Dedicated to Ren Roome and Ann Ross Roome
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
I closed my book and drummed my fingers on its cover. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I’d groaned when Mom suggested reading it together. After all, how exciting could the lives of prim, proper people in the 1800s be? But to my surprise it was much more interesting than I’d expected.
“I’m almost ready, Stacey,” Mom called into the living room, where I sat. She was across the hall in the dining room, pulling out our good dishes from the hutch and laying them on the table for inspection. This is something she does every year before Thanksgiving.
I’d asked Mom for a few extra minutes so I could finish the chapter I was reading. You see, we’d agreed to start a mother-daughter reading group. The idea was, we’d pick a book and then both read it. Each week we’d sit together and discuss the chapters we’d read.
When I’d finished reading, I walked to the dining room. “Mom, what exactly are we doing for Thanksgiving dinner this year?” I asked.
She looked up blankly from the dish she’d been inspecting. I noticed a hairline crack across the middle. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.
“Thanksgiving,” I repeated. “What are we doing?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. Before Mom and Dad were divorced, they always invited friends to dinner. (Most of our family lives too far away to visit.) But since the divorce, Mom has pretty much drifted away from the couples she and Dad used to hang out with. Besides, most of them are in New York City, where Dad still lives. But Mom and I live in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. Although it’s less than two hours from the city, it feels farther away. That may be because it’s so quiet and suburban — so completely different from the city. It’s enough of a distance to make us both lose track of most of our old friends.
I have two advantages over Mom, though. The first major plus is that I’ve made amazing new friends. We’re all part of a group called the Baby-sitters Club. (I’ll tell you more about that later.)
Second, I still travel to the city on a regular basis to visit Dad. You could say I lead a double life. I’m part suburban Stoneybrooker and part city girl. My boyfriend, Ethan, lives in the city too, so I have lots of reasons to want to get into New York as much as I can.
Mom, though, almost never goes into the city. She’s too busy with her job as a buyer for Bellair’s Department Store, which is here in Stoneybrook. (A buyer is someone who selects the things the store is going to sell to its customers.) She says there’s no reason for her to go to the city, except when she has to go to Manhattan for work.
I argue that there are museums, plays, movies — a zillion other reasons for her to go. She just shrugs and says everything comes to Stamford eventually. (Stamford is the city closest to Stoneybrook.) I always shriek, “Stamford! How can you compare Stamford to New York City?” No offense to Stamford, but it is not an international center of culture and business like Manhattan.
Mom laughs and says she spent her whole life in New York City, and now she’s happy to live at a slower pace.
Okay, I can accept that. But what I don’t understand is why she hasn’t made many friends. “Adults don’t make new friends the way young people do,” she insists. “Besides, I’m too busy right now for new friendships.”
That sounds like a pretty lame excuse. Yes, she’s got a job, but she’s not a workaholic like my dad. He’s a lawyer and he lives and breathes his job. Mom doesn’t do that — thank goodness. And it’s not as if she has eight kids or something. There’s only me.
Of course, it’s none of my business. Mom can live her life any way she chooses. I just think she must be lonely. Who wouldn’t be?
Mom hasn’t had a single date since the divorce. My dad already has a new steady girlfriend, Samantha. I’m not eager for a stepdad, but it would be nice for Mom if she went out once in awhile.
Sure, she’s got me, and we’re extremely close. Closer, I think, than most mothers and daughters. But I’m thirteen. Doesn’t she want adult friends too? I mean, I love her — totally — but I wouldn’t want to spend all my free time with her.
“I’ll think about Thanksgiving later,” she said, putting down the cracked dish. “It’s almost three weeks away, after all.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “Let’s talk about the book.”
We went to the living room and sat on the couch. I plucked a carrot stick from a plate on the coffee table. It was my midafternoon snack. Mom waited patiently for me to finish it. She knows I can’t let myself get hungry because I have a chronic (meaning, never-ending) condition called diabetes.
A diabetic can’t properly regulate the amount of sugar in his or her bloodstream. This happens automatically for most people. In my case, I have to give myself daily injections of something called insulin. I also have to eat only healthy foods, no sweets or junk food. And, as I said, I can’t skip meals or let myself get hungry.
Not paying attention to these things could be a majorly big deal. (I’m talking coma or even death.) But if I do what I’m supposed to do, it’s not a problem. By now, it’s become second nature for me to eat right and take my injections. I hardly even notice it.
When I’d finished munching, Mom sat forward on the couch. “So? What do you think of the book so far?” she asked.
“It’s good,” I admitted. “Elizabeth is pretty cool.” Elizabeth Bennett is the main character and not at all what you’d expect from a young woman from that era. I thought she’d be prim and proper. But she’s outspoken and witty, even mischievous, in a way.
“I think her independence shows that she’s brave,” Mom said. “When you consider how little opportunity there was for women in those days, it takes real guts to stand on her own the way she does.”
“I know,” I agreed. “You have to admire someone who would rather be poor than degrade herself by trying to snare a rich husband.”
Mom nodded. “Especially when that was what all the other women around her were doing. It shows a lot of self-respect and pride.”
“Maybe too much pride,” I suggested as an idea came to me.
“What do you mean?” Mom asked.
“Well … she’s so proud that she assumes Mr. Darcy is looking down on her because she’s poor. But she doesn’t really know that to be true. She snubs him before he can snub her. Isn’t that reverse snobbery? Shouldn’t she at least give him a chance?”
“You have a point,” Mom said. “I can understand how she would feel defensive, though. Mr. Darcy is so wealthy. All the women are after him. She’s not about to join the crowd.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t born back then,” I said. “What if no one wanted to marry me? There would be nothing else for me to do.”
“I don’t think you would have to worry,” Mom said with a smile. “You’re intelligent and fun to be with. They’d all be bringing you flowers. You could take your pick.”
I thought about my boyfriends. I’d already had a couple. I’ve told you about Ethan. Before him, I dated a guy named Robert. We had our problems, bu
t we’re friends now. Even before that I knew some boys who liked me.
A really icky thought came to me. “What if you had to pick your boyfriend based on how rich he was? Wouldn’t that be horrible?”
“Some women do that even nowadays,” Mom said.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m afraid not. I personally know several women who say they would never even date a man unless he had lots of money.”
“That’s repulsive! Tell them to get their own money.”
Mom smiled. “You’re an independent spirit, like Elizabeth.”
“Oh, well, give me credit for having a little self-respect,” I said.
Mom patted my knee. “I give you credit for having tons of self-respect.”
“You too,” I said. “You didn’t marry Dad because he was rich.”
“He wasn’t rich,” Mom said. “He was a public defender when I met him.” I knew that meant he had defended clients who couldn’t pay for their own lawyer.
A faraway look came into her eyes. “I wonder if we would still be married if he’d stayed in that job.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, I respected the work of a public defender. I felt your dad was giving himself to something worthwhile. Once he became a corporate lawyer, negotiating deals and contracts, I didn’t have as much regard for what he was doing. I started to resent all the time he spent at work.”
“Wasn’t that kind of judgmental of you?” I said cautiously, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I mean, his job was his choice.”
Mom smiled, but it was a sad, wistful smile. “Yes, it was.”
I couldn’t stand seeing her sad, so I changed the subject. “The clothes in the book are awesome. Don’t you think?”
“Could you stand to wear a long skirt all the time?”
“I don’t know, but it would be cool to get all dressed up every single day. It would be fun to swish around in a fancy dress.”
Mom laughed. “I’d be afraid every time I turned around that I’d trip on the hem of my skirt.”
“Yeah, there you are, trying to impress some millionaire and every time you move, you stumble over your skirt.”
This made us both laugh. Which is the best thing about the reading group — that Mom and I can share something, even if it’s only a joke.
“Stacey, are you free tomorrow?” Mary Anne Spier asked me. It was Monday, and I’d just stepped into Claudia Kishi’s bedroom for a meeting of the Baby-sitters Club.
My eyes darted to the clock on Claudia’s desk. Was I late? It read 5:27. So I was actually a full three minutes early. The BSC (which is what we call the Baby-sitters Club) meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon at five-thirty sharp. Our clients can call us until six to line up a baby-sitter.
“Did someone call before the meeting started?” I asked. All our regular customers know better than to do that.
“I didn’t even want Claudia to pick up the phone,” Kristy Thomas said.
Claudia rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, but it could have been for me. This is my room and my phone.”
“The rule is five-thirty to six,” Kristy insisted. “Otherwise you’ll go crazy answering the phone every minute. The rule is for your sake.”
“Don’t argue,” Mary Anne pleaded. “The fact is, Claudia did answer it and now we have a job to fill.”
“Who called?” I asked, settling in on Claudia’s bed.
“A new customer, Mr. Brooke,” Mary Anne told me. “He’s never used us before, so I guess we can forgive him for calling early.”
Mallory Pike spoke up from her usual spot on the floor. “He’s an okay person.”
“Mrs. Pike recommended us to him,” Jessi Ramsey added, sitting cross-legged beside Mallory, who’s her best friend.
“She met him at a parent-teacher conference the other night,” Mallory explained. “His son is in Claire’s kindergarten class.” Claire is the youngest of Mallory’s seven brothers and sisters. “She told him to call us if he needed a sitter.”
“Only, no one but you is free tomorrow,” Mary Anne told me as she looked down at the BSC record book, in which she keeps track of our sitting jobs.
Mary Anne also keeps track of our schedules in that book. For example, she knows when I’m going to see Dad. Or when I have a Math Club meeting. (I love math.) Or when anybody has a class or a meeting or an appointment. That helps make her the scheduling whiz she is. She’s the club secretary and I can’t imagine anyone doing a better job.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Since Claudia had taken the call, she’d written the details about the job on a yellow legal pad. That’s how we operate. The person nearest the phone answers a call and takes down the name, day, time, address, and other facts about the job. Then she says she’ll call the client back to tell him or her who the sitter will be. “You can call back Mr. Brooke and say I’ll be there,” I told Claudia.
“Excellent,” Kristy said as Claudia punched in Mr. Brooke’s number. Kristy is president of the club, which was her idea to begin with. “A new client! Yesss!”
I grinned. Kristy’s skill at getting and keeping clients is what’s made the BSC such a huge success. One of the things, anyway.
It’s funny. Kristy is someone you could easily underestimate. She’s petite, with long, medium brown hair and a plain, sporty style of dressing. If you looked at her you might not guess right away that she’s a dynamo in a tiny simple package. She is, though. She’s always coming up with great ideas for improving the club. She’s an outspoken leader who gets things done.
Kristy is so down-to-earth you might not suspect she lives in a mansion. She didn’t always, though. Most of her life she lived in an average kind of house. Her father abandoned her mother, her three brothers (two older, one younger), and Kristy when Kristy was seven. Mrs. Thomas had to struggle to raise her kids on her own. She did a good job of it. Eventually, she met Watson Brewer and married him.
Kristy’s life certainly changed then. She and her family moved into Watson’s mansion on the other — wealthier — side of town. She became a big sis to Watson’s kids from his first marriage. Her stepsibs are Karen, who is seven, and Andrew, who is four. (They spend half the time with Watson and half with their mother and her new husband, in another part of Stoneybrook.) Watson and Kristy’s mom also adopted a little girl from Vietnam named Emily Michelle, who is now about two and a half. Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, moved in to help out with Emily Michelle. So Kristy’s family quickly became huge. Throughout these changes, she’s somehow managed to remain completely herself — upbeat and in charge.
Before Kristy could get in another word, Abby Stevenson burst into the room, her long, dark curls flying behind her. “What did I miss? I know I’m late.” She dropped to her knees in front of Kristy. “A thousand pardons, Madam President. I am exceedingly sorry.”
Kristy half laughed and half frowned. “Anna called and told me you’d be a little late and that you wouldn’t be driving over with Charlie and me,” Kristy said, which was as much forgiveness as anyone could expect from her. Kristy despises it when we’re even one minute late. In fact, Abby was only one minute late. It was 5:31.
With a dramatic flourish, Abby pretended to wipe her forehead in exaggerated relief.
“Why didn’t you come home after school?” Kristy asked. Kristy, Abby, and Anna (Abby’s twin) live in the same neighborhood. They usually get a ride to meetings from Kristy’s older brother Charlie, since they live too far away to walk.
“Emergency soccer meeting,” Abby reported as she sat on the bed. “Coach wants to know why we aren’t winning.”
“Well, why aren’t you?” Kristy asked. Like Abby, Kristy is a serious athlete. She even coaches a kids’ softball team called Kristy’s Krushers.
“Because we have a couple of real dweebs on the team,” Abby replied. “Anna could play better than they can.”
That was saying a lot considering that Anna isn’t ath
letic at all. She’s a talented violinist who’s devoted to her music. She’d much rather play the national anthem than take a swing in the World Series.
There are other differences between Abby and Anna. For instance, it’s easy to tell them apart since Anna’s curly, dark hair is short. And, even though they both wear glasses, they chose different frames. When they wear their contact lenses, it’s usually not on the same day.
Anna was recently diagnosed with scoliosis, which is a curvature of the spine. Because of it, she has to wear a brace under her clothing for the next few years. It took some time, but Anna’s used to it by now. Abby also has slight scoliosis, but not bad enough to need the brace. Luckily, Anna doesn’t have allergies and asthma like Abby does. Abby always carries her inhaler with her in case she has an asthma attack.
Still, Abby and Anna are close. Their mother is like my father, totally devoted to her job. She commutes to Manhattan every day and isn’t home much. That means Anna and Abby rely on each other for company. Abby says that after their father died in a car crash (which was back when they lived on Long Island) she and Anna really depended on each other. They still do, even if it’s less obvious now.
By the time Abby and Kristy had stopped talking soccer, Claudia had hung up the phone. “Mr. Brooke says to come right after school,” she told me. “He’s near the school, on Kimball Street. He’ll drive you home so you won’t have to walk after dark.”
“Mom can probably pick me up on her way home from work,” I said.
Claudia nodded. “Anyone want a Mallomar?” she asked as she opened her bottom dresser drawer and withdrew a bag.
Claudia is my best friend and I know her better than anyone, but she still amazes me and cracks me up. She has packages of sugary and salty treats stashed all over her room. She has to hide them because her parents don’t approve of junk food. And I can’t say I blame them. But looking at her you’d never guess Claudia is the queen of junk food. Her long hair glistens, she’s slim, her skin is flawless, and her dark eyes shine.
Opening a brown bag on top of her dresser, Claudia pulled out a clear plastic package. “Check this out,” she said, handing it to me.
Stacey McGill... Matchmaker? Page 1