Kristy's Worst Idea

by Ann M. Martin

  Abby was cracking up. As if the fundamentals of the game meant nothing.

  That’s what separates Abby from me. She’s a natural athlete. I’m a sportsperson. The difference? Dedication and discipline. (I’m not being conceited. It’s just a fact.)

  Not long before, I’d been pretty annoyed at Abby. I know the feeling was mutual, because Abby hadn’t sat with me on the bus for weeks.

  I felt bad about that. Enough was enough. We’d disagreed over BSC-related stuff. Now that the club was defunct, what was the point of staying angry?

  She needed help coaching. And the kids needed real guidance.

  I just had to stop.

  Abby’s back was to me as I climbed off my bike and unstrapped my helmet. I flipped down my kickstand and walked toward the field.

  “Hi!” I called out. “Can I help out?”

  Abby spun around. “Heyyy, guys, time to get serious! It’s World Cup Kristy!”

  “Who wants to play a real game?” I announced.

  “Meeeeeee!” the kids answered.

  “It’s Kristy’s Kickers versus Abby’s Attackers!” Abby announced.

  We chose sides. Abby and I decided we’d play the field and help the kids. Hannie was goalie for the Kickers, Sheila for the Attackers.

  The Kickers won the coin toss. I took the ball and dribbled in. “Now watch how I keep the ball in front of me,” I said. “Soft kicks, each one closer to the goal —”

  Suddenly the ball was gone. Abby was racing down the field with it, whooping at the top of her lungs.

  She passed it to Scott. Scott kicked it past Hannie, who happened to be busy picking her nose.

  “Score!” Scott shouted.

  “Yaaaay!” yelled his teammates.

  “No fair!” Hannie protested.

  Abby was giggling. I was not amused. “Uh, you know,” I said, “this is a practice game. We’re supposed to be showing them fundamentals.”

  “Stealing the ball is fundamental,” said Abby. “But, hey, if you want me to take it easy on you, I will.”

  Ooooh. That was low. If Abby wanted competition, competition she’d get.

  “Time out!” I shouted. “Kickers, team meeting!”

  I assigned positions. We discussed strategy. I gave my team a huge pep talk.

  We ran onto the field, pumped up and ready.

  How was our game? In a word, atrocious.

  Scott Hsu kneed his brother in the nose. Another Kicker, Kyle Abou-Sabh, booted the ball into the wrong goal. Moon kicked off a sneaker and it flew into a nearby Dumpster. Abby stole the ball from me three more times.

  The Attackers won, 17–6.

  “Great game!” Abby put her arm around me as we packed up to leave. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you win next time.”

  “Whaaaat!”

  She ran off, giggling. I was about to chase after her when Hannie Papadakis tugged at my sleeve.

  “Kristy, my daddy makes houses and stuff,” she said.

  “Yes, Hannie,” I replied. “I know that —”

  “So, like, he could build you a new clubhouse. You know, for the one that broke.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. “I don’t have a broken clubhouse.”

  “My mom told me there’s no more Baby-sitters Club,” Hannie explained.

  “Oh, that means we’re not meeting anymore. Our clubhouse was Claudia’s bedroom. It’s still there.”

  Hannie looked confused. “So why can’t you meet?”

  Linny came bounding over. “Because they don’t like each other anymore, silly.”

  “That’s not true!” The words flew out of my mouth, even though I wasn’t sure I believed them. Abby had been really competitive — too competitive.

  “Then why is Abby running away from you?” Timmy asked.

  “Look,” I said. “All us baby-sitters are still friends. We don’t have formal meetings anymore, that’s all. But we still sit.”

  “Yyyyess!” Timmy exclaimed.

  “Can you sit for us?” Hannie asked.

  “Us, too!” Moon and Sheila shouted.

  Abby walked up behind them. “Hrrrmph. How about me?”

  Scott looked at her blankly. “You’re too old to have a baby-sitter.”

  “I am a baby-sitter!” Abby retorted.

  “Yeah? Cool!” Scott said.

  By then the other kids were beginning to scamper home. Scott took off after them.

  Abby and I called out good-byes, then walked to our bikes. “I guess you haven’t sat for the Hsus yet, huh?” I asked.

  “Or Sheila, or Moon, or a lot of the BSC clients.” Abby sighed. “I was starting to know some of them. But since the BSC broke up, forget it. Their parents don’t ever think to call me.”

  “I know Claudia gives out your phone number.”

  Abby mounted her bike. “I was the newest member, Kristy. Everyone knows you guys much better.”

  “Well, let’s do something about it,” I said as we began riding home. “You know, make some phone calls, ask some parents to give references —”

  “Nahh, it’s all right. I don’t mind. I mean, it’s kind of relaxing not to have to baby-sit. I can do homework, listen to Anna practice, take naps, watch the leaves turn, clean the bathrooms.”

  I gave her a Look. She gave me a Look.

  “Aggggh! Bring back the BSC!” she shouted.

  I felt my heart jump. The pang was back again. She couldn’t really mean that, could she? Was she right? Was everyone feeling this way?

  Easy, Kristy, I told myself. Haven’t you been through this a million times already?

  Abby had this exaggerated, mock-hysterical expression on her face. She was kidding. A typical Abby joke.

  As we left the field and turned onto the street, I stood up, began pushing hard, and yelled, “Race!”

  “No fair!” Abby called out behind me.

  Not true. I let her pull ahead even before I started trying.

  Then I really let her have it. I raced along, tearing around McLelland with an easy lead.

  I would have pulled right up my driveway if a car weren’t blocking it.

  It was one of the Pikes’ station wagons. My mom was chatting with Mrs. Pike by the driver’s side. David Michael was waiting for Nicky Pike to climb out the back door.

  I glided to a stop behind them. “Hi!”

  Behind me, Abby whooshed by, heading toward her house. “Race isn’t over yet!” she called out.

  I ignored her. (No one had said we were racing to her house.) “Hi, Kristy!” Mrs. Pike said.

  “How’s Mallory?” I asked.

  She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s home working, on a Saturday. It’s for some library reading group. She’s writing about the influence of Marguerite Henry on the Saddle Club, or something like that.” She sighed and winked at my mom. “I tried to convince her to go outside, but uh-uh, no way.”

  I nodded. “I guess Mal’s not upset about the BSC breakup anymore, huh?”

  Mrs. Pike shrugged. “She hasn’t talked about it much.”

  “Great. Well, say hi from me.”

  Hasn’t talked about it much? The words hit me in a strange way.

  I knew I should have been happy. But part of me wished they were still upset. Part of me wished someone would sincerely beg me to start the BSC again. Even though I’d say no.

  I mean, was the BSC that easy to forget? Was it that small a part of everyone’s life? After all that time, all that effort?

  I thought of something I’d never considered before.

  Maybe my great idea had never been so great in the first place.

  “I thought she was dying!” said Erica Blumberg as she shoved part of her lunch in her mouth. “Shushuf quy um quy —”

  Across the lunch table, Lily Karp remarked, “Very tasteful, Erica. Will you swallow, please?”

  Erica gulped and kept right on talking. “She was crying and crying. First I thought she had gas, so I tried t
o burp her. Then I thought she needed a nap, so I put her in her crib and turned on her electric mobile and stuff. She just cried louder. So then I thought, like, whoa, something was seriously wrong. Should I call the doctor or nine-one-one or what? I was going crazy!”

  “So what happened?” Lily asked.

  “It was her diaper! Can you believe it? Totally soaked. I mean, duh. I hadn’t changed her all day!”

  Duh was right. Any half-brained baby-sitter would have checked the diaper in the first place.

  Yes, I was eavesdropping. I couldn’t help it. Erica and Lily were sitting at the table right behind me. They were talking about a sitting job with the Newtons. This bothered me a lot.

  Why? Because the Newtons have always been loyal BSC clients. And because their baby, Lucy, deserves better treatment than Erica had given her.

  You know what else? Erica had mentioned her fee. It was a whole dollar more per hour than the BSC charged. That didn’t help my mood one bit.

  “I know what you mean,” Lily continued. “The diapers absorb all the moisture. How are you supposed to know?”

  I could keep my mouth shut no longer. I pushed aside my turkey burger and spun around to face them. “When it’s lumpy.”

  “Huh?” Lily asked.

  “When the diaper’s really wet, the absorbent material becomes lumpy,” I explained. “Heavy, too. Did you ever see a kid with diapers come out of a swimming pool?”

  From Erica’s expression, you’d think my nose had just sprouted celery.

  “The diaper swells up,” I went on. “The kid looks like the Sta-Puf marshmallow man. That’s how absorbent that stuff is. After awhile it becomes really uncomfortable and the baby can develop a rash, so you have to check constantly.”

  “I definitely waited too long,” Erica said. “But I put Vaseline on the rash.”

  “That works okay, but it stains clothes,” I replied. “You’re better off with Desitin or something else that has zinc oxide.”

  Lily laughed. “How do you know this stuff?”

  “Experience,” I replied. “All that time in the Baby-sitters Club.”

  “Cool,” Lily said. “Now some of us will finally have a chance to learn.”

  I must have given her a Look, because her face fell. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she went on. “It’s just that, you know, parents never used to call us.”

  “Mrs. Newton said she tried a bunch of Baby-sitters Club members before she called me.” Erica lifted an eyebrow. “Boy, did that make me feel special.”

  “You did have kind of a monopoly, Kristy,” Lily added.

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “You mean to tell me you never baby-sat while the BSC was together?”

  Erica shook her head. “How could I? The Newtons live in my neighborhood, plus the Perkinses and Hobarts — all Baby-sitters Club clients.”

  “I sat three times last year,” Lily volunteered, “for my cousins.”

  By now the cafeteria was filling up. A group of girls set their trays down opposite Erica and Lily.

  “Anyway,” Erica said, “it was nice of you to give me all that advice. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, turning back to my meal.

  Monopoly?

  The word was throbbing in my mind, like a blinking neon light. The BSC had been many things to me. A club. A business. A fun time. A learning experience. But a monopoly? I had never thought of that. Our goal was to be good sitters, not to be the only sitters in town.

  No wonder Erica was so incompetent. She hadn’t had a chance.

  All because of us. The Baby-sitting Hogs.

  Stacey sat across from me with her lunch tray. “Thirty cents for your thoughts.”

  “Thirty cents?” I asked.

  “That’s the change I got from lunch.” Stacey smiled. “Speak.”

  “Stacey, I just thought of a great idea.”

  “Uh-oh. Should I eat before I listen to this?”

  “An advice service,” I continued. “Tips on baby-sitting, for kids who are new to the business. First we ask Claudia to make a flier. Then we post them all over the school, the recreation center, supermarkets …”

  As I barreled on, Stacey’s smile slowly disappeared.

  * * *

  Well, I didn’t have any more luck with my new idea. Mary Anne had the nicest reaction. She said it might work better on an informal basis. Abby said I should do the service alone, so she could call me. Claudia just laughed.

  I wasn’t too insulted. I mean, after what happened at Jackie’s, who was I to be giving out advice about baby-sitting?

  After school that day, I took David Michael and Linny and Hannie Papadakis to the neighborhood field for a real soccer practice. It was warm and summery outside, and I started thinking about how stuffy it would feel if I were in Claudia’s room, sweating out a meeting. Then I remembered Claudia’s air conditioner, and the great lemonade she used to serve …

  Arrgh! Keep your mind on the practice, Thomas.

  We were in the middle of a three-on-two drill when I heard a shout from the sidewalk.

  “Can I play?”

  Scott Hsu was running across the grass toward me.

  “Heyyyy, Scott!” I called out. “Of course you can! Where is —”

  Before the words left my mouth, I saw my answer. Timmy was walking up the sidewalk with Cokie Mason.

  My heart did a cannonball dive. I blinked my eyes, just in case I was seeing things.

  “Is that … your sitter?” I asked Scott.

  But Scott was already off kicking the ball around.

  “Scott!” Cokie called out. “SCOTT HSU, GET OVER HERE THIS INSTANT!”

  Well, that was Cokie’s style. If a cologne were based on Cokie, it would be called Obnoxious. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever put together the concepts Cokie and baby-sitter.

  “Oh, come on,” Scott pleaded.

  “You heard me!” Cokie snapped. “I need to get to the store now!”

  Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged angrily off the field.

  I was not going to take this lightly. I followed him. “Hey, Cokie?” I said as politely as I could. “I’ll look after him.”

  Timmy lit up. “Me, too!” he shouted.

  “Ugh, did you have to say that?” Cokie hissed through tight lips. “Look, today is the last day of the pre-inventory sale at Bellair’s. If I don’t go there now, I’ll never find anything.”

  “You’re taking them on a shopping trip for yourself?” I asked. (“Selfish pig,” I didn’t say.)

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well, why not leave them here? You’ll have time to yourself, and you can pick them up on the way back.”

  “Yeah!” Timmy shrieked. “Can we? Can we?”

  Cokie’s lips curled in disgust. “I’m their baby-sitter, Kristin, not you.” She grabbed the boys by their hands and started walking. “Get a life.”

  I nearly pummelled her. Really. If I hadn’t been surrounded by kids, if I hadn’t needed to set an example, she’s have been history.

  The poor Hsu kids shuffled down the road with her, like captured stray puppies on the way to the pound.

  The rest of the practice? The kids loved it. They ran all over me. I was so angry and spaced out, thinking about Cokie, that I could barely pay attention.

  Later that evening I called the Hsus.

  “Hi, Kristy, long time no hear!” Mrs. Hsu said. “How’s life after the Baby-sitters Club?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “Um, guess who I saw? Scott and Timmy, with Cokie. As we were chatting I said to myself, ‘Kristy, maybe you never mentioned to Mrs. Hsu that the members of the club are all available for sitting at our home numbers.’”

  Mrs. Hsu laughed. “You did, Kristy. Several times. So did Claudia and Stacey. And I’m sure I’ll use you. It’s just that Mrs. Mason is a good friend, and she’s been after me for the longest time to give her daughter a sitting job. I always meant to, but the Baby-sitters Club was so convenien
t and reliable. Now that you’re all scattered, I figured, why not give Cokie a chance?”

  “Sure, I understand,” I said. “Well, nice to talk to you. And don’t stop calling on us former BSC members!”

  “I won’t. ’Bye.”

  Boy, was I cheery. My voice had not one drop of bitterness in it.

  I didn’t start screaming bloody murder until I hung up the phone.

  I could count on the fingers of no hands the number of times Stacey had shown me her private journal. This time, she said, was an exception. It felt to her like a BSC notebook entry.

  On Saturday morning, she and Claudia were at Washington Mall. They were cleaning out Steven E, the mall’s fanciest store, which was having a clearance sale.

  Stacey loves sales. She marks them on her calendar in advance. She prepares for them by going to bed early the night before. Her motto is, “Maximum Fashion for Maximum Savings.”

  Personally, I think the idea is ridiculous. Take the “Savings” part. You don’t save money in a sale. You spend it. (Don’t even ask me my opinion of “Fashion.”)

  “We should have brought a shopping cart,” Stacey said as they trudged through the atrium with their Steven E bags.

  Claudia groaned. “My parents are going to kill me.”

  “Don’t worry. They know a bargain when they see it. Just have them feel the fabric of the black silk blouse.”

  “A college scholarship — that’s a bargain to them. A library book sale. Home delivery of The Wall Street Journal. But this? Honestly, Stacey, when my dad sees his credit card he’ll make me pay him back in installments until I’m twenty-nine.”

  “We can return some of it,” Stacey suggested.

  Claudia stopped walking. She and Stacey looked back at the store.

  “Nahhhh,” they said together.

  Claudia headed straight for the elevator. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  They rode up to the food court and stood in line at Friendly’s.

  Through the din of the crowded restaurant, Claudia heard a crash and a baby’s loud squawk.

  A waitress ran by with a hand broom and dustpan, dodging her way through the room. She began cleaning up the floor near a booth in the corner. Claud could see Mrs. Newton crouching over to help out. Jamie was watching with a guilty expression while Lucy gurgled in her high chair.