“Yeah. On the other hand, she should come to the meetings.”
Claudia didn’t say anything.
“Claud?”
“I just don’t know what to do. Stacey is almost as mad as Kristy is.”
“What’s strange,” I said, “is that Kristy hasn’t said she wants the club to go out of business. She’s just ignoring it — and the club is her business. Why would she let us run it without her when we’re the ones she’s mad at?”
Claudia was probably shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe you and I should talk to Stacey and Kristy tomorrow and see what they want to do. We certainly can’t keep having meetings like the one we just had. If you talk to Kristy, I’ll talk to Stacey.”
“All right,” I agreed, “but it’s not going to be easy.” I didn’t tell Claudia about Kristy and the door-slamming. I figured she was having just as much trouble with Stacey as I was having with Kristy.
How was I supposed to talk to Kristy? I didn’t want to go to her house again, and I had a feeling that if I called her on the phone, she’d simply hang up on me. The only thing left to do was to surprise her.
I ambushed her at school the next morning as she came out of the girls’ room. I stepped right in front of her.
“Excuse me,” said Kristy haughtily.
My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, but I stood my ground. “I have to talk to you,” I said.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“We have to decide what to do about the club. Are you out of it?”
“Out of it? It’s my club.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean ‘exactly’?”
“I mean, it’s your club, but you didn’t go to the meeting yesterday.”
“It’s my club so I didn’t have to go to the meeting.”
“But you missed out on a lot of good jobs.”
Kristy kicked at a piece of wadded-up paper that was littering the hall.
“I mean,” I went on, “we weren’t going to call the Shillabers’ house every time a job came in, to see if you wanted it.”
“You should have,” she said sullenly.
It was getting harder for me to argue with her. I was used to giving in on things. I drew in a deep breath. “Not according to the rules.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, Claudia decided that we better figure out how to run the club while” (I had started to say “while we’re all mad at each other” and realized that that wasn’t very tactful) “while …”
“While we’re all mad at each other?” suggested Kristy.
“Well … yes. I think Claudia and I are the only ones speaking to each other, so yest —”
“You and Claudia are speaking?”
“Yes.”
“Brother. Whatever happened to faithful friends?”
“What happened to them?” I cried. “They had doors slammed in their faces, that’s what!”
“Okay, okay, okay. Well, how about if we take turns answering the phone in Claudia’s room at meeting times? You go one day, I’ll go the next….”
“What about offering the jobs around? If we have to call each member of the club to tell her about each job call that comes in, we’ll end up talking to each other more than ever that way.”
Kristy looked to the ceiling for help. “When a club member is on duty, she takes on as many jobs as she can. Then the only jobs she has to offer around are the ones she can’t take herself. How does that sound?”
“Fair,” I said. “I’ll tell Claudia.”
Kristy nodded.
“Hi, Mary Anne!” called a voice from down the hall.
It was Dawn.
I turned around and waved. She ran toward me. “How are you? Yesterday was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Great,” I agreed. “And I was wondering. Do you want to come over on Saturday? Maybe we could make fudge or bake cookies.” I glanced at Kristy. If she opened her eyes any wider, her eyeballs would roll out and land on the floor.
“Sure!” exclaimed Dawn.
“Good! See you at lunch?”
“See you at lunch.” Dawn trotted happily down the hall.
Kristy was still staring at me. At last she managed to say, “You just invited her over to your house.”
“Right.”
“But you never ask anyone over except me. You don’t usually even invite Claudia or Stacey over.”
I shrugged. “Dawn’s a good friend.”
Kristy narrowed her eyes. I think she knew what game I was playing, because she chose that moment to say, “Oh, by the way, Mom extended my baby-sitting hours. Now I can stay out as late as Stacey: ten o’clock on weekends, nine-thirty on weeknights.”
It was my turn to widen my eyes. Ten o’clock? Kristy could stay out until ten? That meant I had to be home earlier than any other club member.
I could feel my face flush. Kristy might just as well have pinned a sign to me that said BABY because that’s what I was. The only baby in the Baby-sitters Club.
Kristy walked off, smirking.
I hung my head, mad at Kristy and mad at my father.
I knew I had to do something — but what?
According to our new emergency operating procedures, the Baby-sitters Club meetings were being handled by one club member at a time. Friday was my first day. Since Claudia and I were speaking, she stayed in her room with me, but we stuck to Kristy’s new rules, and I took all but one of the jobs that afternoon.
The last call that came in was from a woman named Mrs. Prezzioso. I knew the Prezziosos slightly. They live on Burnt Hill Road not far from Dawn, and are friends with the Pikes, the eight-kid family our club members often sit for. I had met the Prezziosos several times at the Pikes’.
“Hello, the Baby-sitters Club,” I said when I answered Mrs. Prezzioso’s call.
“Hello. This is Madeleine Prezzioso over on Burnt Hill Road. To whom am I speaking?”
To whom was she speaking? “This is Mary Anne Spier,” I said.
“Oh, Mary Anne. Hello, dear. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” I replied politely. “How are you?” I should mention here that the Prezziosos, all three of them, look extremely prim and proper — but Mrs. Prezzioso is the only one who acts that way, too. She’s fussy and fastidious, kind of like the neat half of The Odd Couple. She’s always polite, and she usually appears to have stepped right out of the pages of one of those magazines that gives tips on getting out hard-to-remove stains and baking the perfect loaf of zucchini bread. She buys three-piece suits and monogrammed handkerchiefs for Mr. Prezzioso. And Jenny, their three-year-old daughter … Well, Mrs. Prezzioso dresses her as if every day were Easter Sunday. She puts ribbons in her hair and lacy socks on her feet. Mrs. P. probably thinks jeans is a dirty word.
Poor Jenny doesn’t seem to be the prim, fastidious type at all. Neither does Mr. P. When I’m around him, I usually have the feeling that he’d rather be dozing in front of the TV in overalls, a T-shirt, and mismatched socks. And Jenny tries hard, but she just isn’t what her mother wants her to be.
Mrs. P. and I chatted for a minute or so and then got down to business. “I know this is last-minute, dear,” she said, “but I need a sitter for Sunday afternoon. Mr. Prezzioso and I have been invited to a tea.”
“What time does it start?” I asked.
“Four o’clock. I should think we’d be home by six or six-thirty.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
“That’s wonderful, dear. Thank you. I’ll see you at four. Good-bye!”
I hung up the phone thoughtfully. The afternoon at the Prezziosos’ could be pretty interesting.
On Sunday afternoon I rang the Prezziosos’ doorbell promptly at 3:30. Jenny came flying to answer it. I could hear her calling hello and fiddling with the locks. After a few moments, she pulled it open — but the chain was still attached. CRACK!
“No, Mommy.”
“Well, what are you supposed to do when the doorbell rings?”
“Say, ‘Who is it?’ ”
“Then please do that.” The door closed. The locks slid back into place.
“Mary Anne,” Mrs. Prezzioso called, “would you mind ringing the bell again, please?”
I sighed. Ding-dong.
“Who is it?” asked Jenny’s voice.
“It’s me, Mary Anne Spier.”
“Are you a stranger?”
“No, I’m your baby-sitter.”
“Now can I let her in, Mommy?”
“Yes, sweetheart. That was very good.”
At last the door opened. I stepped inside and took off my coat. Both Mrs. P. and Jenny were all dressed up. Mrs. P. looked exactly as if she were off to a fancy tea. But Jenny seemed a bit overdressed for an afternoon of stories and games and fun. She was wearing a frilly white dress trimmed with yards of lavender lace and ribbon, matching lavender socks, and shiny black patent leather Mary Janes. Her hair had been curled, and was pulled back from either side of her face by barrettes from which long streamers flowed. Really, her mother ought to just pose her in a display case somewhere.
“Hello, Mary Anne,” Mrs. P. greeted me.
“Hi,” I replied. “Hi, Jenny.”
Jenny looked wistfully at the blue jean skirt I was wearing. “I like your skirt, Mary Anne,” she said.
“Now, Jenny,” Mrs. P. said briskly, “it’s a very pretty skirt, I’m sure, but not as pretty as my little angel in her brand-new dress!” She pulled Jenny to her and covered her with loud kisses. “Who’s my little angel?” she asked.
Jenny’s face was smushed up against her mother’s arm. “Mmmphh,” she said.
Mrs. P. tried again. “Who’s my little angel?”
Jenny drew away from her. “I am, Mommy.”
“And what are you made of?”
“Sugar ’n’ spice ’n’ all that’s nice.”
Gag, gag. I remembered another nursery rhyme. That one went, “There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.”
“Isn’t our angel pretty today?” Mrs. Prezzioso asked me.
Our angel? “Yes, she sure is,” I replied.
Jenny smiled sweetly.
“All right, I’m ready, Madeleine,” boomed a voice from the stairs. Mr. P. came thundering down from the second floor.
“Okay, angel, you be a good girl for your sitter. Will you promise me that?” He tossed Jenny in the air and she squealed with delight.
“Oh, be careful!” cried Mrs. Prezzioso. “Her new dress … and your new ascot. Nick, please.”
(What’s an ascot?)
Mr. P. returned Jenny safely to the ground. “Well, let’s go. Thanks for coming over, Mary Lou.”
“Mary Anne,” Jenny corrected him.
Mrs. P. stood in front of her husband. She straightened his tie, adjusted his jacket, and arranged the handkerchief in his pocket so that it was absolutely straight and the monogram was perfectly centered.
Then she turned around and stood next to her husband. “How do we look?” she asked me.
I glanced at Jenny. Jenny was watching me.
I blushed. “You look …” Somehow “very nice” didn’t sound like enough. “You look like a picture out of a magazine,” I finally said. And they did, all posed and stiff.
Mrs. P. appeared confused, but recovered quickly. “Why, thank you, dear.”
There was a pause. “You’re welcome,” I said, to fill the silence.
“Now, we’ll be at the Elliot Taggarts’ this afternoon,” said Mrs. Prezzioso. “Their number is written on the message board in the kitchen, and the emergency numbers are right next to the phone. If we’re not home by six o’clock, you can give Jenny a sandwich for supper.”
“Okay,” I said. Jenny and I walked her parents to the back door. “Have fun!” I called as they climbed into their car.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a few seconds. “Well,” I said to Jenny, “what do you want to do first?”
Jenny flopped on the couch in the playroom and pouted. “Nothing.”
“Oh, come on,” I said brightly, “there must be something you want to do. We have two hours to play.”
Jenny stuck out her lower lip and shook her head. “Unh-unh.”
“Well, in that case,” I said, “I’ll just play with the Kid-Kit by myself.”
Kid-Kits were something Kristy had dreamed up to make us baby-sitters as much fun as possible for our charges. Each of us had decorated a cardboard carton, which we’d labeled KID-KIT. We kept the boxes filled with books and games (our own) plus activity books that we paid for out of our club dues. The kids we baby-sit for love the Kid-Kits and look forward to our visits because of them.
But Jenny had never seen one. “What’s a Kid-Kit?” she asked.
“Oh, just something I brought with me.” I’d left it on the front porch so I could surprise Jenny with it after the Prezziosos left. I retrieved it and sat down on the floor in the middle of the playroom. I opened the box and began pulling things out: three books, two games, a box of Colorforms, a sticker book, and a paint-with-water book. I turned my back on Jenny and began peeling balloons off the back page of the sticker book.
After a moment, Jenny left the couch and edged toward me and the Kid-Kit. She watched me put stickers in the book. Then she glanced at the things I’d pulled out. She opened the box of Colorforms. It was an old set of mine called Mrs. Cookie’s Kitchen. She touched the flat plastic pots and pans and food. Then she put the lid back on the box.
“I can play with this stuff?” she asked.
“Sure. That’s why I brought it.”
“I can play with anything I want?”
“Of course.”
“Is this a painting book?”
I glanced up. “Oh … yes. Here, how about the stickers? Don’t they look like fun?”
“I WANT TO PAINT!”
“Okay, okay.” I looked at Jenny’s pristine white dress. I looked at the paint-with-water book.
Wasn’t the point of painting with water that it wasn’t messy?
I went to the kitchen and half filled a paper cup with water. Then I brought it to Jenny, opened the paint book for her, and settled her on the floor. “Okay, go to it,” I said. “All you have to do is brush water over the pictures, and the color will appear. Make sure you rinse the brush off pretty often so the colors don’t mix together. Okay?”
Jenny nodded.
“And … be careful,” I added.
Jenny was sitting cross-legged, the book spread open in front of her. She dipped the paintbrush in the water and moved it slowly toward the book. Drip, drip, drip. Three wet spots appeared on her dress.
I closed my eyes. It was only water. Still …
“Jenny, wouldn’t you like to put on play clothes while you paint?” I thought she must own something more casual than what she had on.
“No.”
“No? Not even a smock? We could put it on over your dress.”
“No.”
“How about one of Mommy’s aprons?”
“I DON’T WANT AN APRON!”
I watched Jenny smear the paintbrush over a big apple on the page. The apple turned red. Jenny lifted the brush and returned it to the cup. So far, so good.
I relaxed a little.
Then Jenny swung the wet brush back to the book. Two faint pink streaks appeared on her dress. Oh, well, I thought. It must come out with water.
But I wasn’t sure. I decided that Jenny would have to wear an apron whether she liked it or not, and I dashed into the kitchen. I had just found one when I heard Jenny say, “Oops.”
“Jenny?” I called. “What happened?”
There was a pause. “Nothin
g.”
A nothing is usually the worst kind of something. I ran back to Jenny — and gasped. She had spilled the entire cup of water in her lap. A huge pinkish stain was spreading fast.
“Oh, Jenny!” I exclaimed.
Jenny stared at me with wide eyes. She looked as if she were daring me to do something.
“Okay. Off with your dress. Right now.”
“NONONONONONONO!” Jenny threw herself on her stomach and began kicking her legs on the floor.
I took advantage of that to unbutton her dress. “Off it comes,” I said. “Then I’ll show you some magic.”
Jenny stopped kicking and yelling. “Magic?”
“Yeah.” I hoped the trick would work.
Jenny let me take her dress off. She followed me into the kitchen and sat on the counter while I held the dress under a stream of water from the faucet. She watched as the color flowed out.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Does your mommy have a hair dryer?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“Come show me where.”
So Jenny, giggling, helped me blow-dry her dress. Then I told her that she would have to wear play clothes if she wanted to finish painting. She took me to her room, pointed to a drawer in her bureau, and said, “That’s where the play clothes are.”
I opened the drawer and found myself looking at three piles of neatly folded, spotless, almost-new shirts, blouses, and slacks. “These are your play clothes?”
Jenny gave me a look that plainly said, “I told you so.”
I closed the drawer. “Okay, Jenny-bunny,” I said. “Do you want to finish painting?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Come on.” We went back downstairs and Jenny spent the rest of the afternoon painting in her underwear. I got her dressed just five minutes before the Prezziosos came home.
“How was she?” Mrs. P. asked.
I glanced down at Jenny. “An angel,” I replied. “An absolute angel.”
Jenny smiled at me. Our secret was safe.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I decided to ask my father if he would extend my baby-sitting hours. If all the other members of the club were allowed to stay out until ten o’clock, I ought to be able to as well. After all, I was the same age as they were, I was just as responsible as they were, and I had just as much homework as they did.
Mary Anne Saves the Day Page 4