Next are Jessi and Mal — that is, Jessica Ramsey and Mallory Pike. They're in sixth grade, two grades behind the rest of us. Both of them are really talented and great babysitters. Jessi dances like a pro. She studies ballet, and it really shows. She even carries herself like a dancer — her back straight, her feet turned out, her ankles usually covered with leg warmers.
Becca and Squirt are Jessi's younger sister and brother. Becca is short for Rebecca (she's nine) and Squirt is a nickname, too (Jessi's brother's real name is John Philip Ramsey, Jr.). Squirt is only a baby now, but I wonder if he'll use his nickname when he gets older.
One other thing about Jessi. She's the only
black member of the BSC. That's because the Ramseys are one of the very few black families in Stoneybrook. When they first moved here, some people gave them a rough time. But things are much smoother now. As far as us BSC members are concerned, that prejudice was absolutely stupid.
I think Mallory Pike may secretly like being one of our younger members. That's because in real life she's the oldest of — get ready — eight kids. Can you imagine? Her brothers and sisters are Vanessa, Margo, Nicky, the triplets (Adam, Jordan, and Byron), and Claire. No wonder Mal's favorite pastimes are writing and drawing. They're things she can do alone. Mal's dream in life, by the way, is to be a children's book author and illustrator.
Anyway, there they are, the Baby-sitters Club in person. (Or is it "in persons"? "In people"?) That Friday's meeting started out typically. We were noisy and excited (it was the start of the weekend, after all). I was explaining my project to the others. For some reason, it seemed to make everyone twice as hungry. The Milky Ways and M&M's were going like crazy (not to mention the pretzels for Dawn and Stacey).
Kristy was sitting in her official place, a director's chair by my desk. She was wearing her visor, and a pencil was tucked over one
ear. Her eyes were glued to the digital clock on my dresser, which read 5:29. At precisely five-thirty she called out, "Order!"
The Baby-sitters Club meeting had officially begun.
Chapter 3.
We were all in position. Mary Anne, Stacey, and I were cross-legged on my bed. Dawn had turned my desk chair around and was sitting in it with her arms resting on the back. Mal and Jessi were stretched out on the carpet.
"Any new business?" Kristy asked.
The answer to Kristy's question was the sound of jaws chomping. Everyone looked around silently.
"Guess not," Kristy said.
I noticed that Kristy and I were the only ones not eating. I reached into my night-table drawer, remembering a Kit-Kat I had hidden once. Sure enough, it was still there. I broke it in half and offered one of the pieces to Kristy.
"Save that half," Kristy said. "You can make a painting of it."
"Good idea," 1 said. But that wasn't how I felt. You know how hard it is to not eat the
other half of a candy bar? All I wanted to do was gulp it down.
I looked at it longingly. Maybe this project wasn't such a smart idea.
I decided to concentrate on the phone, which was right next to me. If I looked at it hard enough, it just might start to ring.
My phone, by the way, is the reason we use my room for BSC meetings. I'm the only club member who has her own private line. And the Baby-sitters Club couldn't be the Babysitters Club without a phone.
Here's how the BSC works. We meet from 5:30 to 6:00 every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon. Our clients (neighborhood parents) call us during those times, asking for a baby-sitter for such and such a day. We check each member's schedule, then figure out who can cover the job. Someone js usually available — and if no one is, Logan and Shannon are our backups. With just one phone call, each client is assured of a reliable, experienced sitter.
Simple, right? It's really a great idea, and I'll bet you can guess who thought of it.
If you guessed Kristy, you were right. It all started one day when Kristy's mom needed someone to sit for David Michael (this was before she was married to Watson). She ended up making.about a million phone calls, and
no one was available. Kristy felt really bad for her. She wished there were some easier way to find a sitter. She began to think: Suppose you needed a taxi or an ambulance or a police officer? You wouldn't have to call each car separately to find a free one. You'd call a central number and . . .
BOIING! The lightbulb went on above Kristy's head. She called me and Mary Anne and suggested the idea of the Baby-sitters Club. We agreed to try it. I even invited Stacey, whom I had just met, to join. We put an ad in the Stoneybrook newspaper and tacked up fliers around the neighborhood — with my phone number and our meeting times.
Business was great right from the beginning. In fact, it was so good that we had to expand. That's where Dawn came in. She had just moved to Stoneybrook, and she was thrilled to join. Then, after Stacey moved to New York, we took on Mal and Jessi. (When Stacey returned we let her right back in, of course.) For good measure, we had added Logan and Shannon as associates.
Our meetings are fun. But, as Kristy says, "We're not only a club, we're a business." Each of us is an officer with special duties. Kristy, as president, runs the meetings. She also makes sure we write down our baby-
sitting experiences in the club notebook. That way we can tell each other about new clients, describe how we solved problems, stuff like that. Kristy was the one who thought up the idea of the notebook, and I have to admit it's really helpful. But it's sort of like brushing your teeth — a good thing to do, but not a whole lot of fun. Especially if you have horrible handwriting and can't spell, like me! I always think the other girls are going to laugh at my entries, even though they say they never do.
Another one of Kristy's great ideas is Kid-Bats. These are boxes we sometimes take on our jobs. They're filled with simple things kids can play with, like Magic Markers, paper, books, and small toys and games. They're not fancy but they really save the day sometimes. Kids love them.
Now, when a call comes in to the BSC, the first person we turn to is Mary Anne. She's our secretary, and she has to keep track of everyone's schedule. This is not easy, considering our club has seven members. You should see the record book she keeps. It's marked off in grids, with color-coded entries in this tiny, neat handwriting. She carefully writes down every one of Jessi's ballet classes, Mallory's orthodontist appointments, my art classes, Kristy's softball games. She also keeps an up-
to-date record of client information — names, addresses, phone numbers, special likes and dislikes, allergies, you name it. It's a lot of work, but you know what? Mary Anne never makes mistakes. I don't know how she does it. If I had her job, the club would fold in a week.
And it would fold in a day if I had Stacey's job. Stacey, the math whiz, is our treasurer. She keeps track of the club money. No, we don't hand over our earnings to her or anything like that. We get to keep whatever we make. So what does Stacey keep track of? Well, here's the only not-so-fun part about the BSC. We have to pay dues. Every Monday. No one likes to do it, but that's life. The money goes to our "overhead," as Stacey calls it. That means paying Charlie to drive Kristy to and from meetings, keeping the Kid-Kits stocked, and helping to pay my phone bill. If there's ever any leftover cash, we sometimes have a sleepover or a pizza party.
Dawn is our alternate officer. That means she substitutes for anyone who misses a meeting — for sickness, family vacation, babysitting appointment, whatever. She was our treasurer for a long time -while Stacey was living in New York, but she gladly gave that job back when Stace returned.
Jessi and Mal are our junior officers, since
they're not allowed to baby-sit late at night (unless they're watching their own brothers and sisters). They keep busy, though, sitting on weekend days and afternoons, which frees the rest of us to take nighttime sitting jobs.
Me? I'm the club's vice-president, which mostly means answering the phone during nonclub hours and keeping everyone's sweet tooth satisfied. That's
fine with me!
Okay, getting back to Friday. I didn't eat the other half of the Kit-Kat, and it wasn't long before the phone rang.
I picked it up. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," I said cheerfully.
"Uh, hello dear, Ginger Wilder here," a voice answered. "I got your number from the Barretts."
Ginger Wilder here? That was a strange greeting, I thought. Was I supposed to know who she was or something?
"Right," I said warmly, "we've all sat for the Barrett kids: Buddy, Suzie — "
"And dear little Marnie," Mrs. Wilder said, cutting me off. "Yes, Mrs. Barrett has mentioned that you girls are quite lovely and talented. Now, I'm looking for a sitter on a regular basis. Is this something you handle?"
"Regular?" I repeated. "You mean like a permanent job?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Ginger Wilder said with a chuckle. "You see, my mother has become awfully ill. She's seventy, never been sick a day in her life, and now all of sudden, bam! Thursday she tripped and broke her ankle, then she came down with the flu, and now shingles, of all things. She really needs someone to look after her for a few weeks, and my sister and I have worked out a caretaking schedule."
I noticed she pronounced schedule "shed-yool." Up till then, I'd only heard English actors on TV say it that way. And what on earth did she mean by shingles!
"My days," she continued, "are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. My husband doesn't come home till eight, eight-thirty, so I'll need someone those three evenings to sit for my daughter, Rosie. She's seven."
"I think we can handle it — "I began.
"It will be frightfully easy," Mrs. Wilder barged on. "Rosie is quite occupied with her lessons after school. We've found the most marvelous private teachers who come to our house. Makes things very convenient. You know, it's tough enough to manage a daughter's career and be a good mother without having to traipse around town from teacher to teacher. . . . Anyway, I don't mean to chew
your ear off. Can you girls help me?"
"I'm sure we can," I said. "Would you please hold for a moment?"
"Of course."
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Looking up, I noticed everyone staring at me with puzzled expressions. I must have been making faces into the phone. "Is something wrong?" Mary Anne asked.
I shook my head and told them what Mrs. Wilder wanted. (I was dying to describe her in detail, but she might have heard me.)
Mary Anne carefully checked the record book. "Tuesday, Thursday, Friday . . . hmm, well, for the next two weeks you're free all but one of those days, Claud," she said.
I took my hand away from the receiver. "You're all set, Mrs. Wilder," I said. "I'll be your sitter."
"Super!" she replied. "You don't happen to have an interest in dance or music, do you?"
"Uh, no ..." I replied, "but I'm sure — "
"Or science and math?" she asked. "Are you in one of those clubs at school?"
I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. "No. I'm mostly interested in art."
"Oh, an artist, a budding Georgia O'Keeffe," Mrs. Wilder said. "Yes, well, Rosie likes to draw a bit when she has a few moments. So!
I shall see you on Tuesday, then? Three-thirty on the nose? We live at 477 Elm Street, near Locust Avenue."
"Okay, see you then!" I said.
As soon as I hung up the phone, Stacey gave me a big grin and said, "Luckyyyyy ..."
"This is great, Claudia," Kristy added. "Three days a week, a new client . . . what was the mother like? She seemed to talk a lot."
"Yeah," I agreed. "She's . . . friendly."
"You should have seen the expression on your face," Jessi said. "You were giving her this look ..."
I smiled. "She has this funny kind of voice. Like actresses in those old black-and-white movies. Mahvelous, dahling — you know, like that. And she said the strangest thing, something about managing her daughter's career."
"Maybe the daughter's like Brooke Shields," Dawn said. "Her mom managed her full-time from when she was a baby."
"I'm sure it'll be fun whatever it is," Kristy said.
"I guess," I replied.
"But it's only temporary?" Mallory asked, looking a little confused. "Is Mrs. Wilder taking a class or something?"
"No, her mom's sick," I said. "Rosie's grandmother. A broken ankle, flu — and something to do with . . . shingles."
"Ohhhhh," Mary Anne said with a pained expression. "My grandfather had shingles. It's some kind of virus that older people get, and it hurts like crazy. Your body just itches and itches for weeks, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Ew," I said, but that was as far as I got before the phone rang.
As I reached for it, I remember having this strange feeling. Like something was wrong about this job. Like it wasn't going to be easy at all. Was it something Ginger Wilder had said? Was it the tone of her voice?
Maybe it was the fact that I couldn't picture Rosie. Most of the time when a new client calls, I automatically imagine what the children will be like.
But when I tried to think of Rosie, I came up with a great big blank.
I picked up the ringing phone. "Hello, Babysitters Club."
Oh, well, I'd have to wait for Tuesday to find out what I was in for.
Chapter 4.
Tuesday, came. I walked to the Wilders' house feeling nervous. I told myself that was normal for meeting a new client.
The Wilders' house was a Cape Cod-style house, off-white with green shutters. A dogwood tree stood to the left of it and neatly cut hedges lined the porch. A maroon station wagon was in the driveway.
Totally normal.
I was soooo relieved.
Relieved? What was I expecting? Well, even though I couldn't picture Rosie, I had an image of the Wilder house. It was a mansion with servants. A butler would answer the door and say, "May I escort you to the mistress Rosie's changing room?" And Ginger Wilder would sweep down the staircase with a flowing gown, announcing "I'm off, dear. Ta-ta. Just tell the cook what you'd like for dinner — lobster or steak."
No such luck. I stood before the aluminum screen door and rang a white plastic bell. I could hear a classical piano recording inside. It was pretty loud, and no one was answering the door, so I figured the music had drowned out the bell. I decided to knock.
"Just a minute!" came Mrs. Wilder's voice.
When the door opened, I felt relieved again.
Mrs. Wilder had a pretty, friendly face. Her hair was a beautiful deep brown, pulled straight back with a comb. She was wearing a string of pearls and a blue Laura Ashley dress. Her smile put me at ease. "Welcome, Clau-dia," she said, shaking my hand. "How nice to meet you. Come in."
"Hi," I said.
I glanced around. I noticed a framed Chagall print on one wall, a Matisse on another. That meant the Wilders probably had an interest in art. Definitely a good sign.
The music grew louder, and the sound was fantastic. You know how it is when you're in a new house. You take everything in and quickly try to figure out what to say first. You find something in the house you can compliment or talk about. I was going to mention the artwork, then say what a great sound system they had, then —
That's when I noticed that the sound system wasn't a sound system.
It was live.
A person was playing the piano in the living room. A girl whose feet barely reached the pedals.
"Rosie!" Mrs. Wilder said.
The girl kept playing. And I mean playing. Her fingers were flying over the keys.
Mrs. Wilder walked closer to her daughter. "Rosie?" she repeated.
The girl didn't look up. She was concentrating hard, with this grim expression on her face.
"Mary Rose, I'm talking to you!" Mrs. Wilder said in an annoyed voice.
Finally the girl stopped. She let her hands fall off the piano. "What?"
"Claudia is here," Mrs. Wilder said with a big smile.
"Hi," I said, waving and looking as friendly as I could.
No reaction.
"I know," Rosie said.
Mrs. Wilder7s smile was beginning to look forced. "Well, aren't you going to come say hello?"
Rosie slipped off her seat, crossed the room, and shook my hand. She had flaming, thick
red hair, a scattering of freckles, and hazel eyes. "Hi," she said. She sounded about as excited as a kid in detention.
"That was really . . . nice," I said.
"It's Mozart," Rosie replied. "Those last few chords weren't supposed to be rolled like that, but my hands aren't quite large enough."
"Uh-huh," I said. I had no idea what she was talking about.
Mrs. Wilder broke into the silence. "Now," she said, "Mrs. Wood usually comes at four o'clock to give a piano lesson, but she has the flu today so Rosie is using this time to practice. Wednesday is her ballet class and her violin lesson — which naturally won't concern you, Claudia — but on Thursday, her voice teacher and tap instructor both come at five-fifteen. Normally it's just her voice teacher, but Rosie has an important dinner-theater audition coming up. Her agent says she needs a solid song-and-dance number under her belt, so we decided both teachers should be present. And, let's see . . . Friday is science club, which meets after school, so you don't have to be here until a quarter to five."
"Wow!" I said. "What a lot of talents."
Ah-ha! A smile! It was faint, but Rosie's lips were turning up slightly.
Mrs. Wilder laughed. "Oh, that's not the half. There's also math club on Mondays and
the advanced readers' group at the library every other Saturday. Not to mention our trips to New York for commercial auditions and tap-ings, modeling calls, agent meetings . . ." She rolled her eyes and wiped her brow. "Whew! It's a full-time job. Right, honey?"
"Yeah," Rosie said, grinning.
Claudia And The Genius On Elm St. Page 2