like to play those parts. I hadn’t counted on needing an understudy for Pete Black. Couldn’t you please take over for him?”

  I didn’t know what to say to Mr. Cheney. I certainly couldn’t tell him what I was thinking. Because I was thinking, Jessi Ramsey in a nonspeaking, nondancing role? After I bragged to the world that I was going to be Peter Pan himself? No, it was just too humiliating.

  “Jessi?” said Mr. Cheney.

  “Can I think it over?”

  Mr. Cheney looked at his watch. “There’s only an hour until curtain time, Jessi. How long do you need?”

  I sighed. “I guess I don’t need any time after all. I’ll do it. I’ll be Nana and the crocodile.”

  Mr. Cheney beamed. “Thank you, Jessi. You better go find Savannah and Mallory right away. They’ll have to make sure you fit the costumes. And I’ll tell the cast about this last-minute change. I’m sorry this won’t get into the program.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, remembering that I wasn’t listed in the program anyway.

  Mr. Cheney left, and I spotted Mallory. “Hey, Mal!” I called. “Mal!” I ran to her. “You won’t believe this, but Pete Black broke his nose and he can’t be in the play tonight, so I’m going to be Nana and the crocodile.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. Mr. Cheney told me to try on the costumes.”

  Mallory looked a whole lot more excited than I felt. “Well, come on!” she cried. “We’ll put you in Nana first. Savannah? Savannah?”

  Mal and Savannah stuffed me into the dog outfit and then into the croc outfit. Those costumes were hot and heavy.

  “Try slithering,” said Mallory when I wa
s in the crocodile costume.

  I moved my arms and legs the way I had seen Pete do it.

  “Now see how fast you can go.”

  I skittered along the floor. I was not as fast as Pete, but I guessed I would do. Anyway, I was better than nothing.

  “Hey, you have to call your parents!” said Mal. “They ought to know who’s going to be inside these costumes tonight.”

  “Oh, you’re right,” I replied, struggling out of the croc. I ran for the pay phone, which was in the hallway near Cokie’s star mop closet. By the time I got off the phone, I actually felt a teensy bit excited.

  “Jessi!” called Mary Anne, the second I returned backstage. “Come here! I have an idea. Can you put on the crocodile costume again?”

  “Now?” I replied. “Why?”

  “Just put it on.”

  Mallory and Savannah stuffed me back into the costume. “Now what?” I asked.

  I heard Mary Anne say, “Okay, Jackie. Turn around,” and I peered out through the croc’s slitted mouth in time to see Jackie Rodowsky catch sight of me and let out a yelp.

  “That was mean, Mary Anne!” he exclaimed.

  “Calm down,” said Mary Anne evenly. Then she leaned over and rapped on the crocodile’s snout. “Open up!” she commanded.

  I opened the jaws of the costume. “Hi, Jackie,” I said.

  “Jessi!” he cried.

  “Pete Black isn’t feeling well,” Mary Anne explained to Jackie, “so he won’t be here tonight. Jessi’s taking his place. She’ll be inside the crocodile costume tonight.”

  “Jessi will?” repeated Jackie. “Oh, I feel so much better!”

  Those were the healthy thoughts running through my mind when I arrived at SMS on Friday evening for the opening night performance of Peter Pan. Charlie drove Sam, David Michael, Karen, and me to school at six o’clock.

  “I’ll be back later with the rest of the family,” he said as he dropped us off at the main entrance. “Break a leg!”

  “Break a leg?” repeated David Michael. He looked insulted.

  “It means good luck,” Karen told him. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, I didn’t —”

  “You guys, please,” I said, as I watched the taillights of Charlie’s car disappear around a curve. “Give me some peace.” I paused. “Hey, Sam,” I continued, “take Karen and David Michael backstage, all right? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”

  I waited until Sam led them off. Then I tiptoed to the foyer at the entrance to the auditorium. The foyer was empty of people. Two desks had been set up and on each one sat a stack of programs for Peter Pan. I picked one up and glanced through it. It looked professional. Almost like a Playbill for a Broadway show in New York City. I set it back on the stack. Then I looked at the posters advertising the play. I looked at the sign over the spot where the ticket-seller would be sitting. I groaned. We should have put on a free play. That would have taken off some of the pressure.

  After a moment I stepped into the auditorium itself. From behind the curtain I could hear mumblings and scufflings. I could see the shadows of feet as people hurried back and forth. But the auditorium was still and deserted. I squinted my eyes and pictured the way it would look in just an hour and a half. It would be brimming over with people waiting for the lights to dim, expectant, and maybe a little nervous because their sons or daughters or brothers or sisters or friends would soon be on the stage. My family would occupy about half a row: Mom, Nannie, Watson, Charlie, Andrew, and Emily Michelle. Also Bart Taylor. He was coming to the play with my family. (He doesn’t go to SMS.) In other rows, in other parts of the auditorium would be Claudia and her sister and parents, Mary Anne and her dad and Dawn’s mom, Mallory and her clan, and basically most of Stoneybrook.

  “If I make a mistake tonight,” I muttered, “half the town will witness it.”

  I left the auditorium quickly. I ran back outside, gulped in some fresh cold air, then returned to the school. I took the long way to the backstage entrance. I passed Cokie’s dressing room.

  As I did, the door opened, causing the yellow star to flop back and forth.

  “Hi, Kristy,” said Cokie.

  “Hi.”

  Cokie was dressed and in full makeup. She was ready for the play. “How do I look?” she asked, twirling around.

  “Fine.”

  “And it’s all due to me, her personal makeup artist,” said someone from inside the closet. The voice was unpleasantly familiar.

  I peeked into the closet. There was Grace Blume. “You’re Cokie’s makeup artist?” I repeated. Unbelievable.

  “It’s the only way to go,” said Cokie. “When I’m onstage tonight, I won’t have to worry about how I look. I can concentrate solely on my lines. I guess you’ll have to concentrate pretty hard on your lines, too, won’t you, Kristy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that it took you so long to memorize them in the first place. And most people suffer from stage fright, especially on opening night. So between that and your fuzzy grasp of your material, well …”

  “Well, break a leg, Kristy,” said Grace from the closet. Then she snorted.

  I tried to think of a snappy comeback, but I couldn’t. So I just walked away. However, when I ran into Dawn backstage, I exploded.

  “Cokie and Grace are jerks, total jerks!” I cried.

  “So what else is new?”

  “They’re trying to psych me out so I’ll mess up. Dawn, you don’t think I’m going to forget all my lines tonight, do you?”

  “All of them?” said Dawn. “No.”

  “Dawn!”

  “I’m teasing. Lighten up. What did Cokie and Grace do?”

  I told her, then said, “Isn’t that a psych-out? Isn’t it?”

  Dawn sighed. “I guess. Listen, I’m nervous tonight, too. In fact … in fact, my stomach doesn’t feel so good.”

  “Uh-oh. Did you eat something unusually weird for dinner?” I asked.

  “Eat? I couldn’t eat. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Oh, great. Dawn, that’s why you don’t feel well. You have to eat something. If you don’t, you’re going to faint. Tonight. Onstage.”

  Dawn moaned. “I can’t eat.”

  “Mary Anne!” I called. “Mary Anne, come here!”

  Mary Anne approached us, followed by the crocodile.

  “Pete, go away,” I said crossly. “This is girl talk.”

  Mary Anne giggled.

  So did the crocodile. Then he opened his great green jaws. “Hi, you guys!”

  “Jessi! What are you doing in there?” exclaimed Dawn, peering into the costume. “You better get out. Pete’ll kill you.”

  “No, he won’t,” replied Jessi. “I’m Pete tonight. I mean, I’m Nana and the crocodile. Pete broke his nose this afternoon.”

  “You’re kidding!” I cried. “You’re going to be inside those costumes, Jessi?”

  “Yes,” answered her muffled voice.

  “Kristy?” said Mary Anne. “You called me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Would you please do something about your sister? She just told me she hasn’t eaten all day and now she doesn’t feel well. If she faints while we’re onstage together tonight, I’ll — I’ll — Well, she can’t do that to me. I have enough to worry about.”

  “Do that to you?” cried Dawn. “I’m the one who’s going to be fainting onstage.”

  “Oh, cut it out, you guys,” said Jessi. “You’re just nervous. Everyone stop talking and take three slow, deep breaths. You, too, Mary Anne. We all need to relax.” We breathed. “Good,” said Jessi. “Now go on about your business.” She snapped her jaws shut and slithered off to find Mallory and Savannah so she could change into the Nana costume for Act I.

  The time passed more quickly than I had thought it would. I put on my costume. I put on my makeup. Mary Anne made Dawn eat a package of crackers from the snack machine outside the cafeteria. On one side
of the heavy red curtains across the stage, the cast and crew readied themselves for the moment when that curtain would open. On the other side, the audience gathered.

  Once, I stepped up to the curtain to peek through the slit.

  “Don’t,” whispered Jessi. “That makes it worse.”

  “I want to know what I’m in for,” I said.

  “It’s better not to know. When you go onstage, pretend you have no audience at all. Pretend the auditorium is empty.”

  “Okay.”

  Before I knew it, Mr. Cheney was standing on the stage, welcoming the audience to the opening night performance of Peter Pan. When he finished, the curtain parted. The audience clapped loudly.

  And the show began.

  Dawn and I stood in the wings for a few moments, holding hands until she made her entrance. Then Karen and I stood together waiting to make our entrance. I was glad I didn’t have to appear on that windowsill all by myself. Karen, in her Tinker Bell costume, would be a great comfort.

  “Ready?” I whispered as we listened for our cue.

  “Ready.”

  We leaped onto the sill. The audience was hushed. There were Dawn and Jackie and Barry, pretending to be asleep in their beds. And there, dead ahead, was the entire audience. How could I pretend it wasn’t there when it spread away from me, row after row after row?

  I forgot my first line. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t think of a single thing. Karen glanced up at me, but she didn’t speak, I guess remembering what had happened the last time she tried to help me. My eyes met with Dawn’s. She didn’t speak, either. Everyone would have noticed.

  I nearly burst into tears. Then I caught sight of a movement out in the wings. Jessi was there in the Nana costume. She opened the dog’s mouth and she whispered my line loudly.

  I repeated it.

  I didn’t forget a single thing after that. Not one word. Not from then until we were taking our curtain call. In fact, during the “Ugg-a-Wugg” song, I felt confident enough to smile charmingly at Cokie. We were onstage with Dawn and all the little kids — the Lost Boys and Indians. As the song began, I grinned at her. It was my way of saying, “You couldn’t psych me out, Cokie. You couldn’t do it. When will you learn?”