Jessi's Baby-Sitter

by Ann M. Martin

  “She’s efficient,” Daddy remarked.

  “She’s a drill sergeant,” I whispered to Becca.

  “Girls, are you ready for bed?” Aunt Cecelia called upstairs.

  Ready for bed? It was too early to go to bed. And why was Aunt Cecelia calling us, anyway?

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  “Well, please put on your nightgowns.”

  Becca and I looked at each other, mystified. Then we put on our nightgowns, but we went downstairs afterward to find out what Mama and Daddy were doing. Guess what. They were just sitting in the den, reading. Why weren’t they stopping Aunt Cecelia?

  “Mama,” I whispered, “Aunt Cecelia told me to get ready for bed, and it’s only eight-thirty.”

  “You don’t have to go to bed yet,” said Mama absently, but she was much more interested in her book than in the injustices Aunt Cecelia was carrying out against Becca and me.

  My sister and I left the den.

  “They weren’t any help,” said Becca.

  “They’re tired,” I told her. “And Mama’s probably enjoying this last weekend before she begins work. We should let them relax.”

  * * *

  That was a bad move on our part.

  The next morning, our family had just gotten up when Daddy said brightly, “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we go out for brunch this morning? We’ll celebrate your mother’s new job and having my sister here with us.”

  “Oh, why don’t you two go out alone?” Aunt Cecelia said to Daddy and Mama. “Now that I’m here, you can have a private brunch. Wouldn’t that be special? No children’s menu to look at. No high chair to worry about. I’ll stay here and baby-sit for Jessi and Becca and Squirt. After all, that’s one reason I moved in.”

  Mama and Daddy were thrilled with the idea, but all I could think was, She’ll stay here and baby-sit for us? On a Sunday morning? I could do that. I have done that.

  But I kept my mouth shut.

  So Mama and Daddy left, and Aunt Cecelia baby-sat for my sister and brother and me. And I mean, she baby-sat. She did everything for us. That’s okay where Squirt’s concerned, but Becca is too old to be reminded to use her napkin (she knows when to do that), and I am much too old to be told to clean my plate. Sometimes I can’t. Besides, I have to watch my weight. I can’t be a fat ballerina.

  When our breakfast was finally over, I lifted Squirt out of his high chair and began to clean him up like I always do.

  “I’ll take care of that,” said Aunt Cecelia. “You girls get dressed.”

  As Becca and I dragged ourselves upstairs, I said to my sister, “I’ve got a new name for Aunt Cecelia.”

  “What?” asked Becca.

  “Aunt Dictator.”

  * * *

  While Mama and Daddy were out, Aunt Cecelia left Squirt in his high chair (when I baby-sit, I play with him; it’s much more stimulating for him) and prepared a salad for lunch, and also began preparing dinner. Aunt Cecelia was so busy cooking that she hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up Squirt yet.

  “Aunt Di — I mean, Aunt Cecelia,” I said, entering the kitchen, “Becca and I are going to take Squirt for a walk.” (After I wash his face and hands, I thought.)

  I was all dressed. And my hair was tidy. Aunt Cecelia wouldn’t be able to find anything to complain about.

  “Where are you going to take him?” she asked.

  “Just up and down the street like we always do.” I paused, then added, “I put him in his stroller and strap him in, and I never let him lean over and touch the wheels because he might get hurt.”

  Aunt Dictator looked outside. “Too cloudy,” she announced.

  I nearly exploded, but instead I said, “Okay. Then I’m going over to Mallory Pike’s house.”

  “Who’s Mallory?” my aunt asked.

  “You met her once,” I told her. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Nearby. I can ride my bike to her house.”

  “I don’t think so.” Aunt Dictator shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I’m in charge now, and it looks like rain. The roads will get too slippery for bicycles.”

  That did it. I turned around and stomped out of the kitchen.

  “Walk like a lady!” Aunt Cecelia called after me.

  I didn’t answer her. (But I did stop stomping.) Who did Aunt Cecelia think she was? Oh, yeah. My baby-sitter.

  I ran upstairs to Becca’s room. My poor sister had followed me to the kitchen before, but when she saw how unreasonable Aunt Cecelila was being, she had escaped back to her room. Becca is a little shy and very sensitive to criticism, so she wasn’t about to face Aunt Cecelia until she thought the arguing was over.

  “Becca,” I said, “you can stop hiding out. I’ve got an idea. It’s time to start our Aunt Cecelia project.”

  I whispered into Becca’s ear, and she began to giggle. By the time Mama and Daddy returned, my sister and I had been hard at work. We had short-sheeted Aunt Dictator’s bed. We’d filled one of her slippers with Daddy’s shaving cream. We’d arranged a realistic rubber spider on her pillow and covered it with the bedspread.

  Her room looked normal, but we knew better. Our only worry: Mama and Daddy couldn’t see what we’d done, but when Aunt Dictator put on her slippers or got into bed, what would happen?

  Would Mama and Daddy see how unfair our new sitter was? Would they give Aunt Cecelia a talking-to? Or would Becca and I just be in an awful lot of trouble?

  Surprisingly, none of the above happened. At eleven o’clock that night, Aunt Cecelia was reading in bed. Mama stuck her head into the room to thank her for making her life so much easier. And all Aunt Cecelia said was, “You’re welcome,” even though she must have found the shaving cream and the spider. And she must have had to make her bed up again.

  I did not know what to think of that.

  “Good-bye, Mama! Good luck!” I called.

  “Have fun at work!” Becca added.

  It was the next morning, and Mama and Daddy were leaving for their jobs together. I felt like I was sending Mama off to her first day of kindergarten.

  My parents’ cars rolled down the driveway. It was time for Becca and me to hustle or we’d be late for school.

  “Take care of Squirt,” Becca said seriously to Aunt Dictator, strapping her backpack on and picking up her lunch box.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Remember, he’s allowed to watch Sesame Street, and he always needs an afternoon nap and usually a morning nap, too. And he likes to take a bottle of water to bed with him. Oh, and —”

  Suddenly I stopped talking. Whoa. If looks could kill.

  “Jessica,” said my aunt crisply. “I raised children of my own.”

  You didn’t raise Squirt, I thought.

  I was not in a good mood by the time I left for school.

  But when I came home that afternoon, I was in a much better frame of mind. I’d gotten an A- on a math test, I’d scored three baskets during gym, my creative-writing teacher had said he was impressed with the story I was working on, and I had a full (and Aunt Cecelia-free) afternoon ahead of me. I was supposed to baby-sit at the Rodowskys’ and then go to the Monday BSC meeting.

  I bounced through our front door. “Hello!” I called.

  “SHHH!” was Aunt Cecelia’s reply. “Your brother’s asleep.”

  “Now?” I said. “He’s usually awake by this time.”

  “Well, he isn’t today.”

  Auntie Dictator, Auntie Dictator, Auntie Dictator, I sang to myself.

  I put away my backpack, changed my clothes quickly, and dashed into the kitchen for a fast snack. I had to be at the Rodowskys’ soon.

  Aunt Cecelia was working at the stove when I came in. I opened the refrigerator and surveyed the snack possibilities.

  “Snack’s on the table,” said Aunt Cecelia, without turning around to look at me. (I think some adults actually do have eyes behind their heads. The eyes are just hidden by their hair, t
hat’s all.)

  I looked at the table.

  Milk and cookies. Kid stuff.

  “I usually have a sandwich,” I said, opening the fridge again.

  “Not this close to dinner, you don’t. You’ll spoil your appetite.”

  “But I do get to eat a sandwich. Mama lets me. We eat lunch really early. Before it’s even twelve o’clock.”

  “Two cookies,” said Aunt Cecelia.

  “I’ll pass,” I told her. “I’ll eat at Jackie’s house.”

  “Jackie? Who’s Jackie? Not a boy, I hope.”

  “As a matter of fact, Jackie is a boy.”

  “Well, you are certainly not spending the afternoon with a boy.”

  “Aunt Cecelia, he’s seven years old. I baby-sit for him.”

  My aunt was about to protest when Becca came home, as starving as I was. She also requested a sandwich and got two measly cookies instead. Since she ate hers, I ate mine after all. (Oh, I think I forgot to mention that the cookies weren’t anything fun, like chocolate chip. They were oat-bran bars.)

  “Okay,” I said, jumping up from the table. “Gotta go! I’ll be at the Rodowskys’ until a little after five. Then I’ll be at Claudia Kishi’s for our Baby-sitters Club meeting.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Aunt Cecelia. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Rodowskys’ and then to Claudia’s.”

  “I don’t know those people.”

  “But I do.”

  “But I can’t let you go running off to strange places.”

  “They aren’t strange!”

  “They are to me.”

  “Aunt Cecelia, you don’t understand. This sitting job is my responsibility. I baby-sit all the time. You have to let me go.”

  “I don’t have to let you do anything,” said Aunt Dictator. “Besides, you are my responsibility now. I’m in charge while your parents are out. If anything happens to you, I’m —”

  “I know. You’re responsible,” I said. “But I have a commitment. I told the Rodowskys a week ago that I would baby-sit this afternoon. They’re counting on me. And a good baby-sitter never lets her clients down. Unless there’s an emergency,” I added.

  Aunt Cecelia looked thoughtful.

  “You can call Mama or Daddy at work and tell them what my plans are. They’ll say I can go. This is my schedule. And these are my responsibilities.”

  “All right,” said Aunt Cecilia at last. “What time will you be home?”

  “Ten after six. Baby-sitters Club meetings always end at six o’clock. Then I ride my bicycle home.”

  Aunt Cecelia nodded. “Very well, then.”

  I made a dash for the door — for two reasons. 1. I was about to be late. 2. I didn’t want Aunt Dictator to change her mind.

  I had to speed to the Rodowskys’. I was glad Aunt Cecelia couldn’t see me. I didn’t break any laws, but I nearly broke my head riding over a curb. I arrived at Jackie’s house in one piece, though.

  “Hi,” I greeted Mrs. Rodowsky breathlessly. I glanced at my watch. “Boy, I just made it. I’m sorry I was almost late.” (A good baby-sitter tries to get to any job, even the most routine one, a few minutes early in case the parents have special instructions, or there’s a problem, such as a child who’s going to cry a lot when Mommy leaves.)

  “Don’t worry, Jessi,” said Mrs. R. as she let me inside. “I know I can count on you.”

  I wish Aunt Cecelia would count on me, I thought.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. R. left with Shea. Archie was supposed to have gone with her — to be dropped off at soccer practice — but he had stayed at home that day, recovering from an ear infection.

  “He’s on the mend, though,” his mother had told me. “He’ll be back in school tomorrow. He doesn’t need to stay in bed, and don’t worry about medicine. I’ll give him his next dose at suppertime.”

  So I was left with Jackie and Archie.

  “Okay,” I said enthusiastically to Jackie. “Let’s get to work on your volcano. Did your mom and dad buy the things you need?”

  “Yup,” replied Jackie.

  He and Archie and I were in the Rodowskys’ playroom. Archie looked at his big brother and me with interest. “Can I help?” he asked.

  “This is Jackie’s project,” I told Archie.

  “Oh. Can I watch, then?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I turned to Jackie. “Now the first thing we need to do is build that box, the glass one with the wood frame that we’ll put our volcano in,” I said.

  “Our volcano?” asked Jackie.

  “I mean yours. Now let’s see. Where are the instructions?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said Jackie. “My dad and I made a box over the weekend. It doesn’t look exactly like the one in the picture, but it’s glass, and it’s big enough for the volcano.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. I felt relieved. Building the box had sounded difficult, even harder than making a working volcano. “Then we can get started on the next step,” I told Jackie.

  “Yea! Papier-mâché!” he cried. (Just the idea of something messy is appealing to Jackie.)

  “Nope,” I said, referring to the instructions. “First we have to build up the layers of igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary rock. We’ll use the Plasticine for that. Did you buy three different colors of Plasticine?”

  “What’s Plasticine?” asked Archie, who was beginning to look bored.

  “Modeling clay,” I told him. “Did you get some, Jackie?”

  “Yup. We got red, yellow, and brown. But, Jessi, clay doesn’t look like rocks.” Jackie sounded worried.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “It’s supposed to represent rocks.”

  “Can’t we just build a volcano?” he asked.

  “Not if you want to win a prize in the fair. You have to do a really terrific project. Now where’s the clay? And the box?”

  Jackie set out the materials on an old table in the playroom. He watched while I built up the layers of rock that lie under volcanoes. It didn’t take me too long.

  “Goody!” he exclaimed as soon as I was done. “Papier-mâché time!”

  Before I knew it, Jackie was mixing flour and water, and Archie was tearing strips of newspaper. Apparently, they had made papier-mâché before.

  “Goop, goop, goop,” sang Jackie, as he slurped his hands in and out of the pasty bowl. “Hey, this is a good batch, Archie,” he said. Jackie was up to his elbows in goo. He grinned happily.

  “Okay,” I instructed, “take the papier-mâché and build a mountain on top of the clay, and around this tin can. Don’t fill the can in. That’s where we’ll put the chemicals to make the lava.”

  “Mmmm,” said Jackie. He held up his hands and let the goop drip back into the bowl. Then he got an itch and wiped his cheek, leaving papier-mâché smeared across it.

  I tried to ignore that. I read up on igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary rocks. But in the background, I was aware of cries of, “Got you! I’m the slime monster!” and, “Hey, Archie, look. If you wrap the papier-mâché around your arm you can make a cast,” and, “Cool. Wrap me all up, Jackie. Make me a mummy!”

  I glanced at the boys. They were having the time of their lives. Papier-mâché was everywhere — except surrounding the can in the glass box. Jackie hadn’t started his mountain yet.

  “This is so, so fun!” he exclaimed, just as I was about to tell him to get to work. “I can’t wait to see lava, lava everywhere!”

  I looked at my watch. “Time to clean up, guys,” I said. “Your mom and Shea will be home soon.”

  “You know what, Jessi?” Jackie replied. “This was the best afternoon of my life!”

  Uh-oh. I should have known.

  Competition.

  When Kristy gets involved in something, the competition heats up right away. (I bet if you opened Webster’s and looked up “competition,” you’d find a picture of Kristy’s face.)

  Kristy now saw the science fair as a competiti
on among Mallory, herself, and me, as well as among all the kids in the fair. It would be like … well, like if David Michael won, Kristy would have won. In other words, she would have beaten me. At least that’s what I thought at first. Things turned out quite differently.

  Anyway, Kristy was baby-sitting that afternoon. Nannie had just driven off in her car, the Pink Clinker, and Kristy was trying to think of something fun to do with her little brother and sister. Usually, David Michael wants to play outside, but that afternoon he curled himself up in an armchair with his second-grade science book and began poring over it.

  “What are you doing?” asked Kristy. (David Michael practically has to be bolted to his desk to do the small amount of homework he sometimes gets. He’s smart, but he doesn’t like school much, and he really doesn’t like homework, particularly during softball season.)

  “Well,” said David Michael, “see, there’s going to be this science fair at school. Do you know what that is?”

  Kristy hid a smile. Of course she knew what it was. She’d gone to Stoneybrook Elementary herself and had entered several of the fairs. But all she said was, “Yes.”

  “So I might enter it,” said David Michael casually.

  “Oh, yeah?” Kristy replied, just as casually.

  “Yeah. There are prizes.”

  David Michael continued to flip through the book, while Kristy kept an eye on Emily, who was stacking blocks nearby.

  “But,” David Michael went on, “I’m not too good in science.”

  “You could enter anyway,” Kristy told him. “Science isn’t my best subject, either, but it’s fun to enter the fair. Is there anything about science that you like?”

  “Space,” said David Michael immediately. “Aliens. Flying saucers.”

  “Some people say that’s science fiction,” Kristy told him. “You know. Made-up stuff.”

  “Well, I still like to think about Mars and Pluto and all the planets. I like Saturn best, because of its rings.”

  “So do a project on the solar system,” said Kristy.

  “Make a list of all our planets?” suggested David Michael.

  “No. Something a little more ambitious. Go out there and show what you can really do. Like when you’re up at bat in a softball game. Think, ‘I can do something big.’”