Mary Anne Saves the Day

by Ann M. Martin

  We sat down and bowed our heads while Dad said grace. At the end, just before the “Amen,” he asked God to watch over Alma. (Alma is my mother.) He does that before every meal, as far as I know, and sometimes I think he overdoes things. After all, my mother has been dead for almost eleven years. I bless her at night before I go to sleep, and it seems to me that that ought to be enough.

  “Well, how was your day, Mary Anne?”

  “Fine,” I replied.

  “How did you do on your spelling test?”

  I took a bite of salad, even though I wasn’t a bit hungry. “Fine. I got a ninety-nine. It was —”

  “Mary Anne, please don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  I swallowed. “I got a ninety-nine,” I repeated. “It was the highest grade in the class.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m very proud of you. Your studying paid off.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you have a meeting of your club this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Yeah … yes.”

  Kristy, Claudia, and Stacey are all surprised that Dad allows me to be in the club and to do so much baby-sitting. What they don’t know is that the only reason he likes our business is that he thinks it teaches me responsibility and how to plan ahead, save money, and that sort of thing.

  “What went on? Anything special?” Dad attempted a smile.

  I shook my head. There was no way I was going to tell him about the fight we’d had.

  “Well,” said Dad, trying hard to make conversation, “my case went … went very well today. Quite smoothly, really. I feel certain that we’re going to win.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I didn’t know what case he was talking about, but I had a feeling I should have known. He’d probably told me about it. “That’s great, Dad.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  We ate in silence for several minutes.

  “This case is interesting because it demonstrates the extreme importance of honesty in business dealings,” he said finally. “Always remember that, Mary Anne. Be scrupulously honest and fair. It will serve you in good stead.”

  “All right, Dad.”

  We ate in silence again, and it dawned on me that Dad and I sat across from each other at that table twice a day each weekday and three times a day on the weekends. If a meal averaged half an hour, that meant we spent over four hundred hours a year eating together, trying to make conversation — and we barely knew what to say to each other. He might as well have been a stranger I just happened to share food with sixteen times a week.

  I pushed my pot roast around my plate.

  “You’re not eating, Mary Anne,” my father said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Are you sure? You weren’t filling up on snacks at the Kishis’, were you?”

  “No, Dad, I sw — I promise. I guess I’m just not very hungry.”

  “Well, try to eat your vegetables, at least. Then you may start your homework.”

  Dad made starting my homework sound like some kind of reward.

  I forced down as much as I could manage. Then my father turned the radio on and listened to classical music while we cleaned up the kitchen. At last, I escaped to my bedroom.

  I sat down at my desk and opened my math book. A clean sheet of paper lay before me, along with two sharpened pencils and a pink eraser. But I couldn’t concentrate. Before I had made so much as a mark on the paper, I got up and flopped down on my bed.

  I remembered calling my friends: a conceited snob; a stuck-up job-hog; and the biggest, bossiest know-it-all in the world. I sincerely wished I hadn’t said those things.

  Then I remembered being called a baby and being told to shut up. I sincerely wished Stacey and Kristy hadn’t said those things.

  I wished I could talk to somebody. Maybe I could phone Claudia. The only thing she’d said that afternoon was for me not to call Stacey’s diabetes dumb, which really wasn’t mean. But I am not allowed to use the phone after dinner unless I’m discussing homework.

  I could ask my father for special permission to use the phone for non-homework business, but he’d want to know what that business was.

  I sighed.

  I glanced out my window. The side window of my bedroom looks right into the side window of Kristy’s bedroom next door. Her light was off, the room dark.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed and gazed around. No wonder Stacey had called me a baby. My room looks like a nursery. There’s no crib or changing table, but basically the room hasn’t changed since I was three. It’s decorated in pink and white, which my father had just naturally assumed every little girl would like. The truth is, I like yellow and navy blue. Pink is one of my least favorite colors.

  The curtains, which are ruffly, are made of pink flowered fabric and are tied back with pink ribbons. The bedspread matches the curtains. The rug is pale pink shag, and the walls are white, with pink baseboards.

  Living in my room is like living inside a cotton-candy machine.

  What bothers me most, though, is what’s on the walls — or rather, what isn’t on them. I’ve spent a lot of time in Kristy’s and Claudia’s rooms, and I’ve been in Stacey’s room twice, and I’ve decided that you can tell a lot about the people who use those rooms just by looking at the walls. For example, Kristy loves sports, so her walls are covered with posters about the Olympics and pictures of gymnasts and football players. Claudia is an artist and her own work hangs everywhere. She changes it often, taking down old paintings or drawings and putting up new ones. And Stacey, who misses New York more than she’ll admit, has tacked up a poster of the city at night, another of the Empire State Building, and a map of Manhattan.

  Here’s what’re on my walls: a framed picture of my parents and me, taken the day I was christened; a framed picture of Humpty Dumpty (before he broke); and two framed pictures of characters from Alice in Wonderland. They are all framed in pink.

  Do you know what I would like to have on my walls? I’ve thought about this very carefully, just in case my father should ever lose his mind and say I can redecorate. I’m not allowed to put up posters because the thumbtacks would make too many holes in the wall. But assuming Dad was really bonkers and didn’t care about holes, I’d put up a giant poster of a kitten or maybe several kittens, a big photo of the members of the Baby-sitters Club, a poster of New York City, and maybe one of Paris.

  I would take down Humpty and Alice, but leave the picture of my family.

  My gaze drifted from my walls to the window. I snapped to attention as a light went on in Kristy’s room. Maybe I could wave to her and let her know that as far as I was concerned, the fight was over. But Kristy pulled her shade down quickly, not even looking out the window.

  I checked my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. In another hour, I could try signaling to her with my flashlight. I worked out a flashlight code so that we can “talk” at night without the telephone. One of us usually flashes to the other shortly after nine o’clock. At that time, my father has already said good night to me. I’m free to read in bed until 9:30, but I know he won’t check on me. Kristy and I have been signaling to each other for a long time and we have never been caught.

  I finished my homework and changed into my nightgown. By five minutes to nine I was in bed, reading a very exciting book called A Wrinkle in Time.

  Dad stuck his head in the door. “Oh, good. I see you’re all ready for bed.”

  I nodded.

  “What are you reading?”

  “A Wrinkle in Time. It’s on Mr. Counts’s reading list.” (Mr. Counts is the school librarian.)

  “Oh, that’s fine. Well, good night, Mary Anne.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  He closed my door. I could hear his footsteps as he went back downstairs.

  I know my dad loves me, and I know the reason he’s strict is that he wants to show everybody I can be a well-brought-up young lady even without a mother, but sometimes I just wish things were
different.

  I took my flashlight out of my desk drawer, turned off my light, and tiptoed to my window, waiting for Kristy to do the same. I planned to signal I’M SORRY to her. I stood at my window for fifteen minutes, but her shade remained drawn.

  I knew then that she was very angry.

  The next morning I woke up feeling sad. Kristy had never stayed mad at me for so long. Then again, I had never called her the biggest, bossiest know-it-all in the world. As I got dressed for school, though, I tried to convince myself that the members of the Baby-sitters Club couldn’t stay mad for long. After all, we had a business to run. Surely things would get straightened out in time for our meeting the next day.

  When breakfast was over, I kissed my father good-bye and headed out the front door. I hoped he wouldn’t see that I was walking to school alone. If he did, he would know that something was wrong.

  I had walked to school alone only six times since kindergarten. Four of those times were days Kristy was home sick; once was when she and her family left for Florida the day before spring vacation started; and once was the day after the Thomases announced that they were getting divorced, and Kristy had been too upset to go to school.

  Sometimes Claudia walked with us; sometimes she didn’t. However, since just after we started the Baby-sitters Club, Kristy, Claudia, Stacey, and I had been walking to and from school together almost every day.

  I reached the sidewalk and paused in front of Kristy’s house, trying to decide whether to ring her bell and ask to talk to her. In the end, I just kept on walking. Basically, I’m a coward. I didn’t want to have a scene with her in front of her family.

  I walked quickly to school, keeping my eyes peeled for Kristy, Claudia, or Stacey. But I didn’t see them. A horrible thought occurred to me: Maybe they’d all made up, and I was the only one they were still mad at. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I entered school.

  The very first person I saw was Kristy! She was not with Claudia and Stacey, so I began to feel a bit better.

  I waved to her.

  Kristy looked right at me. I’m sure she did. She saw me wave.

  But she tossed her head in the air, turned around, and flounced down the hall. I followed her, since my homeroom is next to hers, but I tried to keep a safe distance between us.

  As I neared my homeroom, I spotted Claudia coming down the hall toward Kristy and me.

  “Hey, Kristy!” Claudia called.

  Oh, no, I thought. They have made up.

  But Kristy ignored Claudia.

  “Kristy,” Claudia said again.

  “Are you talking to me?” Kristy asked icily. “Or to some other job-hog?”

  Claudia’s face clouded over. “No, you’re the only job-hog I see at the moment.”

  “Then get a mirror,” snapped Kristy.

  Claudia looked as if she was preparing some sort of nasty retort, but before she could think of a really good one, Kristy walked into her homeroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

  I wondered whether it was safe to approach Claudia. After all, she had wanted to make up with Kristy. But just then, the bell rang.

  Claudia disappeared into her homeroom; I disappeared into mine.

  The morning passed slowly. I couldn’t concentrate. In my head, I wrote notes of apology to my friends. I realized that I must still be mad at them, though, because some of the notes weren’t very nice:

  Dear Stacey,

  I’m really, really sorry you called me a shy, little baby. I hope you’re sorry, too….

  Dear Kristy,

  I’m sorry you’re the biggest, bossiest know-it-all in the world, but what can I do about it? Have you considered seeking professional help?

  Dear Claudia,

  I’m sorry I called you a stuck-up job-hog. You don’t deserve that, and I didn’t really mean it. I hope you can forgive me.

  Love,

  Mary Anne

  Now that was a note I could send.

  In English class, I finished my work early. I carefully removed a fresh piece of loose-leaf paper from the middle of my notebook, and took my special cartridge pen from my purse. The cartridge was filled with peacock blue ink, and the nib on the pen made my handwriting look like scrolly, swirly calligraphy.

  Slowly, making sure each word looked perfect and was spelled correctly, I printed the note to Claudia. Then I waved it back and forth to dry the ink, folded it twice (making the creases straight and even), and tucked it in my purse. I would give it to her at lunchtime.

  My knees felt weak as I made my way to the cafeteria a few minutes later. I’d know right away whether Stacey and Claudia had made up, or if they were still mad, too. They always sat with the same kids — a sophisticated group that included boys.

  The first thing I did when I entered the cafeteria was look around to see what was what with my friends. I found Claudia and Stacey’s table. There was the usual bunch, or almost the usual bunch: Pete, Howie, Rick, Dori, Emily, and Stacey. But no Claudia.

  So. Claudia and Stacey hadn’t made up, either.

  I scanned the lunchroom and finally found Claudia. She was sitting with Trevor Sandbourne. Just the two of them. Trevor is this boy she likes and goes out with sometimes. Claudia was leaning on her elbows, her hair falling over her shoulders, whispering to Trevor. He was listening with a smile on his face. They looked very private and very cozy.

  I edged around a crowded table toward the one where Kristy and I always sit with the Shillaber twins, Mariah and Miranda. It was a round table with four chairs, perfect for our little group. But halfway there, I stopped. Kristy and the twins were already at the table. They had spread their lunches everywhere so that there wasn’t an inch of available space. Furthermore, they’d removed the fourth chair, or lent it to a crowded table, or something. It didn’t matter what. The point was that they hadn’t saved a place for me.

  I watched my friends for a moment. Kristy was facing me. She was talking away a mile a minute and Mariah and Miranda were giggling.

  Kristy glanced up and saw me. She began talking even more earnestly. Then she gestured for the twins to lean toward her, and she made a great show of whispering in their ears and laughing loudly.

  I turned around.

  Suddenly, I felt like a new kid at school. I didn’t know who else to sit with. Ever since middle school began, I’d been eating with Kristy, Mariah, and Miranda.

  I knew that if Kristy were in my shoes, she’d just join some other group of kids, even if she didn’t know them very well. But I’d die of embarrassment first. I could never do that.

  I walked around the cafeteria until I found an empty table. I plopped down in a chair and opened my lunch bag. Since I pack my own lunch, I never have to eat things I don’t like, such as liver-wurst sandwiches. On the other hand, there are never any surprises. Treats, yes; surprises, no.

  I spread a paper napkin on the table and arranged my lunch on it: peanut butter sandwich, apple juice in a box, potato chips, banana. I looked it over and realized I wasn’t hungry.

  I was still staring at it when a voice next to me said, “Excuse me, could I sit here?”

  I glanced up. Standing uncertainly by my side was a tall girl with the blondest hair I had ever seen. It was so pale it was almost white, and it hung, straight and silky, to her rear end.

  “Sure,” I said, waving my hand at all the empty chairs.

  She sat down with a sigh, placing a tray in front of her. I looked at her lunch and decided I was glad I had brought mine. I knew Stacey and Claudia think Kristy and I are babies because we still bring our lunches to school, but the macaroni casserole on the girl’s tray looked really disgusting. And it was surrounded by mushy, bright orange carrots, a limp salad, and a roll that you’d need a chain saw to slice.

  The girl smiled shyly at me. “You must be new, too,” she said.

  “New?” I blushed. Why else would I be sitting alone? “Oh,” I stammered, “um, no. It’s just — my friends are all … absent today.”
/>   “Oh.” The girl sounded disappointed.

  “Are — are you new?” I asked after a moment.

  She nodded. “This is my second day here. Nobody ever wants the new kid to sit at their table. And I feel embarrassed sitting alone. I thought I’d found the perfect solution — another new kid.”

  I smiled. “Well, I don’t mind if you sit with me. Even if I’m not new.”

  The girl smiled back. She wasn’t exactly pretty, I decided, but she was pleasant, which was more important. Especially considering three unpleasant people I could think of.

  “My name’s Dawn,” she said. “Dawn Schafer.”

  “Dawn,” I repeated. “That’s such a pretty name. I’m Mary Anne Spier.”

  “Hi, Mary Anne Spier.” Dawn’s blue eyes, which were almost as pale as her hair, sparkled happily.

  “Did you just move here?” I asked. “Or did you switch schools or something?”

  “Just moved here,” she replied. “Last week.” She began to eat slowly and methodically, taking first a bite of macaroni stuff, then a bite of carrots, then a bite of salad. She worked her way around the plate in a circle. “Our house is still a mess,” she went on. “Packing cartons everywhere. Yesterday it took me twenty minutes to find my brother for dinner.”

  I giggled. At that moment, I happened to look up and see Kristy across the cafeteria. She was watching me. As soon as I caught her eye, she began talking to Mariah and Miranda again, making it look as if they were having the time of their lives without me.

  Well, two can play that game, I thought. Even though I have never been much good at talking to people I don’t know well, I leaned across the table and put my head next to Dawn’s conspiratorially.

  “You want to know who the weirdest kid in school is?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  He happened to be sitting at the table next to Kristy’s. I took advantage of that to point in her direction. “It’s Alexander Kurtzman. The one wearing the three-piece suit. See him?” I whispered.