Keep Out, Claudia!

by Ann M. Martin

  It was 5:25 and another meeting of the BSC was about to begin. We were sitting comfortably in our usual places. Kristy was ensconced in the director’s chair; Mary Anne and Stacey and I were lined up on my bed; Dawn was seated backward at the desk chair, her arms dangling over the top rung; and Jessi and Mal were curled up on the floor.

  “Okay, please come to order,” said Kristy when the food had been handed around and we were munching away.

  We settled down. And right away the phone rang.

  “I got it!” said Mal. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club. Mallory Pike speaking…. Hi, Mrs. Lowell…. Kristy? Okay, just a sec.” Mallory put her hand over the receiver and said, “Kristy, Mrs. Lowell wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” Kristy answered, frowning. She reached for the phone.

  Requesting a particular sitter is not club policy.

  “Maybe she isn’t calling about a job,” whispered Jessi.

  “That must be it,” I agreed.

  But Kristy’s end of the conversation certainly sounded work-related. “Two hours?” she said. Then she went on, “But — Well, okay. I mean, that isn’t … um, did something happen? Why don’t you want …”

  I looked at Kristy. Her eyes were downcast. She seemed to be studying her sneakers. So I looked at the rest of my friends. They were exchanging puzzled glances.

  Finally Kristy said, “I’ll call you right back, okay?”

  “What was that all about?” I asked as soon as she’d hung up.

  “I’ll explain in a few minutes,” Kristy replied. “Who’s free on Wednesday afternoon, Mary Anne?”

  “This Wednesday? Let me see…. Just Jessi.”

  “Want to sit for the Lowells, Jessi?” asked Kristy.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Kristy called Mrs. Lowell back, then faced the rest of us BSC members, looking serious. “I have to tell you this,” she said, “and I might as well tell you straight out. When Mrs. Lowell called, she said she needed a sitter, but she asked for someone besides Claudia.”

  I gasped. “What?” I whispered.

  Kristy shook her head. “I don’t understand it, but that’s what she said. Did anything happen when you were there, Claud? If it did, you should have told me about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. It wasn’t my best sitting job ever, but nothing horrible happened. Nobody got hurt, nothing was broken.”

  “Is one of the Lowells a walking disaster like Jackie Rodowsky?” asked Jessi. She looked worried. I knew she was beginning to wonder about the job she’d just accepted.

  “No! Not at all. Think of the horrible things that have happened when we’ve sat for Jackie. Broken vases, grape juice on the carpet, skinned knees, banged heads. The Lowells were angels compared to Jackie.” I felt numb. And I was angry that I had to defend myself when nothing had happened.

  “The Lowells are sort of angelic, aren’t they?” said Mary Anne.

  I paused. “Actually, I didn’t have quite the experience with them that you did,” I said after a moment.

  “Wait. I’m confused, Claudia,” said Kristy. “Were the Lowells okay or not? What did go on when you sat for them?”

  “Well, nothing. But something.” Kristy looked very frustrated, so I rushed on. “Okay. The kids and I didn’t really get along. Remember the Delaneys? Well, Caitlin and Mackie reminded me of Amanda and Max Delaney.”

  “You know, they do sort of look like them,” spoke up Mary Anne.

  “I mean they acted like them. They wouldn’t obey me. They tried to get away with things. They snuck food before dinner. When I set limits, they said they were going to tell on me, tell their mom I was mean to them or something.”

  “You should have let me know,” Kristy said again.

  “Well, I wrote about it in the notebook,” I pointed out. “And anyway, like I said, none of the things that happened seemed that bad. No broken lamps, no grape juice stains, not even a skinned knee.”

  Now Mary Anne was frowning. “The kids were perfect when I sat for them. They did everything I suggested. And when Mrs. Lowell came home she kept smiling and telling me what a wonderful job I’d done and commenting on how happy the kids looked.”

  “What did I do wrong? Maybe the kids really spoiled their appetites when they snuck that food.”

  “What did they eat?” asked Stacey.

  “Some grapes.”

  “That’s it? Some grapes? You mean a couple of bunches?”

  “No. Just a few grapes each. I checked the fruit bowl.”

  “That wouldn’t spoil their appetites,” said Dawn. “I thought you meant they raided the cookie jar.”

  “Nope. But maybe they have small stomachs. Or maybe the problem is something totally different. Maybe the kids told their mother they didn’t have fun at the Hobarts’.”

  “Oh, they had a great time,” said Mary Anne. “I was watching them.”

  “Then maybe Mrs. Lowell didn’t like my taking them somewhere else to play. But she didn’t say not to leave the yard.”

  “And the Hobarts are so close by,” added Jessi.

  “Maybe she doesn’t like the Hobarts?” I wondered.

  “I don’t think the Lowell kids had ever met the Hobarts before,” said Mallory. “I don’t think they knew any of the kids there.”

  “I know! Mrs. Lowell didn’t like my outfit!” I exclaimed. “I forgot about that. I’m positive she was looking at it and she thought it was too wild, especially considering what Caitlin and Mackie and Celeste were wearing.”

  “But why didn’t she just say so?” asked Dawn.

  I shrugged. So did Kristy.

  “Well, I did get there a little early,” I said after a moment.

  “That’s no reason to ask you not to sit again,” Kristy pointed out.

  Mr. Ohdner phoned then, needing a sitter. And then several more clients called. Our meeting became very busy. We couldn’t talk about the Lowells again until nearly six o’clock.

  “I hope,” I said, “that you all noticed no one else asked me not to sit for them. Did you notice that?”

  Kristy smiled. “I’m sorry if I sounded like I was accusing you before, but Mrs. Lowell was so clear about not wanting you to sit. The only logical explanation was that something had happened. Maybe I should phone Mrs. Lowell and talk to her tonight. I feel funny about that, though. And anyway, she does want to keep using the BSC,” said Kristy.

  “Maybe I’ll find out something when I sit,” said Jessi.

  “Dress nicely,” I advised her. “And keep the kids at home.”

  “Okay,” agreed Jessi solemnly. Then she grinned. “I’ll keep them out of the grapes, too.”

  After that weird club meeting, the one during which Mrs. Lowell phoned and requested any baby-sitter except me, Jessi decided she ought to be better prepared than usual when she met her new sitting charges. She wanted the afternoon to go perfectly so that Mrs. Lowell wouldn’t be able to find a single fault with Jessi’s work.

  Jessi planned carefully. When the meeting was over she ran home, and after dinner she opened her Kid-Kit and examined the contents.

  “Hmm. Low on crayons,” she murmured. “And not enough books for little kids. I better find some that Celeste will like.” Jessi removed a couple of items from the kit (to make room for more books), and wandered into her family’s rec room. From a shelf, she pulled Blueberries For Sal, The Snowy Day, A Chair For My Mother, and Good Dog, Carl. She placed them by the kit.

  Now, she thought, do I have enough toys for six-year-old boys? The kit was stocked with plenty of art materials (good for boys and girls of all ages), some easy jigsaw puzzles, and a bunch of Matchbox cars and trucks.

  “Now for eight-year-old girls,” muttered Jessi, and she marched upstairs to her sister’s room.

  “Becca?”

  “Yeah?” Jessi’s sister was sitting at her desk, writing something on a sheet of paper with wide lines on it.

  “What are you doing?” asked Jessi.

  “My homewo
rk. We’re supposed to write a story called ‘The Ghost in My Room.’ It has to be two pages long.” Becca looked pained.

  “That sounds like fun!” exclaimed Jessi. “Listen, Becca, I have to put some stuff in my Kid-Kit that eight-year-old girls will especially like. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Barbies,” said Becca, without looking up from her paper. “And stickers. Oh, and Charlotte and I like to play office.”

  “Great, Becca. Thanks,” said Jessi.

  What a terrific idea! Jessi decided to put together an office package for Caitlin. Before she did that, though, she phoned Mary Anne. “I’m getting ready for my job at the Lowells’,” she told her. “I want to make sure I have special stuff in my Kid-Kit for each of the children. And guess what Becca suggested. She said Caitlin might like to play office. What do you think?”

  “I think that sounds great. I mean, we didn’t play office when I baby-sat, but I’m sure Caitlin would like that game.”

  “Okay. I’m going to make up an office set for her.”

  It took Jessi half an hour (when she should have been working on an assignment for her French class), but finally she had filled a plastic box with colored pencils, Magic Markers, pens, erasers, paper clips (red, white, and blue), blunt scissors, tape, memo pads, rubber bands, stickers, animal stamps, writing paper, and envelopes.

  “There,” she said. “Boy. I should win the Best Baby-sitter Award.”

  * * *

  On the day of her job at the Lowells’, Jessi made sure to arrive exactly five minutes early — early enough to make a good impression, but not so early as to annoy Mrs. Lowell (in case that’s what I had done). Jessi was determined to please her new clients.

  Jessi paused on the Lowells’ front stoop, clutching her Kid-Kit. She pictured the office set tucked inside. She was pretty sure Caitlin would like it. Jessi had shown it to Becca the night before, and Becca not only had fallen in love with it, but had begged her sister to put together one just for her — which Jessi had done.

  Jessi drew in a breath and pressed the bell.

  A few moments later the door swung open.

  Jessi smiled at the woman standing before her. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Jessi Ramsey. I’m the baby-sitter.”

  Mrs. Lowell looked shocked. When Jessi told us her story that afternoon, that was the only word she used to describe the expression on Mrs. Lowell’s face. “Shocked,” Jessi repeated to us. “I don’t know how else to put it.”

  Mrs. Lowell stared at Jessi for a full six seconds and, during that time, Jessi did just what I had done when Mrs. Lowell and I faced each other. She tried to figure out what could possibly be wrong with what Mrs. Lowell saw. Had she buttoned her shirt crookedly? Were her jeans unzipped? Wait! Maybe Mrs. Lowell expected girls to wear dresses…. No. Jessi knew that Caitlin and Celeste owned blue jeans. Nervously, Jessi glanced down at herself, then back at Mrs. Lowell.

  “Did — did I come at the wrong time?” Jessi stammered, checking her watch.

  “No, um … No.” Mrs. Lowell took a step backward. “I don’t need a sitter after all,” she finally managed to say. “I forgot to tell you.”

  Mrs. Lowell closed the front door.

  Jessi remained motionless on the stoop. She felt like crying, although she wasn’t quite sure why. She hadn’t been yelled at or scolded or injured. Yet she was hurt. And a familiar thought nagged at her but wouldn’t make itself known.

  Jessi turned around slowly and walked down the Lowells’ driveway. When she reached the sidewalk she turned around and looked at the house. She couldn’t see anyone; not Mrs. Lowell, not the children. Just a curtain moving near a window by the front door.

  The Wednesday afternoon meeting of the BSC wouldn’t begin for almost two hours. Jessi, carrying the Kid-Kit, walked toward Mallory’s house. For some reason she didn’t feel like going home and telling anyone what had just happened at the Lowells’. Jessi scuffed down the street thinking of the office set she’d made for Caitlin, of the half hour she should have spent doing her homework.

  By the time she reached the Pikes’ house she was crying.

  But by the time she and Mal arrived in BSC headquarters, she had stopped. She simply looked puzzled — as puzzled as I still felt.

  “Maybe Mrs. Lowell expected someone older,” suggested Jessi when the meeting was underway. “Maybe she thought I would be thirteen, like Mary Anne and Claudia.”

  “But why wouldn’t she just have said so?” asked Kristy, who was scowling under her visor. Clearly, she thought Mrs. Lowell was Trouble. I could tell she was trying to figure out what to do about her. Clients must be handled delicately.

  “I don’t know. She looked embarrassed,” replied Jessi. “Well, no, that’s not true. Like I said, she mostly looked shocked. And you know what? She practically slammed the door in my face!”

  I gave Jessi a sympathetic glance. Then, to make her feel better, I asked her to show us the office kit she had put together. We all exclaimed over it, and about half of us decided to put together kits of our own.

  But we could not forget about Mrs. Lowell.

  “Maybe she’ll call during the meeting,” said Kristy.

  She didn’t. Each time the phone rang we looked at it expectantly. Once Dawn even said, staring at the receiver, “I will you to be Mrs. Lowell.” The caller was Mr. Hobart.

  “I guess I could phone Mrs. Lowell,” said Kristy uncertainly. “In fact, I probably ought to. As club president, it’s my job to find out if we have a dissatisfied client.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Jessi, brightening. “Wait a sec! We’re making too much of this. Maybe Mrs. Lowell really did forget she didn’t need a sitter. Her plans changed and she forgot to call us to cancel. So she was embarrassed.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to deflate Jessi, but wanting to be honest with her. “That doesn’t explain why she never wants me to sit for her kids again.”

  Jessi sagged. “True.”

  For several minutes the seven of us sat in silence. At last Mary Anne sighed, then said, “Well, I’m supposed to sit for the Lowells again next week. Should we wait and see how that goes?”

  “Sure,” Kristy answered. “Why not? I don’t know what else to do.”

  The clock turned to six and Kristy adjourned the meeting. My friends wandered quietly out of my room, through the hall, down the stairs, out the front door.

  At dinner, I tried to be cheerful.

  “You know what we need?” asked Jackie Rodowsky. “We need a name. That’s what. And it should be, like, catchy.”

  Jackie was talking about the band. My friends and I had managed to get the kids together several times and, by now, everyone had chosen whether to be a singer or a player, the players had decided on instruments, and the instruments had been either found or made. The band was heavy on kazoos and percussion (a lot of the littler kids had insisted on playing drums, tambourines, sticks, and cymbals), but we also featured a couple of piano players, a flute player, a trumpet player, a violin player, and Charlotte, our guitar player. Myriah, Gabbie, Buddy Barrett, and Margo Pike were our singers.

  At our first band practice, the kids had unanimously voted to learn the song “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie.

  Now, sitting for the Rodowskys one Saturday, the boys were rehearsing — and Jackie had decided the band needed a name.

  “You know you’re right,” I replied. “Any suggestions, Jackie?”

  Jackie bit his lip and stared into space. He fiddled with his kazoo. “How about the Beatles?”

  “I think that’s been taken.”

  “The Little Beatles? The Baby Beatles?”

  “Your name should say more about you.”

  “Jackie Rodowsky’s All-Star Orchestra!”

  “It isn’t your band, Jackie,” said Archie indignantly.

  And Shea added, “I think the name should be funny.”

  “String Beans!” said Archie.

  “Turtle Toes!” said Shea.

  I gigg
led. “Come on, you guys.”

  The Rodowsky boys grew quiet, thinking. After a moment Jackie said seriously, “You know what? I think we should call ourselves All the Children, like short for All the Children of the World. Because we are all kids, and we’re all different kinds of kids; different ages, different colors —”

  “Yeah!” said Shea, catching on. “And our families come from all different countries. We’re Polish,” he said proudly.

  “And I’m Japanese,” I added. “And Hannie and Linny Papadakis are Greek, and the Hobarts are Australian.”

  “Did you know,” spoke up Archie, “that Jamie Newton’s great-great-great-grandfather was an Indian? So Jamie is a real, true American, because the Indians lived in America before anyone else did. And they’re called Native Americans now. My teacher said so.”

  “Well I like All the Children,” I said. “It’s a great name for the band.”

  “I like it, too,” said Shea and Archie at the same time.

  Jackie grinned, pleased with himself.

  “Okay, are you guys ready to rehearse?” I asked. “I think we should have our own practice before we go to Jamie’s for the big practice.” Our band had been rehearsing at the Newtons’ because Mr. and Mrs. Newton had been nice enough to say that not only could our two piano players use their electric keyboard, but that we could set it up on their back porch, since it was easier for the band to play outdoors.

  “Claudia?” said Jackie. “When we go to Jamie’s, can we tell the other kids the name for our band?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “Except I don’t think we should tell the kids. I think they should vote on it. Just to be democratic. Now, are you guys ready to rehearse?”

  “We better warm up, first,” said Archie.

  The boys ran into the living room where I could see a tambourine sitting on the piano. Shea slid onto the piano bench, Archie grabbed the tambourine, and Jackie held up his kazoo.

  “Scales!” ordered Shea. He placed his thumb on middle C and accompanied himself while he sang, “Do re mi fa sol la ti do.”