“Thanks,” said Stacey as the steward passed by.
“Who’s Alfred Hitchcock?” asked Mallory.
“Who’s Vertigo?” asked Claud.
But at that moment, the plane roared to life.
“Ooh,” said Mary Anne, gripping the arms of her seat. “I’m glad I’m where I am.” (She was in the middle of the five seats, between Kristy and me.) “Hey, Claudia,” she called, “you don’t have to share your seat with me.”
“Are you afraid of flying?” I asked Mary Anne.
“No. I’m afraid of crashing.”
I couldn’t help giggling.
Soon the plane was taxiing down the runway. “Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff,” said the pilot’s voice over the loudspeaker. And a few seconds later, the plane gently rose above the ground and began to soar higher and higher. I tried to look out the windows, but all I could see was sky. Claudia must have been able to see something, though, because she was craning her neck around, gazing at whatever was below us.
“Hangman?” Mal asked again.
“Maybe after lunch,” I replied.
We soon reached “cruising altitude,” the seat belt sign was turned off, and the flight attendants began coming down the aisles with the carts of lunch trays.
“Today we have a choice of chicken or spaghetti,” said a steward, leaning over so that Dawn, Mary Anne, Kristy, Mal, and I could hear him. “What’ll it be?”
“Spaghetti,” said everyone except Dawn, who chose the chicken. (Across the aisle, Stacey also asked for the chicken. But Claud asked for spaghetti. She absolutely loves it.)
Plastic trays were set in front of us. Everything was in little compartments, like a TV dinner. And the forks and knives and stuff were packaged in plastic.
“This must be so things won’t slide around in case there’s a sudden drop in cabin pressure and the plane takes a nosedive,” said Mary Anne.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “In first class, the passengers get to eat on regular plates, and their silverware comes rolled up in linen napkins.”
“Really?” said Mary Anne. “Boy, I wish we’d had enough money for first-class seats. That would have been so fresh.”
We began our meal. The food was like school cafeteria food. But it was more fun to eat. And our conversation was definitely more interesting. We had California on the brain.
“You know where I want to go when we get to L.A.?” Claudia shouted to Dawn. (I’m sure the other passengers loved us.)
“Where?” asked Dawn.
“To Knott’s Berry Farm.”
“A berry farm?” I exclaimed. Gosh. You could go to berry farms in Connecticut.
“No, Knott’s Berry Farm,” said Dawn. “It’s an amusement park.”
“Oh. Then I want to go there, too,” I replied. “And I want to go to Hollywood. I want to see that wax museum.”
“You want to go to Hollywood just to see the museum?” asked Mal. “What about seeing the homes of movie stars? Now that’s why people go to Hollywood.”
“Is there a sports hall of fame around L.A.?” Kristy wondered.
Dawn frowned. “If there is, I don’t know about it. Ask Jeff when we get to California. He’ll know. Or my dad will know.”
“I want to go to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre,” said Stacey.
“Yeah! Just like they did on I Love Lucy,” agreed Claud. “Only we won’t try to steal John Wayne’s footprints.”
I had no idea what Claud was talking about, and I didn’t want to ask. But I did say, “Hey, Dawn, can we go to the San Diego Zoo? I’ve always wanted to go there. It’s supposed to be one of the best zoos—”
“Jessi,” interrupted Dawn. “Go to San Diego? Do you know how far that is from Los Angeles? California’s a big state,” she reminded me.
“We’re going to Hollywood, though, right?” said Mary Anne. We had finished eating, and one of the flight attendants had cleared our food away. Mary Anne had left her tray down, though, and now it was covered with about a million maps, plus pamphlets about California.
“Where’d you get all that stuff?” Dawn asked Mary Anne.
“From a travel agent. Listen, you wouldn’t believe what we can do in Hollywood. I mean, we can look at the stars’ homes and go to Grauman’s and the wax museum, but there’s also the Universal Studios tour and the Walk of Fame. Oh, and we can go to Beverly Hills, too, can’t we? Because there are tons of stars’ homes there. You know, we can buy maps that show us where the different homes are located. And if you really want to go to a zoo, Jessi, there’s one in L.A. Plus lots of gardens and museums. And let’s see. Back near Hollywood, there are these prehistoric fossil pits. Oh, Kristy, you might want to see the Rose Bowl Stadium.”
Mary Anne would probably have gone on talking forever, except that the lights in the cabin were dimmed, and the movie came on. All seven of us had rented headphones earlier, so for the next couple of hours we sat in dead silence, watching this really scary movie.
When the movie ended, the flight attendants brought the beverage carts around and we all got free sodas and juice. And peanuts. After that, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until we were getting ready to land. As the plane skimmed along the runway, Mary Anne gripped the arms of her seat so tightly her knuckles turned white. But the landing was perfect, and before we knew it, we had gotten our things out of the luggage compartments, filed off of the plane, and were entering the airport, when Dawn shouted, “Dad! Jeff! Here we are!”
Rushing toward us were Jeff (whom I’ve met several times) and Mr. Schafer (whom I’ve never met). Actually, I don’t think any of Dawn’s friends has met him. But he was really nice. Patient, too. We had to wait for about forty-five minutes to claim our luggage. (This is partially because Stacey and Claudia had packed so much.) And then he endured a pretty lengthy drive in a borrowed van to Dawn’s house with the seven of us, plus Jeff, giggling and talking loudly the whole way.
“I can’t believe we’re in California,” I said, as we drove along. “Warm weather, palm trees …”
“Cute boys,” added Claudia.
“Movie stars,” added Mary Anne, which reminded me of something.
“Hey, I’ve got to call Derek Masters tonight,” I said.
Derek is an eight-year-old kid whose family is from Stoneybrook, and whom I’ve baby-sat for. But guess what. He’s not an average everyday kid. He’s one of the stars of a TV sitcom called P.S. 162, which is filmed in L.A. So he and his family live out here while Derek is filming. He and I have kept in touch, and I promised him I’d call when I got to California.
When we finally reached Dawn’s house, two things happened — one bad and one good. The bad thing was that Dawn found Carol, her father’s girlfriend, waiting for us. Carol had come over and was cooking that night’s dinner. Dawn was not pleased. The good thing was that I reached Derek’s mom (Derek was at the studio) and she invited me to watch Derek film on Wednesday. Mr. Schafer said I could go. I could not believe I would actually be able to visit the set of P.S. 162. My vacation was off to an incredible start!
Boy, that three-hour time change sure makes a difference. I didn’t think it would, but it did. What happened was that our flight took off at about noon. Then we flew for five hours or so, but when we got to California, it was only about two o’clock on the West Coast. It felt like five o’clock to my friends and me, though. And when we went to bed at ten-thirty that night, it felt like one-thirty to our poor, confused bodies.
So we slept later than we meant to the next morning, and were all kind of groggy for awhile after we got up. Even Dawn, who felt that, as our hostess, she should ask us what we wanted to do that day. Luckily, none of us said anything.
“So you guys don’t mind just hanging around today?” she asked.
“Not one bit,” said Mary Anne.
In all honesty, I wanted to go back to bed, but since so many of us were visiting the Schafers, my bed was a sleeping bag on the floor of Dawn’s room. And I was not tired enough
to want to go back to the sleeping bag.
Anyway, things started to get interesting right away.
See, Mr. Schafer hired a housekeeper to cook and clean for him and Jeff. Her name is Mrs. Bruen, and Dawn has met her and likes her. But she doesn’t come on Sundays. However, Carol showed up in time to help Mr. Schafer make brunch. Immediately, I could see Dawn’s hackles go up. I couldn’t figure out why. Carol seemed nice enough. She likes music, and knows a lot about MTV and music videos and stuff.
But Dawn acted like brunch couldn’t be over fast enough for her. In fact, when the phone rang just as everyone was finishing up, Dawn made a beeline for it. I heard her say, “Hello?” There was a pause. Then Dawn cried, “Sunny!”
Sunny Winslow is Dawn’s best friend in California. She and two of her friends have started their own baby-sitting club. It’s called the We Kids Club, and it’s based on the BSC. (When Dawn first moved to Stoneybrook, she wrote to Sunny so often and told her so much about the BSC that Sunny just couldn’t resist starting a California sitting business.)
A few minutes later, I heard Dawn hang up the phone. She ran back to the patio, where we were eating. “Guess what, you guys. Sunny invited us over today. Does the BSC want to meet the We Love Kids Club?”
I was the first to answer. “Definitely,” I said. I’d been dying to see how another club runs. So Dawn called Sunny back and told her we’d come over around noon.
* * *
“I better warn you about something,” Dawn was saying.
It was 12:15, and Dawn, Claudia, Jessi, Mal, Stacey, Mary Anne, and I were standing at the Winslows’ front door. Sunny’s house looked a lot like Dawn’s — skylights in the roof, sprawling and modern. But it was a two-story house, and Dawn’s is all one level.
“Warn us? About what?” I asked.
“The We Love Kids Club doesn’t work exactly the same way our club does. Sunny and Jill and Maggie are sort of, oh, relaxed about things.”
“Do they get as many jobs as we do?” I asked.
Dawn shrugged. “Probably not. There are only three of them, and there are seven of us, plus Logan and Shannon.”
I didn’t say anything. I was already beginning to feel … funny. I knew there was no reason to be competitive, but, well, I did feel that I had sort of invented baby-sitting clubs, and that I knew best. I told myself to calm down, though. I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Dawn’s friends.
Dawn rang the Winslows’ bell and a moment later, the door flew open. A grinning girl ran out, and she and Dawn hugged and hugged. Then Sunny said, “Come on upstairs. Jill and Maggie are here.”
We followed Sunny to her bedroom. Sitting on her floor were two girls. They stood up when they saw us, and then the introductions began. Sunny said, “Members of the BSC, meet the We Love Kids Club. I’m Sunny Winslow.” (Duh.) “And this is Maggie Blume, and this is Jill Henderson.”
Then Dawn introduced the BSC to Sunny, Maggie, and Jill. Phew!
The ten of us crowded onto the floor and Sunny’s bed.
“Where does the president sit?” I asked Sunny.
“President?” she repeated. “Oh, we don’t have officers in our club.”
“You don’t? But how do you know who should do which jobs?”
“We just do whatever needs doing,” Sunny replied. She sounded a little testy.
“How often do you read your club notebook?” I couldn’t help asking. I was pretty sure there was no notebook. (I was right.)
“We have an appointment book, though,” spoke up Jill. “And we made Kid-Kits like yours.”
“We-ell …” Now I felt flattered.
I felt even more flattered when Maggie said, “Kristy, I was wondering. You’re the president of your club and you thought it up, right?” (I nodded.) “So what do you do if nobody can take a job that comes in?”
I was in the middle of explaining about our associate members when Sunny’s phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?” she said. “Oh, hi, Mr. Robertson…. Wednesday afternoon? Let me check. Hold on.” Sunny cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Can anyone sit for Stephie on Wednesday?”
Maggie and Jill shook their heads.
“Too bad. I can’t, either,” said Sunny. She took her hand off the receiver, then immediately put it back. “Hey, any of you guys want a sitting job?” Obviously, she meant the members of the BSC.
“For Stephie Robertson?” said Dawn. “I remember her. She’s really sweet. She lives with just her father, doesn’t she? No mom or brothers or sisters.”
“Right,” answered Sunny.
“You know,” said Dawn, “Mary Anne, I bet you’d be perfect for Stephie. You two have a lot in common.”
Well, by this time, my mouth must have looked like the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. That’s how wide it was open. I could not believe what had just happened. As soon as Sunny got off the phone, having told Mr. Robertson that a good friend of Dawn Schafer’s could sit for his daughter, I exclaimed, “What is going on here?”
“What do you mean?” asked Sunny.
“Well, is this the way you always conduct meetings? And how come people are calling you on a Sunday? Do you have meetings on Sundays?”
“Oh, no. We hold our meetings after school. Usually two or three times a week for half an hour or so.”
“Two or three times a week? For half an hour or so? You mean you don’t have regular meetings? Is that why people are calling on Sunday?”
“Sure,” replied Maggie. “They can call whenever they want.”
“Do they always call here?”
“No, they can call at any of our houses.”
Hmmph. This was a sorry excuse for a baby-sitting club.
I just had to ask one more question. “How do you decide who gets the jobs that come in during meetings?”
“Oh, we take whatever we want,” said Jill.
(I decided not to ask why they even bothered with an appointment book.)
“Listen, Mary Anne,” Sunny spoke up. “There’s something you should know about Stephie. She’s asthmatic.”
Dawn clapped her hand to her forehead. “That’s right! How could I have forgotten? Yeah, Mary Anne. Stephie has asthma. I learned about it when I used to sit for her.”
Mary Anne looked alarmed, so Jill said, “Don’t worry. Stephie’s been living with it for a long time. She has an inhalator and knows how to use it. She has pills, too.”
“Wait!” cried Mallory. “What’s asthma? What’s an inhalator?”
“Asthma is a condition,” replied Dawn, “in which a person’s bronchial passages — those are the breathing tubes — close up sometimes and then the person has trouble breathing. It can be serious because a person can stop breathing, but that doesn’t happen often. Anyway, inhalators help the breathing to start again. Stephie — or her father or whoever — always carries one. It’s small. She puts it in her mouth, breathes in, and whatever is in the inhalator makes the breathing tubes open up again.”
“Okay,” said Mary Anne uncertainly. And Mal looked relieved that she wasn’t going to be sitting for Stephie.
The phone rang again, and Sunny answered it. “Hello?” She didn’t even say, “Hello, We Love Kids Club.” Then again, how would she know whether this was a personal call or a business call?
It turned out to be a business call.
“Anyone want to sit for Erick and Ryan on Saturday?” asked Sunny.
It was a good thing her hand was cupped over the receiver because Jill and Maggie both groaned loudly.
“What’s wrong with Erick and Ryan?” I asked.
“They’re terrors, that’s what,” said Maggie.
“Well, I’ll sit for them,” I said. I would show the We Kids Club what a real baby-sitter could do.
Sunny arranged the job for me, telling Erick and Ryan’s mother that I was a responsible sitter and also a good friend of Dawn Schafer’s. But as soon as she hung up, she said, “Kristy, you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.�
�
I didn’t care. Anyway, I didn’t think I’d gotten myself into anything. I am an excellent sitter. I can handle all kinds of kids. But Sunny, Jill, and Maggie were bombarding me with rapid-fire advice:
“Give those boys an inch and they’ll take a mile.”
“Don’t let them out of your sight for a second.”
“Set down rules with them right away.”
Ha, I thought. I don’t have to listen to this. Especially from members of a club that doesn’t have officers and doesn’t even hold regular meetings. Whoever Erick and Ryan were, however tough they were, I knew I could handle them. And I would do it my own way.
On Monday, my friends and I had settled in. We were over our jet lag, and, well, it was easy to feel excited and happy, what with the beautiful weather we were having. It sure was good to be back home…. Uh-oh. Did I call California home? Well, it’s hard not to think of it that way. After all, I was born and raised there. But I had every intention of returning to Stoneybrook. Staying in California with Dad and Jeff was not an issue. Partly, I’m ashamed to say, that was because of Carol, at least during the first week and a half of our visit.
She was at our house all the time. She was there on Saturday when my friends and I got in from Connecticut. She came back on Sunday. At first, I thought that was just because Mrs. Bruen wasn’t there, and Carol wanted to help cook. But she was back again on Monday. She arrived not long after Mrs. Bruen did.
I’m not proud to say this, but when she rang our doorbell and I answered it, I greeted Carol by saying, “What are you doing here?”
Carol, who had been smiling, continued to smile. (She smiles way, way too much.) “Hey,” she said. “Your dad’s got to work this week. Someone has to drive you kids around. This is your vacation.”
“Mrs. Bruen can drive us,” I said. (I hadn’t even let Carol through the door.)
“No, I can’t!” called Mrs. Bruen from the kitchen. “My job is here.”
“And my job is flexible,” said Carol. (She’s a painter.) “I can work whenever I feel like it. So I decided to take a vacation now, too.”
California Girls! Page 2
