Kristy and the Worst Kid Ever

by Ann M. Martin

  Which is what the Craine kids were now.

  “We could go get ice cream!” suggested Margaret.

  “Ice cream!” echoed Sophie.

  “You have a snack for later on,” said Jessi. “I don’t think your mother is going to want you to have ice cream, too.”

  Sophie’s lower lip stuck out in the beginnings of a classic pout.

  Think, Jessi told herself. I am an experienced member in good standing of the Baby-sitters Club. I should be able to handle a mass attack of boredom. Still looking around for inspiration, Jessi realized that it was a beautiful afternoon outside.

  “Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested.

  Margaret looked thoughtful. Sophie, pulling her lower lip in, nodded slowly. “Okay. But let’s go someplace good.”

  What does that mean? thought Jessi. “We could walk to Stoneybrook Middle School,” she suggested tentatively.

  “Oooh, the big school!” exclaimed Margaret.

  Whew, thought Jessi.

  SMS wasn’t far from where the Craines lived, but Jessi made the walk into an expedition by getting out the wagon. The girls took turns riding in it (except Jessi) until they reached the school.

  “Wow,” said Margaret, tilting her head back to stare up at the second floor windows.

  “Oooh,” said Sophie, just staring.

  “It’s big,” said Margaret.

  “No!” shouted Katie.

  “It is, too, Katie,” said Sophie.

  Jessi stared at Stoneybrook Middle School. She saw a plain old two-story red brick building. Then she tried to remember how SMS had looked the first time she’d seen it. She had to admit, it had seemed a little daunting. But that had been because she was new and was worried about all the being-the-new-girl-at-school stuff, like will I have any friends, and what if I get lost and have to walk into class late and everyone stares at me?

  Jessi had a feeling that wasn’t what Margaret and Sophie were thinking about. “We’ll go around back,” she told them.

  “Is that where the playground is?” asked Sophie.

  “N-no. Not exactly. We have a track, with a football field in the middle.”

  “Oh,” said Sophie, puzzled.

  But when they reached the track, Sophie’s eyes widened. “It’s big, Jessi.”

  “The track is a quarter mile all the way around,” replied Jessi. “That is pretty big.”

  “Do you run around it?” Margaret asked Jessi.

  “Sometimes. But I’m no track star.”

  “May I run around the track?” asked Sophie.

  “Sure,” said Jessi.

  So Sophie took off, but she kept looking back, as if to make sure Jessi were still there.

  Jessi, meanwhile, had pulled the wagon and Katie over the grass strip between the track and the bleachers, and had climbed up to sit on the second row. Margaret sat beside her. Katie stayed in the wagon for a moment, intently studying the bleachers. Then she clambered out and stood facing Margaret and Jessi.

  “Up,” said Katie and carefully begin to climb the bleachers. When she reached Jessi and Margaret she announced, “Down,” and climbed back down again.

  “Good, Katie,” said Jessi.

  “Up,” said Katie, ignoring her and starting all over again.

  “Jessi! Hey, Jessi!” Sophie, who was about a quarter of the way around the track, waved wildly.

  “Hi, Sophie!” Jessi and Margaret waved back. Satisfied, Sophie returned to her running.

  “This is a big playground,” said Margaret.

  Hiding a smile, Jessi agreed.

  “Do you have recess here?”

  “Well, not recess exactly. It’s called physical education class. PE.”

  Wrinkling her brow, Margaret thought about this, then said, “Do you play games?”

  “Down,” said Katie and started her descent.

  “Some,” Jessi said. “Volleyball, soccer, depending on what time of year it is, and what you’re good at.”

  “Kickball?” asked Margaret hopefully.

  “No, we don’t get to play kickball.”

  “Keep away?”

  “No, although I guess some games, like basketball and soccer, are sort of like that.”

  “Simon Says?” suggested Margaret.

  “Not that either,” Jessi told her.

  Sophie was halfway around the track now, trotting sturdily along.

  “Oh.” Margaret looked around and then said consolingly, “But your school is nice and big.”

  “Up,” said Katie.

  “Yes it is,” said Jessi.

  Sophie looked up and waved again. Then she veered off the track and began trotting across the grass toward them. She was huffing and puffing and her cheeks were red by the time she reached the bleachers.

  “You ran a long way,” said Jessi.

  Sophie nodded, panting.

  “I’ll tell you what, let’s go get some water at the fountain and then I’ll show you something special.” Jessi had just remembered that all of the donations for the auction were being stored in an old classroom at the back of SMS. We’d been keeping an eye on it (and an eye on the mailbox to see what might come in) so Jessi knew it was a pretty good collection, even if some of the things were a little weird (like the set of snow tires someone’s mother had donated).

  The room was even fuller than Jessi remembered. She heaved Katie up to her shoulder so Katie could see, while Margaret and Sophie stood on the wagon next to her. They peered through the window.

  “People gave stuff to Stoneybrook Middle School so we can sell it to raise money for new computers,” Jessi explained.

  “Mom has a computer,” said Margaret. “We can’t play with it.”

  “Well, thanks to the auction, by the time you go to Stoneybrook Middle School, there will be enough computers for everyone,” Jessi told her.

  Margaret nodded seriously, looking impressed.

  “What’s that?” Sophie pointed at a shadowy figure leaning against a blackboard. For a moment Jessi was startled, then she grinned. “That’s a dressmaker’s dummy. When you’re making a dress or something, you can try it on the dummy first.”

  “Look,” said Margaret.

  “Wow, it’s an old record player, the kind you have to wind up. A phonograph. That must be an antique,” said Jessi.

  “Look, pretty,” Katie said. She was pointing to a bear claw patchwork quilt that had been draped across the desk.

  They saw plenty of other things, too, bicycles and clothes and lamps and books and all kinds of furniture. And they had fun looking at it, and trying to guess who might have donated what.

  As they were heading back home, Margaret said, “What was yours, Jessi?”

  “You mean, what did I donate for the auction? Nothing yet.”

  “Aren’t you giving anything?”

  “Of course. The whole Baby-sitters Club —”

  “Mallory, too?” asked Sophie.

  “Mallory, too,” said Jessi. “We’re asking famous people to give us stuff, and autograph it, even. That’s what we’re giving.”

  Margaret looked doubtful.

  “Is Big Bird coming?” said Sophie, thinking of the most famous person she knew.

  “Famous people aren’t coming,” Jessi explained. “They’re just giving us stuff to sell.”

  “I think you should ask Big Bird,” said Sophie, skipping ahead.

  Jessi sighed. There was so much neat stuff in the room already. And the members of the BSC hadn’t heard one word from any of the celebrities to whom they had written.

  We wrote to busy people, Jessi reminded herself. It’s just going to take a little time. She smiled, thinking of some of the possibilities — pretty amazing possibilities, even if they hadn’t written to Baryshnikov to ask for a pair of his ballet slippers, as she had suggested.

  Awesome, she told herself. When those celebrity donations start pouring in, it is going to be absolutely awesome.

  “Have you seen it?” I demande
d, running up behind Mary Anne at her locker.

  Mary Anne gave a little yelp and dropped a book. “Kristy! You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” I said ruefully, picking up the book and giving it back to her. “But this is extremely urgent. Critical. An emergency.”

  “An emergency meeting of the BSC?” asked Mary Anne, her voice a little muffled as she bent back into her locker.

  “No. Well, not yet, anyway. But it’s important.” I began to drag Mary Anne down the hall.

  “What is it? It’s almost lunchtime.”

  “Believe me, lunch will wait,” I told her. “Consider how long some of that food has been waiting around the cafeteria already.”

  “Kristy!” exclaimed Mary Anne indignantly.

  I kept pushing through the crowded hall. We were going against the traffic, because almost everyone else was headed for the lunchroom, and more than one person glared at me.

  But this really was important.

  When we reached the old classroom where the auction donations were being stored, I dropped Mary Anne’s arm.

  “Hello.” Ms. Garcia, from the principal’s office, was sitting behind a table by the door. “You have a donation?”

  “Not yet, Ms. Garcia. We just wanted to look.”

  Ms. Garcia nodded, smiling. “It’s quite an impressive collection. Everyone has gone all out.”

  “Some people,” I muttered, “have gone too far.”

  Mary Anne was staring at me as if I were truly crazy, but she followed me into the classroom without saying so aloud. She’s a true friend.

  “The things people donate are amazing,” she said, surveying the room. I told you Mary Anne never says anything bad about anybody. That was her way of saying some of the stuff was pretty weird.

  Aloud I said, “Some of this stuff is pretty weird. And some of it is, well, outstanding.”

  Mary Anne stopped and ran her hand over a wooden carousel horse. “This is awesome, Kristy. I think some of these things are real antiques.”

  “Yeah, well look at this!” I pointed dramatically.

  Mary Anne looked in the direction I was pointing — at a table with several things on it. “The toaster?” she asked. “What about it?”

  “Not the toaster, Mary Anne. This.” I picked up a small framed certificate and practically stuck it under her nose. “Can you believe it?”

  Taking the certificate out of my hands, Mary Anne held it little further away and read it.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “This is … outstanding.”

  It was a certificate for an unlimited three-minute shopping spree at Power Records in the mall. UNLIMITED it said in big gold letters, and then in case the reader didn’t get the point, it said, Bearer is entitled to collect as many compact discs, tapes, audiovisual recordings, laser discs, and videotapes, by any company, within a three minute period, in the above listed store, the time to be prearranged by mutual agreement between the bearer and Power Records Inc.

  Taped to the outside of the frame was a small notice: DONATED BY COKIE MASON.

  Mary Anne frowned. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well it is a wonderful donation.”

  “Yeah,” I said glumly. “Cokie’s already made a thousand remarks about what we’re donating. You know what she said to me yesterday morning?” I stuck my nose in the air and tried to imitate Cokie’s whining drawl. “What are you donating, Kristy? A Baby-sitters Club Special Award?”

  Mary Anne shook her head, and started herding me back out the door and toward the lunchroom.

  “I can’t stand it,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want to compete with Cokie. This isn’t about competing, it’s about helping the school have a real, up-to-date computer lab …”

  “… but it’s hard not to,” Mary Anne finished for me. “I know, Kristy. But your idea was a great one. And as soon as the celebrity donations start coming in, we’ll be all set.”

  “If they come in,” I said glumly.

  We filled our lunch trays and sat down at our table. I have to admit, I was so depressed it was hard to think of something truly gross to say about what the cafeteria was dishing up. I ate the “sea legs special” with the strange pink tartar sauce, while Mary Anne told Claudia and Stacey and Dawn about Cokie’s donation.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Claudia cheerfully. “We’ve got it covered. Right, Kristy?”

  “Mmf,” I said, around a mouthful of fish.

  “I can hardly wait to see what Cam Geary sends us,” said Mary Anne.

  “Or Sweet Jane,” added Stacey. (She’s the lead singer of a New York club group called the Sleazebuckets. Some people around here really like them. The high school kids make special trips to New York just to hang out in the clubs and listen to them. Stacey assured us we’d need to include them on our stars donation list.)

  “You know, all kinds of things in the sea have legs. What kind of legs do you think these really are?” I asked.

  “Kristy. Gross,” said Stacey.

  “Sorry,” I said contritely. “Well, anyway, I think we better have a Plan B to fall back on for this auction.”

  “What’s Plan B?” asked Dawn.

  “We comb our houses and attics after all. See if we can find some really good stuff stuck away.”

  Mary Anne looked doubtful. “Dad and I did a lot of cleaning up and throwing away before we moved in with Dawn.”

  “We did some pretty mean cleaning before you moved in, too,” replied Dawn, smiling.

  “You never know,” I said. “It can’t hurt to look.”

  Ouch. I was wrong. Because just then I glanced up — and Cokie and Grace were walking by. “This auction is so exciting, don’t you think?” said Grace, pausing to smile her phony smile at us.

  “Thrilling,” I answered flatly.

  “It’ll be a real record breaker,” said Cokie. “I’ve seen to that.”

  “Really?” said Dawn.

  “But maybe you haven’t seen my donation to the auction,” Cokie went on.

  “It’s fabulous,” breathed Grace.

  “You’ll see it when you take your little donation down. I’m sure you’ll find something to donate,” added Cokie. She smiled, a smile about as warm as winter in Alaska. “Ta,” she said and strolled away.

  I grimaced. But I was determined. Saturday was going to be the great attic search at my house, and I was going to find something terrific if it killed me.

  * * *

  Saturday was part of a “big-house” weekend. That meant that Karen and Andrew were staying over.

  “Guess what?” I said at breakfast.

  I should have remembered not to say that. Karen can be very literal-minded sometimes.

  “You are going on a long, long trip?” she suggested.

  “No, I …”

  “You are going to meet a tall, dark stranger?”

  “I’m not …”

  “You might,” said Karen.

  “I’m going on a treasure hunt,” I told her.

  “Can I come, too?”

  “Me too, me too,” cried David Michael.

  “And me,” said Andrew.

  “Me,” echoed Emily Michelle.

  “In the attic,” I said. “Right after breakfast. For stuff for the auction.” (I’d already told everyone about the auction.)

  “The attic.” Karen opened her eyes very wide. “Oooh. Maybe Ben Brewer is waiting …”

  “Ben Brewer?” Andrew looked worried.

  “Ben Brewer is not waiting,” I said firmly. Karen believes the ghost of Ben Brewer, who was her great-great-grandfather, still haunts his bedroom on the third floor.

  Even David Michael looked a little concerned. But he said, “Why would Ben Brewer leave his bedroom?”

  “Because he doesn’t want us taking something that belongs to him. He wants it to stay in the attic.” Karen lowered her voice dramatically. “Always.”

  “Ben Brewer is not going to leave his bedroom,” I said.

 
; “Ben Brewer’s in his bedroom?” Andrew’s eyes grew even bigger than Karen’s.

  “No!” I said hastily. “There is not a ghost! Okay?”

  “I’m not going,” said Andrew firmly.

  Nannie, who had just come in to pour herself a cup of coffee, said, “Then maybe you can help Emily Michelle and me in the garden this morning, Andrew.”

  Andrew didn’t even ask what Nannie wanted help with. He just nodded vigorously.

  So right after breakfast, David Michael, Karen, and I headed up to the attic.

  Creeakkk. The third floor landing above us made a noise as we began climbing the stairs from the second floor to the third floor.

  Karen stopped. “Ben Brewer,” she whispered.

  “It isn’t Ben Brewer,” I said.

  Neither Karen nor David Michael looked convinced. “All right, I’ll show you.”

  I took a deep breath. “Ben Brewer! Come out!”

  Nothing happened.

  “Let me try,” said Karen. She made her voice deep and eerie. “Bennn Brewerrr, come out. If you don’t want us to go to the attic and find your treasure, come ouuut.”

  Creakkk, said the landing.

  “Eeeeek!” screamed Karen and David Michael.

  “Arrrgh,” I said, trying not to scream.

  And Boo-Boo, Watson’s fat, bad-tempered old cat, thumped past us.

  We stood open-mouthed, watching him until he disappeared down the stairs. Then David Michael started to laugh. “If Ben Brewer is there, I bet Boo-Boo scared him away.”

  “Boo! Boo! Ben Brewer,” said Karen.

  After that we reached the attic without any more scares.

  The attic is a neat place (well, not neat — it’s dusty and jumbled full of furniture and all kinds of stuff that people couldn’t quite bring themselves to throw away, like big, heavy old wooden tennis rackets, and chairs without seats in them). The light comes in through a narrow little window and when you bend over to look out of it, you can see all across the neighborhood, like in A Little Princess.

  I turned on my flashlight and began to walk around the big old room, ducking to avoid the rafters.