"Hatch." "Hatch who?" "Gesundheit!" Hoo hoo hee hee ho ho ho! Bob was now playing a recording of one man bellowing with laughter. Well, Jackie laughed so hard at that, he fell off his chair.
He grabbed onto the table on his way down. Unfortunately, Ashley's and my half-filled plastic water cups were on it.
The table tipped and wobbled. Cups, papers, and pens went flying off the end.
"Whoa!" Ashley yelled.
Bob bolted out of his seat to help Jackie, who had been bopped by a flying cup. "Are you okay?" he asked.
His face was red and his hair was wet. "Oops," was all he said.
"It's my fault," Bob said. "Those laugh tracks are too distracting." It wasn't his fault. He just doesn't know Jackie. "The Walking Disaster" is how the BSC members refer to him. Falling and spilling are two of his greatest talents. I keep hoping he'll grow out of it, but he hasn't yet.
After Ash and I helped clean Jackie up, Bob thanked him for the audition and guided him safely back to the waiting room.
I sat down again and gathered my notes. Next to Jackie's name I wrote, Cute, but where to fit?
Ash and I had become much smarter about these auditions. We had decided on the themes for our next three shows in advance — "It Ain't Easy Being a Kid," "My Favorite Place in the World/' and "What Are You Reading?" "Guys, we have a return customer!" Bob announced as he entered the room again.
Behind him was Kristy, clutching a few stapled-together sheets of white paper.
And behind her, also holding sheets, trudged Adam, Jordan, Byron, Vanessa, Nicky, Margo, and Claire Pike.
"Claudia-silly-billy-goo-goo!" Claire called out.
"Hello, everybody, we are the Thomas-Pike players!" Kristy announced.
"Pike-Thomas," I heard Byron mutter.
Kristy read from the papers: " Today we present the story of a very . . . neat monster.' " She looked at each of us and grinned, as if she'd told a joke.
Then Jordan began reading in a mumble so low I could barely hear him. " The monna nimwa Oogelbee and he luvva be clean.' " "Speak up!" Kristy whispered.
But before Jordan could repeat it, Vanessa shouted, " 'EVERY TIME HE DID SOME-~ THING SCARY, HE WAS JUST UPSET ABOUT THE MESS.' " Mar go held up her sheet in front of her face. " 'Like . . . the time . . .when he ... um, arrived home . . . and he ... he saw Rr . . . Rrroo style — ' " "Rustylocks, you dummy!" Nicky hissed.
Margo stuck out her tongue. " 'Rusty-locks,' " she continued. " 'And ... he — '" "Hey! My turn!" Adam said. " 'And he said, "You ate my food but you didn't put the plate in the dishwasher." ' " Kristy laughed. "Great, Adam!" Ashley gave me a sideways glance. She had this tense, little smile on her face.
Bob looked totally bewildered.
And I knew I was going to be making another painful phone call.
After the auditions, Ashley and I carefully pored over our lists.
"I liked the kid who knew sports trivia," I said.
Ashley made a face. "I hate sports." "I do, too. But I think kids will like him." "Well, that's probably true." "A keeper?" "Yup. How about Jackie?" I just gave her a Look.
She sighed. "Yeah, I feel the same way." You know what? Ashley was improving. Either that or I was being more tolerant. What- ever. The thing is, I didn't feel like strangling her every two seconds.
Maybe every two minutes. (Just kidding.) A moment later Bob poked his head in the room. "You guys hungry? I'm on my way to the snack machine to get a Milky Way or something." I reached into my shoulder bag. "Is a Snickers okay?" "Sure. But what about you?" "I have more." I tossed him the Snickers and began rummaging through my bag. "Milk Duds, Peppermint Patties, and I think a box of Raisinets." Ashley laughed. "What, no Heath bar?" "Ohhhh, sorry," I said. "I ate it on the way over." "Man, I would love to be your dentist," Bob remarked, biting into the Snickers bar. He plopped himself into his chair. "Maybe that's what I should do, become a dental assistant." "Right," Ashley said.
"I'm serious. I may need the work soon, the way things are going here." "Uh-oh," I said. "Are they going to fire you?" Bob shrugged. "You know what they say: 'Last one hired, first one fired.' Mr. Bullock tries to be positive about it all, but he's been dropping hints." "What'll you do?" Ashley asked.
"I don't know. I'm only paid a small stipend here, but I really need it. It goes right to my tuition. Maybe I'll leave college for awhile." I didn't know what to say. Neither did Ash-ley. He looked so sad.
Over Bob's shoulder, I noticed that the clock read 6:27. My dad was supposed to pick up Ashley and me at six-thirty. "Um, we have to go," I said.
"I'll walk you to the parking lot/' Bob volunteered.
We gathered our stuff and began heading down the hall toward the front door.
"I just can't imagine Stoneybrook without WSTO/' I said. "I remember listening to it when I was a kid." Bob nodded. "Me, too. And my parents heard the end of World War Two announced on WSTO when they were kids. Our listeners are going to be shocked big-time if the station goes down the drain." "Don't they know about it?" Ashley asked.
"Nahhh," Bob replied. "The station policy has been to keep it quiet. If our advertisers find out, they'll want to desert us. No one wants to stay aboard a sinking ship." I waved to Max and pushed the front door open. "That's dumb. If you get more people to listen, then the advertisers will want to put ads in the show. Right?" "Yup," Bob said, holding the door for Ashley.
"So let everybody know," I went on. "The listeners care about the station. Maybe they can write to advertisers. Or donate money. Like an emergency fund." "True," Bob said. "I mean, it's not the way things are done in commercial radio, but — " "I think it's unfair not to tell the listeners," Ashley remarked.
"I suppose I could broadcast an editorial," Bob said. "But I'd have to get Mr. Bullock's permission." "Write an article for the Stoneybrook News, too," I suggested. "That way you might reach some new listeners." Honk! Honk! Dad was parked in a spot at the other end of the lot. He waved at us.
"You guys better go," Bob said. "Good work." "Will you talk to Mr. Bullock about all this?" Ashley asked.
"Sure, sure," Bob replied. "Hope springs eternal, huh?" He smiled as we headed toward the car.
But judging from the look on his face, hope was the furthest thing from his mind.
Chapter 11.
"You what?" I could not believe it. Our Thursday show was about to begin. I was in the studio, setting up with Ashley, Bob, Mr. Bullock, and the engineers. And now one of our guests, Peter Hayes, was calling up to cancel.
Peter is a great athlete. He has set a bunch of middle-school track records. For our theme, "It Ain't Easy Being a Kid," he was going to talk about sports pressure at the state level.
"I twisted my ankle," Peter said. "I was skateboarding." "And you can't walk?" "Claudia, I have to go to the doctor. Now. I mean, come on, I didn't do this on purpose!" I inhaled and counted to three. Then I exhaled and said, "I know. Sorry, Pete. Good luck. I hope you feel better." "Thanks, Claud." "No problem." I was courteous. I was polite. I was compassionate.
And then I hung up.
"He's a track star, and he twisted his ankle on a skateboard!" I exploded. "Arrrrgh!" "What do we do now?" Ashley asked.
"Can you do a good imitation of a track star?" Bob asked.
"Very funny," I said, pacing the floor. "How on earth are we going to fill fifteen minutes?" "Music?" Ashley suggested.
"We can't forget the theme," I reminded her.
"Talk about the pressures of the Baby-sitters Club," Ashley suggested.
"Kristy would kill me," I said. "She'd think it was bad publicity." The room fell silent. I could hear the equipment buzzing. The clock said 4:50. Ten minutes to showtime.
My mind was flying.
"It Ain't Easy Being a Kid." I sure knew enough about that subject. From my home life, from my friendships, from my personals column.
That would be perfect. A personals column on the air. Well, not personals, exactly. But complaints and advice, more like Dear Abby.
&nb
sp; "Okay, let's do a call-in/' I said. "Advice for kids." "From us?" Ashley asked.
"Why not? We can try." "Peer counseling," Mr. Bullock said. "Good idea. I say go for it." Ashley didn't look convinced. But she agreed. And that was all that mattered.
Rosie Wilder was the guest on our first segment. She played her funny violin piece, then talked with me on-air about her conflicts. The fifteen minutes went by super-fast.
In our next two segments, we interviewed some of Ash's SMS friends she'd invited to be on the show: identical twins, and then a boy who had lived in six different places (in three countries) over the past five years.
Throughout the show, I kept saying, "And remember, our Tor Kids Only' call-in begins at five-forty-five. Tell us what's on your mind." An engineer had set up a huge telephone near me, with six lines. By 5:44, all six were lit up.
Ashley was sweating. She squeezed my left hand. I could feel my throat tightening. I picked up the phone and said, " 'For Kids Only.' You're on the air." "Hi, Claudia?" "Yes?" I said. "Who am I speaking to?" "Urn, my name's Joanne. I really love your show, and I just wanted to ask you something. I had this argument with a friend, and I told her I never wanted to speak to her. But now I realize I was stupid. She hates me, but I want to be her friend again. What do I do?" "How do you know she hates you?" I asked.
"She doesn't talk to me in school anymore." "Has either of you called to apologize?" "No." "Well, someone has to do it. Why not you? Just tell her exactly what you told me." "But she'll hang up on me!" "I don't believe that, Joanne. I think you need to try. I bet she'll stop being mad." "You think?" "Yup. And good luck, Joanne." Ashley gave me a thumbs-up.
Why, why did that call make me think of Stacey?
The next caller wanted to complain about a teacher. Ashley handled that one.
Caller three was a girl named Cheryl who asked, "When you're baby-sitting, how do you deal with a one-and-a-half-year-old boy who won't go to sleep?" Right up my alley. "First try singing to him. If that doesn't work, pick him up and pace back and forth — but keep singing. If he still won't sleep, try some warm milk with a little honey in it. If you have a rocking chair, sit in it and rock back and forth while telling a long story. . . ." I went through every baby-sitting trick in the book. Cheryl listened carefully and thanked me.
The next caller blurted out, "Why do kids have to do homework? It's the stupidest thing in the world!" "Do you need some help with your homework?" Ashley asked.
Nah. He'd already done it. It turned out he just wanted to complain.
I answered a few calls. Ashley answered a few. Together we managed to give advice about hair, clothes, boys, girls, parents, grandparents, teachers, you name it. The time was racing by.
At 5:58, I announced, "Okay, I think this'll be our last call. Hello, you're on the air." Sniff. Sniff. "Hello?" When I heard the sniffling, I immediately thought Mary Anne was calling. But the voice was different.
"Hi. This is Claudia." "Hi." Sniff. "Um, my name's George Hew-itt. I'm eleven. And . . . and my parents are, well, it's like, they hate each other. They al- ways fight. Now my dad hasn't been home for a few days, and my mom says they're going to get a divorce." I could see Ashley turning about three shades of pale. (I wasn't feeling too comfy myself. I'd sort of been hoping for a discussion about clothes or videos.) "You sound very upset/' I said.
"Well," George went on, "my mom got really angry today, and she started screaming at my little sister, Rachel. And Rachel started saying how she wished Mom would go away and Dad would come back. Then Mom started crying, and Rachel said . . . well, she said Mom should die, and both of them ran to their rooms. I tried to talk to them, but they told me to go away. I don't know, I guess — I guess I just feel helpless. What should I do?" Whew. How were we going to handle this? I looked at Ashley, but she just shook her head.
I thought about my personals column. Back then, a boy had written me with a similar problem. I referred him to a therapist named Dr. Reese. Yes, a therapist. Mary Anne had seen her not long before, after she had become totally depressed. After a few consultations, Mary Anne was on the right track again and felt much better.
I looked at the clock. It was time to wrap up.
"George, I don't think you're going to find what you need on a call-in show," I said gently. "You need to talk to someone professional." "You mean, like a — " "A therapist. Don't worry. It doesn't mean you're crazy or anything, George. It will really help. Stay on the line, okay? When we go off the air, I'll give you the phone number of someone very good." "Okay." I gave a little closing speech. The red light went off, and Bob came running in with a Stoneybrook phone book. I flipped through and found Dr. Reese's number.
"George, are you still there?" "Yeah." "Call Dr. Reese at 555-7660, okay? Just talk to her for awhile. Tell her how you're feeling." "Okay." I could hear the sniffling again. "Thanks, Claudia." "Good luck, George." Click.
When he hung up, I slumped back in my chair. Ashley was giving me a worried look. Bob was sipping coffee. The engineers were busily adjusting dials.
Next to Bob, Mr. Bullock was leaning against a file cabinet. "Congratulations, you two," he said. "You covered for an emergency. You figured out a suitable replacement. You performed a valuable service." "Thanks," I said.
"Don't thank me," Mr. Bullock said with a chuckle. "Up until now, you've been doing a good show. Tonight, you became professionals." I turned to Ashley. The color was returning to her face.
This time, when she looked at me, I saw nothing but admiration.
Which, at that moment, was just what I needed.
Chapter 12.
Heartbroken? Devastated?
I think Kristy was going a little overboard. According to her, Carolyn and Marilyn were moping around the house that Friday afternoon. (Later, when I talked to Marilyn, she said they were reading Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher to each other in the den and laughing out loud.) Then Kristy found out how "upset" they were and calmed them down. (Carolyn's version was different. She said Kristy started talking about my show out of the blue and hinted that the Arnold twins would have made better guests than the other twins.) Marilyn and Carolyn are eight years old. They are identical in appearance, but definitely not in personality. They used to disagree about everything. Once they actually divided their bedroom in half with masking tape. Fortunately, their parents moved them into separate rooms, and now they tolerate each other much better.
Most of the time.
Anyway, I'll pick up the story of Friday a little further on — at the point where Kristy's version started matching the twins'.
"Claudia was so cool in that call-in," Marilyn said. "That was the best show." "Oh, boring. I liked the one about families/' Carolyn volunteered.
"If I did the shows/' Kristy said, "I'd have more humor in them." "You should try out for that show, Kristy," Carolyn said. "You'd be great." "I did try out," Kristy replied. "Twice. But Claudia rejected me." Marilyn's eyes widened. "And she's your friendl" "Hey, I'm not insulted," Kristy insisted. "I have more ideas. Great ones, too. If I can find a couple of helpers." ' (She is so sly, isn't she?) "How about us?' Marilyn asked.
"Yeah!" Carolyn piped up.
Bingo. Kristy was in business again. "All right. I was thinking of, 'Marilyn and Carolyn and Kristy and the Major League Mystery.' Like, we go to a ballgame and a player is missing and we have to find him." The twins just stared at her. "That's pretty stupid," Marilyn said.
"Or maybe, 'Stoneybrook — a Tour/ " Kristy barreled on. "We could talk about our favorite places, mention the library and some of the restaurants." "Boring, boring, I am snoring," was Carolyn's critique.
Ill "Kristy, we have to think of something kids will like/' Marilyn said.
"Like what?" Kristy asked.
"Dolls," Marilyn suggested.
Kristy shook her head. "That probably leaves out most of the boys." "Good," Carolyn shot back.
"What about sports?" Kristy asked.
Carolyn made a face. "Gross. Let's do somet
hing about movies." "Someone's already doing that," Kristy said.
Carolyn thought for a moment. "I know! A game show, like Jeopardy." Marilyn rolled her eyes. "Too hard." Kristy saw a copy of Jeremy Thatcher lying open on the couch. "What about book reviews?" The girls looked at Kristy as if she had suggested a foot-smelling contest.
"A book reading?" Kristy quickly suggested.
"Yeah!" cried Marilyn.
"I still think we should do a game show," Carolyn said, pouting.
"Why not do both?" said the Great Stoney-brook Idea Machine.
Twin blank stares.
"I could read aloud for awhile," Kristy went on. "You know, something short and fun, like Where the Wild Things Are. Then we could put on a Jeopardy-type show — about kids' books! We provide the answers, and the listeners call in to guess the questions." "Yes!" Carolyn shouted.
"But Jeopardy has categories," Marilyn reminded them. "This is all one category." "Not necessarily," Kristy replied. "We could have 'Books That Have Been Made into Movies/ 'Romance Books/ 'Mysteries' . . ." " 'Picture Books' and 'Chapter Books/ " Carolyn offered.
"And then, at the end," Marilyn said, "we give the winner a grand prize, maybe a vacation to Bermuda!" "Uh, it has to be something we can afford," Kristy explained.
"A trip to Washington Mall?" Carolyn said.
"I was thinking of a gift certificate for an ice-cream sundae," Kristy suggested, "or a movie ticket." "Oh, all right," Carolyn agreed.
"I want to ask the questions!" Marilyn called out.
"You mean, give the answers," Carolyn corrected her. "See, I'm the one who knows how to play, so I should — " "You can take turns," said Kristy the Peacemaker, rising from the den sofa. "Okay, we don't have much time. Let's get to work." The three of them went into the kitchen.
The twins found a pad and pencils in a drawer. Over the next hour, Kristy and the girls picked five categories and thought up questions (I mean, answers) for each.
I saw them that Monday.
Ashley and I were blown away. We were preparing our fifth show, and our topic was "What Are You Reading?" Guess what?
We said yes. Kristy's dream had come true.
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