As you may have noticed, I pretty much stayed out of this discussion. I’d heard the word dyslexia before, too. It was one of the words that had come up in conversations between my parents and my teachers in the past when I started doing not-so-well in school. A long, long time ago, they had even tested me for learning disabilities. It turned out I didn’t have any learning disabilities, and that I was supposed to be smarter than your average kid. Which hadn’t made my parents or me too happy. Now they had proof I was a plain old underachiever, which meant they’d never leave me alone.
On the other hand, I don’t like feeling dumb, which is the way I feel around my genius sister sometimes. I was glad to know I wasn’t really dumb. I just didn’t like school. Of course, I could go to one of those schools to study special things, like that high school in the movie Fame where the kids learn to be dancers and performers and artists. A school like that would be okay….
“Claudia, you know, this reminds me, you need to schedule another tutoring session.” Stacey was looking over Mary Anne’s shoulder at the book.
“Right.” I tried to appear as if I’d been listening.
Stacey ran her finger along the page. “Here. Here’s a good time for me, and you’re free.”
“You’re pretty booked that week, Stace,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want someone else to take me on?”
“No. You know I want to be your tutor. Your only tutor. I think it’d be more effective and less confusing that way. What do you think?”
“Er,” I said.
Kristy said, “Are you sure, Stacey?”
“Positive.” Stacey gave me a big smile.
I couldn’t help but smile back. Stacey was a true best friend.
“It’s fine with me if it’s fine with everybody else.” Kristy looked around and the others nodded.
“Done,” said Stacey.
“Gimme five,” I said. We were right in the middle of a really stupid high five routine that looked like a bad cheer when a knock sounded on the door.
Mallory opened it and said, “Hi, Janine.”
“Hello,” said Janine. “Claudia, I arrived home a few minutes ago to find this affixed to the front door.”
Janine held out an envelope with the letters “BSC” printed across it.
“BSC being the abbreviation for the Baby-sitters Club, I naturally assumed it was directed to you.”
“Gee, thanks, Janine.” I took the envelope and ripped it open. Inside on a plain piece of white paper was a typewritten message: YOU ARE VERY NICE.
I held it up.
Janine pushed up her glasses. “It would appear to be the work of an anonymous admirer. How gratifying.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re quite welcome,” she said as she left.
“Who’s it for?” asked Kristy.
I shook my head. “Doesn’t say.”
“Well, who is it from?” asked Jessi.
I turned the paper and the envelope over. “Doesn’t say that either. Like Janine said, it’s anonymous.”
“It’s a very sweet note,” offered Mary Anne.
“Yeah,” I said.
“This isn’t really something Bart would do,” said Kristy thoughtfully. “He’s pretty direct. But …”
“What a lovely thing for Logan to do.” Mary Anne’s eyes filled with tears. She reached one hand up to touch the little pearl earrings that Logan had bought at the SMS auction and given to her.
“Hey,” said Mallory. “Logan gives you earrings. He doesn’t have to send you an anonymous note. I bet it’s from Ben. It’s hard for him to say things like that to me. It’s probably much easier to write it anonymously.”
I looked around the room and realized we’d all decided that the mystery note was from a particular boy, and meant just for each one of us. And why not. I admit, I was sort of hoping it was from Austin Bentley, a boy at school who is on my top ten cute guys list. I was about to blurt that out when Kristy said thoughtfully, “Remember those notes that Cokie and Grace sent me that time?”
“Your faux mystery admirer,” said Stacey. “That was a pretty disgusting trick.”
“Pretty typical for them, though,” pointed out Dawn.
“They wouldn’t do it again, though,” argued Mary Anne. “It would be stupid to try the same trick twice.”
Dawn shook her head. “They might be just stupid enough to try it.”
“To see if we are stupid enough to fall for it,” said Kristy.
“No way!” said Jessi. “Come on, you don’t really believe they’d do that again.”
“Maybe not,” said Mary Anne. “It is a pretty sweet note. Not Cokie’s or Grace’s style.”
“True,” said Kristy.
“Maybe … maybe it has something to do with the Spring Dance at the Community Center!” exclaimed Dawn.
“Yes!” cried Mallory. Then she hesitated. “But what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Some guy we haven’t even thought of as a possibility maybe, just sort of testing the waters.”
“Oooh,” said Mary Anne dreamily. “How romantic.”
“Yeah,” said Jessi, her voice trailing off.
We were quiet for just a second, trying to imagine this dream guy. Then Kristy looked at her watch.
“Whoa, it’s after six o’clock. I bet Charlie is downstairs waiting for me!” Kristy jumped to her feet, grabbed her pack. “This meeting of the BSC is officially adjourned,” she announced and raced out the door.
Everyone stood up slowly and followed her. Our thoughts were far away.
As for me, I folded the note carefully, and put it in my jewelry box.
I had only taken on one new baby-sitting job since Mrs. Hall dropped her bombshell on me, but I had already scheduled one for Friday afternoon at the Rodowskys’. It was a regular sitting job for Jackie, Archie and Shea, of course, not a tutoring session (whew), so I put on my basic jeans and big old shirt. It’s my spill-proof, accident-proof outfit, and when you baby-sit for Jackie, who in addition to being the Walking Disaster is one of three very active brothers, that kind of fashion planning is key.
“The boys are in the backyard playing ball,” Mrs. Rodowsky told me when I arrived. “Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies are in the cookie jar in the kitchen, for snacktime.” There’s another reason I like sitting for the Rodowskys. Mrs. Rodowsky always has something good to eat on hand — something not too healthy.
She picked her tote bag up from the kitchen chair. “I’m taking the car for a quick oil change, and then I’m going to run errands. Here’s a list of places I’ll be. You know where the usual emergency numbers and so forth are.”
I nodded.
“You know about Shea?” she asked.
I nodded again and said, “He has dyslexia.”
She smiled a little. “It’s good to know what the problem is. Now that we do, we’re working on it.” (Almost exactly what Kristy had said!)
Mrs. Rodowsky paused. “We’re working on it,” she repeated. “But Shea is suffering from lack of self-esteem. This is not a tutoring session, but anything you can say to encourage him would be helpful.”
“I’ll remember,” I promised.
Mrs. Rodowsky grinned. “Good. See you in an hour and a half.”
After she left, I went out to the backyard. It isn’t a big backyard because of the doghouse and a toolshed. Fortunately, the toolshed doesn’t have any windows, so the hitting and pitching practice wasn’t too hazardous. Still, I noticed that Bo, the Rodowskys’ dog, was busily working on a bone behind his doghouse, keeping one eye cocked toward the rest of his family.
“Hi, guys,” I said.
“Hi!” called Jackie. He looked up and grinned a big gap-toothed grin — and the ball sailed past him to land on the roof of Bo’s house. Bo flattened his ears and rolled his eyes as the ball bounced down the roof and landed with a thump on the ground.
“Oops,” said Jackie.
“Concentrate!” admonished Shea.<
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I should mention that the Rodowsky boys love softball. Jackie plays on a softball team, Kristy’s Krushers, coached by none other than our fearless Baby-sitters Club president. You have to be pretty fearless to coach this team, since the average age of the players is 5.8 years old. It was another one of Kristy’s great ideas, when she realized that there were no teams for such a, well, age-diversified group of kids who weren’t exactly Little League material. As a player, Jackie is something of a threat, not only because, you might say that the element of surprise is always on his side, but also because he’s a pretty solid hitter. He once even hit a home run.
And although Archie, who is four, is not a Krusher (at least not yet) or a power hitter or much of an outfielder, you can tell he gets a big kick out of the game. And he is a pretty good athlete. He takes tumbling classes and plays on a very junior soccer team, too.
Shea isn’t a Krusher. He’s in Little League. He’s an excellent player, and he doesn’t have an attitude about it, either. Like right now, he was pitching slow, careful pitches to Archie so Archie could hit them. And every time Archie did, even if the ball just brushed the bat, Shea would say, “that’s the idea” or “you got a little wood on it that time.” He was patient, too, about fielding Jackie’s throws back to him. (Jackie was the catcher.)
“You want to play, Claudia?” asked Jackie.
“I could catch,” I said. “You and Archie could take turns batting.”
Jackie thought it was a great idea, so a few minutes later I was crouching behind first Archie, then Jackie, wearing Shea’s batting helmet just in case. Archie got some nice bunts (at least, that’s how far they went) and Jackie got one outstanding hit — right against the wall of the toolshed.
Shea pushed his cap back. “Too bad that shed was in the way, Jackie. I think you would have hit a home run.”
“Really? Oh, wow. Pow, pow, pow!” Jackie took a few celebratory swings with his bat, wound himself up too tight, and toppled over.
“How about some catching practice?” I suggested. “We have two balls —”
“I’ll throw to Archie and you throw to Shea,” said Jackie.
“Okay.” We settled into a nice groove, punctuated by the slap, slap of the balls hitting the gloves. But then I noticed that Jackie and Archie were edging closer and closer together.
A minute later, they were whispering to one another. Then Jackie announced, “I’m tired. Can we stop now?”
I looked at Shea, who shrugged.
“Sure. It’s not quite time for snacks, yet, though,” I said.
“That’s okay. We have a project to work on,” replied Jackie.
We trailed back into the house and put the equipment away in the closet in the rec room. Then Jackie and Archie, still whispering, ran upstairs to Jackie’s room and shut the door.
“They must have serious work,” I commented. “What about you, Shea?”
Shea ran his hand along the edge of a chair. “Nothing.”
“You’re doing some new stuff at school, right? How’s that going?”
“Fine.”
“Are you studying anything interesting? Anything you like?”
Shea shrugged. Then he pulled the chair out and sat down at the rec room table, which was covered with art supplies.
“You like art? I love art. It’s probably my best subject. In fact, I like it so much, I don’t even count it as a subject.”
Shea smiled a little then and reached for a half-finished painting. His hand brushed a small container of paint. The lid was just resting on top, not screwed on tightly, and the paint spilled across the table.
“Oops,” I said. I grabbed a roll of paper towels, handed some to Shea, and we began to blot up the paint.
“What a dummy! What a dummy!” Shea muttered.
“Shea? What are you talking about? You’re not a dummy.”
“Yes I am. I’m stupid in school. Something’s wrong with me.”
Mary Anne was right. Shea was hurting. I took a deep breath — and wimped out.
I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Instead I said, “Shea, there’s nothing wrong with you. You just learn things a different way. Now that you know that and what to do about it, you can work hard and concentrate. Remember, like you told Jackie? Concentrate. You can do it. Just pay attention and try your best.”
Rah, rah, rah. I didn’t sound very convincing. The words had an old familiar ring (like I’d heard them a thousand times before from my parents and teachers). I sure don’t think I convinced Shea.
He threw out the paper towels and pushed away the painting.
“Well, tired of art, huh?” I said brightly. “Listen, do you have homework? Why don’t I help you with that?”
“I don’t know,” said Shea.
“Let’s give it a try. It can’t hurt.” Shea nodded. “Come on, then.” We went to his room.
The top of Shea’s desk wasn’t quite as chaotic as I expected. In fact, after I’d pulled a chair next to him, I realized that each pile was for a specific thing: math, social sciences, earth sciences. I think Shea was beginning to make progress, whether he believed it or not.
“Where do you want to begin?” I asked. I looked over the desk. “I know. How about science? What are you doing in science?” (I couldn’t face the thought of helping him with math.)
“We’re supposed to make a list of ten things that will help the environment, and then explain why,” said Shea. He sighed and pulled a book toward him.
“What a great idea! Have you read the chapter?” I leaned over and studied the first page. “Listen, here’s a great idea: Put a timer on your hot water tank.”
Shea didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you write that down,” I said.
Reluctantly, he picked up the pencil and wrote:
The “P” was backward, too.
“Good, that’s a good start. But take a look at the first word, Shea. It’s not quite right.”
“Figures,” muttered Shea.
“No, it’s no big deal. Look.” I picked up a pencil and on a separate sheet of paper wrote “Put.” “See?”
Shea stared at what I’d written for several seconds, his brow furrowed. Then he said, “Oh.” He erased the backward “p” and substituted the correct one. Then he wrote:
“Shea, wait. We haven’t finished the first one yet.”
Shea frowned. “Yes we have. I fixed the P.”
“But there are a couple of other things. Just a couple.”
Shea put his pencil down. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Come on, Shea. Keep trying. Come on!”
Frowning even harder, Shea picked up his pencil.
“Now,” I said. “In the first sentence, you wrote ‘no’ for ‘on.’ ”
“I didn’t,” said Shea. He paused and stared at the sentence. “I … I did.”
“Just reverse the letters,” I said. “See?”
Painstakingly, Shea began to erase the word and rewrite the letters.
I heard a whisper behind me.
Sure enough, Archie and Jackie were standing in the doorway, looking serious.
“Okay, guys, what is it? Have you finished your project?”
“Our project? Nooo. Not yet,” answered Jackie.
“Do you need me to do something?”
“Uh-uh.” Archie shook his head.
Then Jackie grinned. “ ’Bye,” he said.
Giggling, he and Archie ducked out of sight.
What was that all about? I wondered. Then I remembered that the same thing had happened to Mary Anne. Were Archie and Jackie jealous of the attention Shea was getting? I shook my head. I couldn’t tell.
I turned back to Shea. Number 3, he’d written.
“Ah, Shea? Wait a minute.”
“Now what?”
“You still have just a couple more things to fix on number 1.”
Suddenly Shea threw his pencil across the room. “I hate this. I hate it! I can’t do
anything right.”
“Shea —”
“No. You can’t make me! You’re not my teacher.”
“Of course not. I was just trying to help.”
“Don’t help me! I don’t need any help. You can’t help a dummy!”
Before I could answer, I heard Mrs. Rodowsky opening the door downstairs and calling, “Boys? Claudia? I’m back.”
“Shea,” I said.
Ignoring me, Shea slid out of his chair and ran out of the room.
Mrs. Rodowsky met me in the hall. “I’m a little early. Snacktime for everybody?”
“Snacks, hooray!” said Jackie. He flung his arms out and hit the edge of the hall table. It teetered, and I made a diving save.
Mrs. Rodowsky smiled. “Good work, Claudia. Now let me see, what do I owe you?”
As Mrs. Rodowsky paid me and the boys milled around us, I snuck a quick look at Shea. He didn’t look cheered by the snacks. He didn’t look happy at all.
“Thank you, Claudia,” said Mrs. Rodowsky.
I wanted to say, Don’t thank me. I think I just made things worse. But I didn’t. I just nodded and smiled and left, feeling useless.
I was the last one to arrive at the Friday afternoon meeting of the BSC. I felt kind of funny, dashing into my own room and seeing everyone else sitting around.
“You’re on time,” Kristy told me approvingly.
Then the phone rang.
“Here,” said Mallory, passing me a bag of licorice whips left from the last meeting. “I remembered you’d hidden these in your bottom desk drawer.”
“Thanks,” I said. I took a few to sustain me while I rooted out the large economy bag of M&M’s from behind the second shelf of books on my bookcase. Stacey was drinking a diet soda, and Dawn was carefully ignoring all the unhealthy junk food circulating the room.
“You were at the Rodowskys’ today, weren’t you?” asked Mary Anne. “How was it?”
“Not good,” I admitted.
“What happened, Claud?” asked Stacey.
“It’s Shea. You’re right, Mary Anne. He thinks he’s the world’s biggest dummy. He knocked over some paint, and right away he started calling himself stupid. It was just an accident!”
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