Kristy and Kidnapper

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

  “Resolved: We are going to have a blast in D.C.!” Abby threw herself on my bed. “Dibs on the affirmative!” She cracked up. Abby is always cracking herself up.

  I have to admit she cracks me up too. She really can be pretty funny. But I guess you’d have to know something about debating to understand why we were laughing.

  I’m just learning about it. Debating, that is. We recently finished a unit on it in my English class. It turned out that Abby and I were both pretty good debaters — which is why we were headed to Washington, D.C., for four days. (And why we were getting two days off from school.)

  I know, I know. You’re probably totally confused. First of all, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Kristy Thomas (Kristin Amanda Thomas if you’re my mom and you’re mad at me). I’ve spent my whole life — all thirteen years of it — in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, and I’m an eighth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School, or SMS. I’m a decent student, I guess. I have brown hair and brown eyes and I’m not exactly the tallest person around. That’s me.

  The girl lying on my bed? That’s Abby Stevenson. She’s also thirteen and in the eighth grade at SMS. Abby has longish, curly dark hair and beautiful dark eyes. (She wears glasses sometimes and contacts other times.) Her house is down the street from mine, but she hasn’t lived in Stoneybrook for nearly as long as I have. She and her twin sister, Anna, (they’re identical, but it’s easy to tell them apart) and their mom moved here recently from Long Island, in New York. Abby and Anna’s dad died in a car accident a few years ago.

  Abby and I became friends when she joined this club I belong to, the BSC. That stands for Baby-sitters Club, although it’s actually more of a business than a club. Abby’s not in the club anymore, but we’re still buds.

  I am president of the BSC, since the club was my idea.

  Not that it’s important. Just thought I’d mention it.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh, debating.

  Debating is a lot like arguing, only you’re not supposed to let your emotions rule. Probably the reason Abby and I are both good at it is that we’re both sort of opinionated.

  “Sort of opinionated?” I can hear my best friend, Mary Anne Spier, say.

  “That’s like saying that van Gogh was sort of a good painter.” That’s what Claudia Kishi, another friend, would probably add.

  “Or that Cindy Crawford is sort of pretty,” I can imagine Stacey McGill — Claudia’s best friend — chiming in.

  The three of them are in the BSC, and I’ve known Mary Anne and Claudia forever, so I guess they all know me pretty well. And it’s true, Abby and I are alike in that way.

  Neither of us is shy about saying what she thinks. We both believe in speaking our minds. I think that’s a good quality, even though once in a while I surprise even myself with the things that pop out of my mouth.

  A good debater, according to my English teacher, Mrs. Simon, has to feel comfortable speaking in public. Having the “courage of your convictions” helps too. (That means you’re willing to fight for what you believe in.) Only one thing is hard for me in debating: Sometimes you have to stand up for something you don’t believe in.

  I’ll explain. In a debate, there are two sides (you knew that). The sides can be individuals or teams of two, three, or four. One side is called the affirmative, the other is called the negative. The teams are given an issue, called a proposition. They debate the proposition, taking turns presenting their arguments. The affirmative side goes first. They agree with the proposition. The negative side has to disagree. You’re supposed to give evidence for your statements — it’s not an emotional argument but a logical one. After both sides have made their opening statements, there’s a break to allow each side to come up with a rebuttal. (Some of the boys in my class crack up when they hear that term, because it includes the word butt. Give me a break.)

  Anyway, during the pause, each team figures out how to respond to the other team’s argument. That’s what a rebuttal is — a response. Once both teams have presented their rebuttals (usually they are shorter than the opening arguments) and their closing arguments, the debate is over.

  Except for the judging.

  I forgot to mention that a judge (or a panel of judges) is listening to the debate. And at the end, the judge decides which team made a better case. That team is the winner.

  I think debating is a blast, no matter which side you’re on. It’s fun to try to figure out how to convince other people to believe something. I liked it right away, as soon as Mrs. Simon introduced the unit. So I was excited when she told me she’d given Abby’s and my names to Mr. Fiske, my English teacher from last semester. He’s the one who found out about the convention in Washington, D.C. It’s for middle school debate teams, and even though SMS doesn’t have an official team, Mrs. Simon and Mr. Fiske thought it would be fun for a group of students to form a team now. They’re going to come on the trip with us as our advisors. That’s cool, because I really like them both.

  They rounded up ten of us eighth-graders — I don’t know any of the others well, except for Abby — and we practiced a little after school. And now we were headed to the Washington Challenge to try our skills against eighth-graders from all over the country. We’d be there for four days. Some of the time we’d be debating, but social events had been planned too, and there would even be time for sightseeing. I could hardly wait.

  But first, back to that April night in my room. “So, what are you wearing for the first debate?” Abby asked, poking through the pile of clothes I’d stacked on the bed, next to my open suitcase.

  “Same thing I always wear,” I said, surprised. I’m not exactly a trendsetter. In fact, Stacey says I’m “fashion challenged.” “Jeans and a T-shirt. Why?”

  “I think we’re supposed to dress up a little,” Abby said. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Simon say that?”

  “Ugh,” I answered. “I probably blocked it out. Do I have to wear a skirt?” I cringed at the thought. A skirt means pantyhose, and pantyhose means a slip, and nice shoes, and — oh, it’s all just too uncomfortable even to think about.

  Abby grinned. “I think you’d be okay wearing cords or nice khakis,” she said. She jumped up to rummage through my closet. “How about these?” she asked, pulling out a pair of neatly pressed khakis I’ve worn maybe twice. She didn’t even listen for my answer. She just folded them carefully and added them to the pile by my suitcase. Then she turned back to the closet, muttering something about blouses.

  Abby’s like that. She takes charge.

  Sometimes it bugs me. But I think I know why: It’s because I’m the same way. Abby and I have had some “moments,” I guess you could say. We don’t always agree on how things should be done, but both of us are always positive that we’re right. When she was in the BSC, this was a problem. In the club, I’ve always been the one to come up with new ideas and figure out how to make them real. The other members weren’t likely to challenge me, but then Abby breezed in and, right away, started second-guessing me and even putting in her own ideas and opinions.

  Mary Anne says it’s good for me to be questioned that way. It doesn’t feel all that good. But she’s probably right. Don’t get me
wrong, I like Abby. We’re friends. It’s just that she’s not always so easy to be friends with.

  Abby is very competitive, and so am I. We love sports, but she’s more of a natural athlete than I am. I enjoy coaching other players more than anything. Abby likes to be the star of the team.

  It’s amazing that she’s so good at sports, considering that she struggles with both asthma and allergies. Abby has determination, that’s for sure. And determination and talent are a great combination when it comes to sports.

  “What about shoes?” Abby’s question snapped me back to the present.

  “Shoes?” I repeated blankly.

  “You’re not wearing those stinky old running shoes, are you? Those won’t work at all with the khakis. How about some loafers or desert boots?” Once again, she rummaged through my closet. I had to smile.

  When she’d arrived that night, Abby had announced that she was there to help me pack. So this was her way of helping: She was taking over. “Abby,” I said, “I have packed for trips before, you know.”

  “I know. It’s always good to have another opinion, though.”

  I wondered how she would feel if I went to her house and started criticizing everything she’d packed. Not that I was about to. Instead, I just sighed and gave up. I sat down in my inflatable easy chair and let her finish my packing.

  “This is going to be such a cool trip,” said Abby. “You and I will actually be able to hang out, the way we never have time to do here. I’m always busy with team practices and stuff, and you have your family and the BSC and your team practices. Now, for four days, we’ll have time to just relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

  Abby had a point. It would be relaxing to be away from all my responsibilities. My life can be overwhelming at times. My family is huge: I have two older brothers, Charlie and Sam, plus one younger one, David Michael. The four of us, plus our mom, are very close, partly because we struggled together in the years after my dad walked out on our family. Now my mom has a new husband. (Watson’s a millionaire. We live in his mansion.) And I have three new younger siblings: Andrew and Karen, who are Watson’s kids from his first marriage, and Emily Michelle, whom Watson and my mom adopted from Vietnam soon after they married. Emily is two and a half.

  As if my family didn’t keep me busy enough, I also run the BSC and coach a softball team for little kids. (The team is called Kristy’s Krushers. Cute, no?)

  I enjoy being busy, but I knew I was also going to enjoy some time away. Some good debates, a little sightseeing — it was going to be an awesome trip. Abby had been smart to grab the affirmative side on that debate. There was no way I could argue the negative.

  “We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re heeeere …”

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Abby moaned, holding her hands over her ears. “Make them stop, someone, I beg of you! Before I go stark, raving mad!”

  I cracked up.

  So did Melissa.

  It was Thursday, and the three of us were sitting on a bus that was headed for Washington. It was filled with kids from several Connecticut schools. Our SMS team had joined with some others to charter a bus. Melissa Banks sat across the aisle from Abby and me. I know Melissa a bit, though I haven’t hung out with her much. She once went on a field trip to Philadelphia with Claudia and Abby, who all have the same social studies teacher. I think she drove Claudia kind of nuts, but Abby seemed to like her well enough. I was keeping an open mind. She’d been assigned to room with Abby and me, and I was hoping we’d get along.

  “Okay, guys, that’s about enough of that one,” Mr. Fiske called to the boys in the back of the bus. “How about trying a different tune for a while?”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Abby gushed to Mr. Fiske. “I was about to lose my mind completely.”

  “We can’t have that, can we?” said Mr. Fiske. “We need all the brainpower we can get for the next few days.”

  The boys in the back started up again. “We will, we will ROCK YOU!” they chanted, stamping their feet to the beat.

  Mr. Fiske held up his hands. “This isn’t a basketball game,” he called. “Let’s keep it down, okay?”

  The boys kept on singing, in whispers, “We will, we will rock you!”

  Abby and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

  “Losers,” said Melissa from across the aisle. “Right?”

  I shrugged. “They’re just obnoxious, that’s all.” I didn’t know any of them terribly well, although Rick Chow and Trevor Sandbourne have been in a couple of classes with me.

  Melissa nodded. “So obnoxious,” she agreed. “But they’re boys, what do you expect?”

  “Not all boys are obnoxious,” Abby commented.

  “No, of course not,” Melissa said quickly. “Just — a lot of them are. Sort of. At least sometimes.”

  Abby and I exchanged a quick glance. I had the feeling we were both thinking the same thing. Was Melissa really cut out for debating? She seemed awfully wishy-washy. Eager to please.

  “So, do you like debating?” I asked Melissa.

  “Sure. It’s okay, I guess.”

  “I love it,” I said.

  “Me too,” Melissa admitted. “I just didn’t want you guys to think I was a geek or something because I like to debate.”

  “Why would we think that?” Abby asked. “If you were a geek for liking it, we would be too. We’re all going to the same convention, right?”

  Abby’s logic was excellent. In fact, what she had just said was a perfect example of what Mrs. Simon had called “deductive reasoning.” That’s taking a known truth — all cats have whiskers, for example — and showing how it applies to a specific instance: Tommy is a cat, therefore Tommy has whiskers.

  Or, if all people who like debating are geeks, and Kristy and Abby like debating, then Kristy and Abby must be geeks.

  Only problem? We’re not. The logic doesn’t hold up. Because not all people who like debating are geeks. I could have destroyed Melissa’s statement in five seconds’ worth of rebuttal time. But Abby had already taken care of that.

  “Right,” Melissa answered, looking embarrassed. “Of course. I didn’t mean — ”

  Abby lifted a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  Melissa smiled gratefully.

  “So, want to play Travel Scrabble?” she asked, pulling the game out of her backpack.

  I checked my watch. It was only eight-thirty, and we’d been on the bus for an hour. Mrs. Simon had said the trip would take about six hours. We had a long way to go. I leaned back into my comfy seat and sighed. “Sure,” I answered. “Why not?”

  The three of us played one full game — Abby won by about a gazillion points — and started another, but partway through it I began to feel sleepy. The boys had stopped making noise and the bus was quiet. I looked down at my letters. Q, A, X, I, I, I, O. I didn’t see any excellent words coming out of that mess. “Know what?” I asked. “I think I’m ready for a nap.”

  Melissa and Abby decided they were tired too. We’d woken up early to catch our bus. I settled down in my seat, pulled my jacket over my face, and drifted off into a dream about debating Bart Simpson, who kept telling me not to “have a cow, man” every time I tried to make a point.

  I was pretty sure I was going to win the debate, but I’ll never know, because I woke up before the judges made their decision. It wasn’t a pleasant awakening either. “Hey,” I said, picking up a jelly bean that had fallen into my lap. The boys in the back were rowdy again, and they were tossing jelly beans all over the bus.

  “Hey,” echoed Abby, waking up just as suddenly. Bleary-eyed, she looked at the piece of candy that had hit her. “Looks like green apple flavor,” she said musingly. “My favorite.” She popped it into her mouth. Then she made a face. “Ack!” she cried, clutching her throat. “I’ve been poisoned!”

  “What?” I panicked. “Should I call Mr. Fiske?”

  Abby laughed. “No, no,
nothing that bad. It’s just the wrong flavor. Jalapeño instead of green apple.”

  Melissa, who’d woken up by that time, had to put in her two cents. “Yuck,” she said. “I hate jalapeño too.”

  “I don’t exactly hate jalapeño,” Abby said. “I was just expecting green apple, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” Melissa said. She picked a jelly bean off her sleeve. “Look, I have grape.” She held it up. “Anybody want it?”

  When Abby and I shook our heads, Melissa ate it. Then she yawned. “I’m so bored. Do you guys want to play Scrabble again?”

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  “I know,” suggested Abby. “Let’s play car-color bingo. Anna and I play it whenever we’re on a long car trip. It’s simple — you just pick a color, and the first person to spot a car that color gets to yell ‘Bingo!’ Then that person picks the next color.”

  “Cool,” said Melissa. “What color should we start with?”

  “Let’s make it hard,” said Abby. “How about — hmm — turquoise?”

  We all stared out the windows for a while. I saw tons of white cars, red cars, green cars, and black cars. I even saw a purple car. The person driving it, a woman with bright red hair, looked up at me and smiled and waved as she passed the bus. I waved back. “Let’s see how many drivers we can get to wave back to us,” I suggested. “While we’re waiting for a turquoise car, I mean.”

  We started keeping track. About one out of every three drivers waved back. Women drivers were more likely to wave back, and of course if kids were in the car, they waved like crazy. Some people smiled when they waved, some people did silly waves, some people looked deadly serious.

  The three of us were cracking up. Then, all of a sudden, Melissa yelled, “Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!” She was yelling and pointing out the window on her side of the bus. Abby and I stood partway up so we could see the car she’d spotted. Sure enough, this huge old turquoise car was motoring alongside the bus. It was a convertible with lots of chrome and huge fins sticking up in back where the taillights were. It was the kind of car Watson loves, the kind he calls a “classic.”