Kristy Power!

by Ann M. Martin

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Batman vs. The Joker.

  Superman vs. Lex Luthor.

  Men in Black vs. huge, ugly alien bugs.

  Kristy Thomas vs. Cary Retlin.

  Yup, it’s like that.

  What do they call them in the comics? Archenemies? Well, that’s what Cary and I are. We have been ever since he moved here.

  Where’s “here”? Good question. Obviously I haven’t filled you in on all the details. “Here” is Stoneybrook, Connecticut, my hometown. I’ve lived here all my life, which is approximately thirteen years. My name, in case you haven’t guessed, is Kristy Thomas. Kristin Amanda Thomas, if you want to be formal.

  Or irritating. Cary used to call me Kristin all the time, just to try to get my goat.

  Why he would want my goat, I don’t know. I don’t even have a goat, to tell you the truth. I have a humongous puppy named Shannon and a wacky little kitten named Pumpkin. Plus various goldfish and a pet rat, all of whom actually belong to my younger siblings and stepsiblings.

  I guess I’d better give you the rundown on my family now. First off, there’s me. I’m short, with brown hair and eyes and a distaste for dressing up. For me, “dressing up” = wearing anything fancier than T-shirts and jeans. I love sports, especially softball, which I play (I’m on the school team) and coach (Kristy’s Krushers, a team of little kids in Stoneybrook). I’m energetic, opinionated, outspoken, and full of great ideas. (I’m not as conceited as that may sound. It’s just the truth.) My best idea ever was for the Baby-sitter Club, or BSC, a club that’s more like a business. It’s a bunch of baby-sitters, who also happen to be good friends, who work together to provide quality sitting for a lot of regular clients.

  Then there are my three brothers. Two of them are older than me (Sam’s fifteen, and Charlie is seventeen). David Michael is younger (he’s seven). I’m very close to all three of them, and to my mom. Why? Well, partly because we had to pull together as a family years ago when our dad walked out on us.

  Believe me, that hurt. A lot. It hurt back then, and it still hurts now. I didn’t have much contact with my dad for years, except for the occasional birthday card. Recently, though, he seems to be interested in coming back into our lives. Maybe. I think. It’s too soon to tell, really. He decided to remarry not long ago, and he invited me and my older brothers to the wedding. I like his new wife, Zoey, a lot. As for Dad — well, as I said, it’s too soon to tell.

  Meanwhile, back in Stoneybrook, life has gone on without him all these years. We struggled along, just the five of us, for quite a while. Then this great thing happened: My mom, who deserves the best, met a fantastic guy.

  To be honest, I didn’t think he was all that fantastic at first. But he’s grown on me. A lot. Now I’m crazy about him, which is a good thing, because my mom married him and we moved across town to live in his mansion.

  Yes, you heard me right. My stepfather, Watson Brewer, lives in a mansion. That’s because he’s a real, live millionaire. As in, bucks galore. Not that he acts rich or anything. In fact, if you didn’t know Watson was rich you wouldn’t be able to tell by the way he acts. He’s never stuck-up or rude. And he dresses like a normal person. I used to picture millionaires in top hats and tails. Now I know they wear sweatsuits.

  So. My mom married Watson, and we went to live with him. I gained two stepsiblings in the deal. Karen’s seven and Andrew is four, and they live with us part-time. I love them a ton.

  I also gained another sister, Emily Michelle. She’s a toddler, a Vietnamese orphan adopted by my mom and Watson. Adorable? You bet. You’ve never seen anyone cuter.

  All of us fit comfortably into that mansion, along with Nannie, my grandmother. She came to live with us after Emily Michelle arrived. Nannie’s not a sit-and-knit grandma. She’s a busy, active woman who loves to watch MTV and who drives around in a car the color of bubble gum.

  Now, where was I? Oh, right. Cary Retlin. My archenemy.

  I was thinking about Cary on this gray December day because I happened to be sitting behind him in English class.

  I was staring at the back of Cary’s head, which is covered in straight, longish dirty-blond hair, and I was wondering what makes him tick. I’ve never figured Cary out. I’m not sure I want to either. But if I did, it wouldn’t be easy. He’s an enigma. Good word, huh? It means, according to my dictionary, “one that is puzzling, ambiguous, or inexplicable.” That’s Cary, all right.

  Cary is relatively new in Stoneybrook, but he’s certainly made his mark. Especially at SMS, or Stoneybrook Middle School, where I’m in the eighth grade. Any time there’s mischief happening at our school, you can bet Cary’s involved. At one time he was even part of a prank-pulling group called the Mischief Knights. At least I think he was. You can never be sure of anything in Cary’s case.

  He’s sure of himself, though. No question about it, Cary has a pretty good opinion of Cary. You can see it in the way he swaggers through the halls, in the way he lifts one eyebrow when he’s talking to you, in the way he smirks his little smirk. Cary is an arrogant, smart-alecky kind of guy. He’s obnoxious, but not in an Alan-Grayish sort of way. (Alan Gray, another boy in our grade, is obnoxious in an immature, spitball-throwing way.)

  And yet I don’t hate Cary. Not exactly. I just, well, I wish I could get to him the way he can get to me.

  For some reason, when Cary first moved here he targeted me and my friends in the BSC. He has given us a hard time in more ways than I can count. Why? Because, he says, “complications make life more interesting.” Excuse me, when did I ever say I was bored?

  To be honest, he has kept us guessing. And I hate to admit it, but sometimes his tricks have been … well, not boring. Like the time he challenged the members of the BSC to a mystery war and planted clues all over the school for us to find and figure out. Annoying? Yes. A big yawn? No.

  Anyway, there I was, staring at the back of Cary Retlin’s head. Then Mr. Morley — Ted — interrupted my thoughts.

  “Who can tell me what makes a good biography?”

  He stood in the front of the room, smiling at us. In one hand he held a copy of A Life of Discovery, a book about Eleanor Roosevelt that we had read in class at the beginning of the semester.

  Ted is a terrific teacher. I think he’s my favorite this year. And I’ve only had him for a month!

  You may be wondering why I call him Ted. It’s because he told me to. Well, not just me. He told the whole class to call him that. “It’s my name,” he said, shrugging. “When I hear ‘Mr. Morley’ I think people are talking about my dad.”

  It’s not always easy to remember to call him Ted, but we try. When we forget, he just smiles. Then we remember.

  Ted is young for a teacher. He’s probably twenty-five or something. He’s a big guy with black hair and a big black beard. Big hands, big feet, and a big old stomach. He’s kind of like a teddy bear, in fact.

  Why has he been our teacher for only a month? He took the place of our regular English teacher, Mrs. Simon, when she had her baby. That wasn’t supposed to happen until the middle of January, but the baby had other plans. I guess he wanted to be here for Christmas. Anyway, the baby’s fine, but Mrs. Simon started her maternity leave early, so we ended up with Te
d ahead of schedule.

  Ted is the best. Everybody loves him. He’s not like a regular teacher at all. He runs the class without running it, if you know what I mean. He’s definitely in charge, but he doesn’t act as if he’s smarter or better than his students. He listens to what we have to say, really listens.

  He was listening now as kids in the class spoke up about biographies. “I think it’s good when the writer lets you get to know the person in a new way,” said Austin Bentley. “Showing you what Martin Luther King was like as a little kid, or something like that.”

  “Good,” said Ted. “Anybody else?”

  “It should be fun to read,” volunteered Cokie Mason, who is one of my not favorite people in the world. “Almost like a soap opera.”

  Ted nodded. “Sure,” he said. “A biography is a story, after all.”

  This boy named Jeremy spoke up. “But not everybody’s life is all that interesting,” he said. “So a good biography should also be about a special person.”

  Ted considered that. “I’m not sure I agree with you there, Jeremy. I happen to think everybody’s life is interesting. Which leads me to your next assignment.”

  We groaned. Not because we hate the assignments Ted gives us. Actually, he usually assigns projects and homework that seem more like fun than schoolwork. But face it. In middle school, when a teacher mentions work, everybody groans. It’s practically a tradition.

  Ted just smiled. “Our next unit is called Fact and Fiction,” he said. “Over the next few weeks, you’ll each complete two projects. Your grade will reflect how well you complete them.”

  Cokie raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Ted asked.

  “What are the projects, and what percentage of the grade will each of them count for?”

  Ted smiled again, though this time he tried to hide it. “I was just about to tell you that,” he said. “The two projects, each of which will count for half of your grade, are a biography project and a fiction-reading project.” He held up a hand and ticked off fingers as he spoke.

  Just then the bell rang.

  “Oops, time’s up,” said Ted. “I’ll give you the details tomorrow.”

  Cokie looked disappointed. She’d had her pen out, ready to write down the assignments. Slowly she put it away and closed her notebook.

  I was a little disappointed myself. It’s funny, I’ve never been a huge fan of English class. But having Ted for a teacher was changing my mind. These days, English was fun. Even if I did have to spend every class period staring at the back of Lex Luthor’s — I mean, Cary’s — head.

  “Take one and pass the rest back.” Ted handed a stack of papers to the first person in each row.

  It was the next day, Friday. I was in English class, staring once again at Cary Retlin’s cowlick. Just as I was wondering why they call it a “cowlick,” he turned and handed me the stack of papers. He smirked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Spacing, Kristy?” he asked.

  I frowned. “No,” I said, wishing I could think of a snappy retort. I took one of the papers and turned to pass the rest to Rachel, the girl behind me. Rachel used to live in Stoneybrook, then she moved to London for a while, but now she’s back. Oh, goody. Rachel has never been a favorite of mine. Still, I gave her a smile along with the stack. She smiled back. I don’t think we’ll become friends, but I know she and my friend Stacey McGill are getting to know each other.

  I glanced at the paper and saw that it was a list of books. Some titles were familiar, such as The Catcher in the Rye and A Separate Peace. But there were also a few books I’d never heard of. It was nice to see a few unfamiliar titles; this list looked a little more interesting than our usual reading lists.

  “As you can see, this is a list of books,” said Ted. “Can anyone tell me what they all have in common?”

  “They all have titles!” Alan Gray yelled out.

  Ted smiled. “Very observant, Alan,” he said drily. “Anybody else?”

  “Um, they’re all about kids?” asked Jeremy.

  “Good thought,” said Ted, looking down to scan the list. “I can see why you would say that. But it’s not entirely true. Anyway, I had something else in mind.”

  Jeremy blushed a little, and I saw Claudia shoot him a sympathetic look.

  Like Rachel, Jeremy is new at SMS. He moved here from Olympia, Washington, which sounds like a cool place to live. He’s majorly cute. In fact, he’s so cute that not one but two of my friends have had crushes on him. One is Claudia Kishi, the only full-time member of the BSC who’s in my English class. The other is her one-time best friend, Stacey McGill, the one who’s friendly with Rachel. Stacey and Jeremy are an item now, and Claudia and he are just friends. As for Stacey and Claudia, well, Jeremy is the reason I said Stacey is Claudia’s one-time best friend.

  Jeremy smiled back at Claudia and shrugged as if to say, Thanks, but I’m fine.

  “I think I know,” said Logan Bruno, waving his hand in the air. Logan is great. He and my best friend, Mary Anne Spier, went out for ages. They recently broke up, not long after Mary Anne’s house burned down. (A major tragedy for her and her family, but at least nobody was hurt.) Logan and Mary Anne are still awkward about the breakup. No wonder. They were boyfriend and girlfriend for so long that it’s hard to think of them as “just friends.”

  “They’re all fiction,” Logan said when Ted called on him. “There aren’t any biographies or true stories on this list.”

  “Excellent,” Ted said, nodding. “That’s just what I was looking for. Logan, you must have remembered what I said yesterday about our upcoming projects.” Ted waved a list. “This list includes works of fiction only. Some are classics, some may be destined for greatness, and some are just plain fun to read. I don’t expect every one of you to like every one of these books. But I think if you look over the list carefully, you’ll find that there’s something for everyone.”

  “Even for people who hate to read?” asked a boy named Dave.

  “Maybe something on this list will change your mind about that,” said Ted. “That would be my hope, anyway.”

  Cokie held up her hand. “How many books do we have to read?” she asked.

  “Just one,” said Ted.

  “Cool,” Dave muttered.

  “But I want you to read that one book really, really well,” Ted added, looking straight at Dave.

  “Are we going to have to write book reports?” asked Claudia.

  I could hear a little nervousness in her voice. Claudia is not fond of writing. She doesn’t spell very well, and she has a hard time remembering the rules of punctuation. Don’t misunderstand — Claudia’s very bright. She’s just not crazy about school. She’d rather express herself through art than through words.

  “Yup,” said Ted, folding his arms.

  I saw Claudia grimace.

  “But I’m not looking for typical book reports where you tell the whole plot, blah, blah, blah,” Ted continued. “For this book report, I want you to tell me what the book meant to you. How it affected you. Did it make you cry? Change an opinion? Teach you something?” Ted was looking around the room, making eye contact with each of us. “The best fiction does have an impact on the reader. We become the people we are partly through what we read. I want to hear how a book added to your life.”

  “What if we just think it’s boring?” Dave asked.

  “Then try another book. And keep trying, until you find one that means something to you. If nothing on the list grabs you, talk to me. I’ll offer some other suggestions. I’m sure we can find one book you’ll like.”

  Dave grumbled a little under his breath. Ted just ignored him. “In case you haven’t figured it out, my mission here is to make you care about reading,” he said, smiling.

  Cary raised his hand. (I should mention that he manages to make that motion look cool instead of geeky.) “Okay,” he said when Ted called on him, “so that’s our fiction project. What about the biography thing?”

  “Glad you ask
ed,” Ted answered. “I think you’ll all enjoy this one. What I want each of you to do is write a biography.”

  I heard groans. “Of Madame Curie or something?” Rachel asked. She sounded deathly bored.

  “Nope,” said Ted. “It’ll be about someone much closer to you. In fact, it will be a biography of someone in your class.”

  More groans. “But everybody in this class is a bore,” said Alan. “Nobody in here is an astronaut or a rock star.”

  “Especially you,” Dave said to him.

  “But that’s the point,” said Ted, ignoring Dave. “I want you to figure out how to create a fascinating biography of one of your fellow students. As I said yesterday, it’s my belief that everyone’s life is interesting. We all have our own stories, but we rarely have the chance to share them.”

  “I know Cokie’s story,” said Alan. “Born under a rock. Raised by emus. Destined for mediocrity.”

  Cokie shot him a Look.

  Ted raised both hands. “Enough,” he said. “Let’s be serious here for a minute. Does everyone understand the assignment? What I want you to do is learn the biographer’s craft. It’s not as easy as you might think. It involves not only interviewing your subject but using other sources. You’ll talk to their friends and family, check published sources such as the school newspaper or the yearbook, and follow up any interesting leads you find. I want you to present the whole person in this biography.”

  This was beginning to sound like fun. Being a biographer, I realized, was not too different from being a detective. And I’m a pretty good detective, if I do say so myself. My friends and I have solved a few very interesting cases.

  “Mr. Mor — I mean, Ted?” Rachel had raised her hand. “How do we decide who we’re going to write about?”

  “Aha, good question,” said Ted. “You don’t. I do. In fact, I already have. Right now I’m going to pass back a sheet that gives all the details of this project, including pairings of biographers and subjects. I pulled names out of a hat last night, so it’s totally random. You and your biography partner will each write about the other. You’re going to get to know each other very, very well.”