Here Come the Bridesmaids! (9780545633406)

by Martin, Ann M.

Lindsey yelled at Madeleine. Mrs. Barrett yelled at me. Franklin yelled at Mrs. Barrett. The workers yelled at each other. When I tried to take Madeleine into the basement to wash her hands in the industrial sink, she freaked out. “I hate rats!” she screamed. Buddy thought this was hysterical.

  By lunchtime, I felt like an overcooked lasagna noodle, limp and flat.

  Mr. DeWitt walked out the back door, white flecks of paint in his hair. “Who wants to go to Burger Town?”

  The kids ran to the cars, yelling with excitement. Me? I kept my cool. I followed them quietly. I helped them settle in the car.

  But I could not wait to sit indoors with a nice, big, greasy cheeseburger.

  * * *

  “The kitchen is too dark, sweetheart,” Mrs. Barrett said, taking a french fry from her bag.

  “More mee-oke!” Ryan demanded. (Translation: more milk.)

  “But we decided on the color long ago,” Franklin protested.

  “It’ll cover up food stains better,” Lindsey suggested.

  “Oh? Do you plan to fling food at the wall?” Franklin asked.

  “I do!” Buddy piped up.

  “Eat your burger,” I urged him.

  “Did you call the tux rental place?” Mrs. Barrett asked Franklin.

  His face fell. “Oops.”

  “We have to be on top of these things, Franklin,” Mrs. Barrett said.

  “I know, I know,” he said sheepishly.

  “I’ve ordered all my bridesmaids’ dresses except Stacey’s.”

  I nearly choked on a pickle slice. “Huh?”

  “What are you, a size six?” Mrs. Barrett asked.

  I swallowed. “You want me to be a — a — bridesmaid?”

  “Oh, dear … You mean, I didn’t tell you?”

  A grin slowly spread across Franklin’s face. “Harrumph,” he said. “On top of things?”

  Mrs. Barrett blushed. “I’m awfully sorry. We’ve been so frantic! You see, Stacey, one of my college friends had agreed to be a bridesmaid, but the other day she canceled. Would you like to take her place? You’ve been like part of our family.”

  My mind was in the ozone layer. The kids could have been pelting each other with chicken nuggets and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  I love weddings. I cry just thinking about them. My eyes were starting to water already.

  Me? A bridesmaid? I would be part of their most precious memory. Every time they opened up their wedding album, there I’d be, forever thirteen.

  Would I?

  “Of course I will!” I replied. “I mean, if my mom lets me.”

  Mrs. Barrett was grinning. “Have her call me if there’s any problem.”

  Buddy and Lindsey were arguing. Straw wrappers flew around me. Seven rambunctious kids were turning Burger Town into a war zone.

  I didn’t mind at all.

  The whole crazy day was worth it.

  “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire….” warbled Mallory Pike.

  “Aw-rooooo!” howled Kristy Thomas.

  “Auughhh!” Claudia Kishi picked up two pillows and pressed them against her ears.

  Mallory was unfazed. “Jack Frost nipping off your nose….”

  “At,” Shannon Kilbourne reprimanded gently. “‘Nipping at your nose,’ Mal, not off.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Kristy said.

  The rest of us were giggling uncontrollably.

  “Yuletide carols being flung in the fire….”

  “Okay, okay.” Shannon could barely keep a straight face. “I take it back. You were right. You can’t sing.”

  Mal was blushing, but she had this sly smile on her face.

  Shannon had asked for it. She’d been trying to get us all to sing carols, which is a little like trying to get rhinos to tap dance. Reluctantly we joined in — except for Mallory, who claimed her voice was too awful. So Shannon made it her mission to convince Mal she could really sing.

  Did Mallory shrink away? No. She put on a comedy act.

  “They know that Santa’s on his way; he’s loaded lots of poison goodies on his sleigh….”

  Where was she getting this stuff? We were laughing so hard, we were snorting.

  Welcome to a meeting of the Baby-sitters Club.

  Believe it or not, we can be serious. We were just in a silly mood that day. Holiday spirit, I guess. Besides, eleven minutes had gone by and not one parent had called.

  Eleven minutes may not sound like a long time, but our meetings only last half an hour: 5:30 to 6:00 (on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays).

  At 5:43, the phone finally rang.

  “Sshhhh!” Claudia urged. We held in our giggles as she lifted the receiver. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club. Oh, hi, Mrs. McGill…. She’s right here.”

  Stacey’s mom works at a department store called Bellair’s. Sometimes she calls during the BSC meeting to tell Stacey she’ll be late. “Hi, Mom,” Stacey said cheerfully into the receiver. “Is everything okay? … You’re looking for a what? When? Okay, I will…. Thanks.”

  We all stared at Stace as she hung up. She looked totally confused. “That’s weird. She called to say they lost their Santa Claus.”

  Huh?

  “Disappeared between men’s shoes and home appliances, huh?” Claudia said solemnly. “I know that area. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “No.” Stacey smiled. “The guy who’s playing their Santa is this actor, and he got cast in a movie, so he has to leave town right away. Mom tried calling some backups, but they’re all busy playing Santa in other places.”

  Kristy’s mind went to work. “Well, I’m sure if they put an ad in the paper, maybe checked with some employment agencies —”

  “It’s too late for the ad,” Stacey interrupted. “And I don’t think an agency would help because it’s a volunteer job. She asked if one of us wanted to do it, starting a week from Saturday.”

  Claudia nearly choked on a Cheez Doodle. “You’re joking.”

  “Better keep eating,” Kristy remarked. “You may need a big belly.”

  “Very funny,” Claudia replied. “Like a thirteen-year-old girl is really going to be a Santa.”

  “Mom says it doesn’t matter,” Stacey insisted. “The most important thing is caring about kids.”

  “I don’t know,” Mary Anne said. “I mean, what about our height, our voices —”

  “Santa doesn’t have to be super-tall. And you can lower your voice,” Mallory suggested.

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  “Uh, don’t all volunteer at once,” Claudia murmured.

  “It’ll be four hours next Saturday and Sunday,” Stacey said. “It’s not a big deal, like Macy’s. All you do is ring a bell and walk around the third floor, talking to kids.”

  Kristy chimed in, “Check the schedule. See who’s available.”

  Mary Anne flipped through our calendar. “Well, I’m going to California, and so are Kristy and Claudia. Mal’s got the Prezziosos Sunday afternoon. Shannon has the Papadakises….”

  I knew this was going to happen. I could feel it. Everyone was looking at me. My stomach began to rumble.

  I was trapped.

  “Uh, guys, I can’t,” I squeaked.

  “Why not?” Kristy demanded.

  “Three small things,” I replied. “I’m eleven years old. I’m a girl. And I’m black. Remember?”

  “So?” Claudia said. “I’d do it if I could.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Right.”

  I should mention that when my family first moved to Stoneybrook, we felt like aliens. Some people did not accept us at all.

  “You shouldn’t think about race,” Claudia went on. “Kids aren’t prejudiced the way grown-ups are.”

  “Besides, who says Santa can’t be black?” asked Shannon.

  “That’s true,” I said. Besides, I always liked seeing African-American Santas in Oakley, New Jersey, where I grew up. Sure, that was a racially mixed town compared to Stoneybrook, but why shouldn
’t children of color here have someone to look up to? Not necessarily me, but —

  “So you’ll do it?” Stacey asked.

  “I didn’t say that!” I protested.

  “Come on …” Shannon teased. “Think of those kids.”

  “It’d be fun,” Mary Anne said.

  It did sound like fun. Sort of.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know …”

  “Yes!” Kristy shouted. “I knew she’d do it!”

  “Wait!”

  Too late. Stacey called back her mom, who said I should go for a fitting after the meeting.

  Feeling numb, I called my dad and told him what had happened.

  He roared with laughter. “That’s something I should be doing!”

  “Would you?” I asked hopefully.

  “I don’t have the time, sweetheart. But I’ll take you to Bellair’s, if that’s what you want.”

  And that is how I, Jessica Ramsey, became a department store Santa Claus.

  * * *

  I arrived at Bellair’s by 6:21. Mrs. McGill met me and took me to a locker room area. There I met a woman named Ms. Javorsky, who was in charge of fitting me.

  She did not pass out when she saw me. She didn’t even laugh. In fact, she seemed thrilled.

  “You are a life saver, my dear,” she said to me. “You have no idea how happy we are.”

  “You don’t mind that I’m not …”

  “A roly-poly old man with a beard and a jolly laugh?” Ms. Javorsky laughed. “Do you know how hard it is to get someone like that to volunteer on a weekend during the holidays? Last year’s Santa was a high school boy with an earring and hair past his shoulders. He kept saying, ‘Yo, what’s up?’ to the kids, instead of ‘Ho, ho, ho.’”

  “And you didn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. He was so charming, and the children adored him.” Ms. Javorsky gave me a reassuring smile. “If the little ones see through the disguise, they just make up their own explanations — you’re Santa’s helper or something. And the big ones already know the truth anyway, so it doesn’t matter who you are.”

  “I guess …”

  “Don’t you worry. Now, up up up!”

  She gestured to a small stool. I climbed it and she quickly took my measurements with a tape.

  When she finished, she shook her head and chuckled. “Well, I’ll be doing a lot of hemming. And you’ll need plenty of padding. Okay, let’s work a little on the delivery.”

  She pulled a fake beard and a hat off the shelf. I put them on and tried to jut out my belly.

  I felt like a fool.

  “Um, what do I …”

  “Hi, Santa!” Ms. Javorsky blurted out. “I’m so happy to meet you!”

  “Uh, ho ho ho! What would you like this year?”

  “Well, a Porsche would be nice,” Ms. Javorsky replied with a grin.

  “I’ll have a little trouble getting that down the chimney,” I said, stroking the beard. “How about some socks?”

  Ms. Javorsky burst out laughing. “Perfect!”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s all I need to do?” With a big grin, she held out her hand. “Welcome to Bellair’s, Santa!”

  That did it. I was psyched. Bellair’s was going to get the best Santa Claus they’d ever seen!

  It started out so innocently.

  I was at Ben Hobart’s house that Saturday. Ben’s sort of my boyfriend. I mean, we don’t exactly call each other boyfriend and girlfriend (I’m not sure why). But we do hang out and go to school dances together. And you know what? I even turned down a date with a really cute fifteen-year-old guy this past summer because of Ben.

  If that’s not boyfriend and girlfriend, I don’t know what is.

  Ben has a medium-size family. Well, to me it’s medium. You might think otherwise. He has three younger brothers: James is eight, Mathew six, and Johnny four. All the Hobart boys have reddish-blond hair, round faces, and freckles.

  You know what the cutest thing about them is? Their accents. They were born in Australia, and they say things like “hoi” for hi, “g’die” for good day, and “jumper” for sweater. Ben calls me “Mel-ry.”

  Anyway, we weren’t doing anything special, just talking in the kitchen. Mr. Hobart was in the basement repairing something, Mrs. Hobart had gone off to do some errands, and Ben’s brothers were running in and out of the house.

  It was cloudy and pretty warm for a winter day. Even from the kitchen, I could hear neighborhood kids playing outside.

  “Ben and Mel-ry sitting in a tree …” James sang as he darted out the rec room and toward the back door.

  “Watch it!” Ben shot back. “If you want anything for Christmas.”

  James turned and smirked at him. “You can’t fool me with that anymore!”

  He had this funny look on his face. I recognized it. It was saying, I know there’s no Santa Claus, but I’m not going to say it, because my little brothers might hear. (As you might guess, I see this expression in my family a lot.)

  “Yeah?” Ben said. “Well, don’t forget, I buy presents, too, for people who deserve them.”

  James’s smirk disappeared. “Sorry.”

  As he slunk out the door, Ben sighed. “Do you get presents for all your brothers and sisters?”

  I nodded. “I buy things here and there, all through the year — little things. Last year I got Claire a hole puncher and it was her favorite gift.”

  “Yeah?”

  Johnny barged inside, screaming. Behind him was Jamie Newton, another four-year-old who lives in the neighborhood. Jamie was making these timid little roaring noises and giggling.

  A moment later, Mathew walked in with Myriah Perkins from next door. They were gabbing about some video game.

  Ben and I tried to move away from the kitchen, but we couldn’t. The kids kept asking for juice, snacks, and all sorts of things they couldn’t reach.

  Finally Ben suggested, “How about a big pot of hot chocolate?”

  “Yeaaaaaaa!”

  Ding-dong. As we were assembling the ingredients, the front doorbell rang. Mathew, Myriah, Johnny, and Jamie all ran to answer it.

  It was Charlotte Johanssen and Becca Ramsey (Jessi’s sister). “Hi, guys!” Becca called out. “Where’s James?”

  James ran in from the back, followed by Jake Kuhn. “Hi!” James greeted them. “Me and Jake found a birds’ nest!”

  “Let’s see!”

  The kids stampeded toward the back door. There they practically collided with Mr. Hobart, who had clomped up from the basement. “Well, well,” he exclaimed. “Welcome to the circus. Do your parents all know you’re here?”

  A chorus of yeses rang out.

  “What about the hot chocolate?” I asked.

  A door slam was my answer. Mr. Hobart shrugged and said, “Leave the window open. Soon as they smell it, they’ll come running back.”

  He was right. And when they returned, Nina Marshall had joined them (she’s four).

  Now I felt at home. Nine kids.

  You should have seen them. You’d think they hadn’t eaten or drunk in weeks.

  “Me first!”

  “Give me some!”

  “Quit pushing!”

  Ben finally boomed, “Wait a minute! I’ll serve whoever’s sitting down!”

  Zoom. Musical chairs. James, Jake, Johnny, Becca, Nina, and Myriah grabbed the six kitchen chairs. Mathew scrambled into the dining room and dragged in two more chairs, while Charlotte got the piano bench for Jamie.

  Ben thought this was hilarious. As he ladled the hot chocolate, he began singing, “Deck the halls with boughs of holly.” (Ben loves to sing.)

  “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” Myriah, Johnny, and Charlotte joined in.

  “Come on, everybody!” Ben urged.

  Jake blushed. Becca rolled her eyes. Nina began moving her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “If you want to have hot chocolate, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” Ben continued in this goofy voice, “you must sin
g these Christmas carols, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

  Ben was being unfair. Some of those kids are super-shy. He was tormenting them!

  But you know what? One by one, they all started singing. Even Nina. It was a little like the Whos, in How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

  As for me, quiet Mallory Pike? Well, I guess my performance at the Baby-sitters Club meeting had loosened me up. I sang out, horrible voice and all.

  When we finished the verse, Mathew asked, “What comes next?”

  “Wait.” Ben ran into the living room and returned with a big book of carols. He flipped through the pages and said, “Um, here it is. ‘Fast away the old year passes.’”

  We sang through the whole song, with Ben calling out the words in advance. By the end of it, everyone was smiling. The kids wore these little brown hot-chocolate mustaches.

  “This is fun!” Jamie exclaimed.

  “Remember last year, when those kids went from door to door, singing carols?” Charlotte said.

  “They came to our house,” Jake said, “and my mom invited them in for cookies.”

  “Can we do that?” James asked.

  “Go caroling?” I replied. “You really want to?”

  “Yeeeeaaaahhh!” It was unanimous.

  Ben and I looked at each other. “When?” he muttered.

  “Closer to Christmas, like next Saturday,” I suggested.

  “Yeeeeaaaahhh!”

  The kids were jumping up and down. Nina’s hot chocolate mug went flying (fortunately it was empty and plastic).

  “Sounds good to me,” Ben said, paging through the book again. “I guess we better keep practicing. Okay, how about ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’?”

  Well, we got through that one, and “Silent Night,” and “Oh, Hanukkah,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and a couple of others.

  Halfway through “We Three Kings,” I caught a glimpse of the stove clock turning to 12:27.

  I was due home at 12:15.

  “Oops, I have to go!” I blurted out.

  Ben looked disappointed. He walked me to the door, while the kids scattered.

  “I don’t know about this,” Ben said. “What if the kids get too shy again? What if we don’t sound good?”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be great,” I said. “ ’Bye!”

  “ ’Bye.”

  * * *