Dawn and the Big Sleepover

  That Monday and Tuesday, both Johanssens were busy (Char’s mom had to do emergency-room shifts at Stoneybrook General Hospital, and her dad had to work late on an engineering project), and Stacey got both sitting jobs.

  Tuesday evening, Charlotte figured out something that none of us could — a way to make sure all of the SES kids knew about my plan.

  The evening started out normally. Charlotte was showing Stacey how her body language could affect Carrot, the Johanssens’ schnauzer.

  Carrot was sitting by the fireplace, lazily looking around the living room. Charlotte and Stacey were on the couch. “Now watch,” Charlotte said. She let her shoulders slump, she pouted her lips, and she let her hair fall in front of her face.

  Carrot cocked his head to the side, then trotted toward Charlotte. When he began licking her face, Charlotte laughed. “You are such a smart doggy!” she said. “You want a —”

  Without finishing the sentence, she stood up as if she were going to run to the kitchen.

  Carrot yelped happily and sprinted into the kitchen.

  “See?” Charlotte said, smiling. “I didn’t have to say anything!”

  “That’s great, Char,” Stacey said as they followed Carrot.

  Charlotte got Carrot a few dog biscuits, then said, “I’m starving, Stace. Can we have a snack, please?”

  “So that’s why you got Carrot to come in here,” Stacey said with a laugh. “Well, all right. Your mom said we could have a few pretzels, but that’s it.”

  Charlotte made a face. “You mean those hard ones with no salt?”

  “Those are the only ones in here,” Stacey said, pulling out a bag that said PRETZELS AU NATUREL — LOW SODIUM. “Besides, there’s salt in them, just not on them.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte said. She took a pretzel from the bag and plopped down in a kitchen chair.

  Stacey sat across from her and placed the open bag on the table, next to a neat stack of yellow, lined paper and envelopes. Judging from the big, scrawly, fourth-graderish handwriting, Stacey figured they were letters from Charlotte’s pen pal, whose name was Theresa Bradley. “Have you heard from Theresa?”

  “Mm-hm,” Charlotte said with her mouth closed. The pretzel crunched loudly as she chewed. Then she swallowed and said, “Her house caught fire.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” Stacey said. “Is she all right?”

  Charlotte nodded. “You want to read the letter?” She took the top sheet off the stack and handed it to Stacey.

  “Thanks,” Stacey said. She read aloud:

  “‘Dear Charlotte,

  “‘I really liked your letter. I didn’t read any Freddy books yet. You know what happened? There was this big, huge fire! It started at this gas station, then it burned our school down! Our house was on fire, too. I couldn’t believe it! We are okay because we were outside. My dad and my uncles got fire extinguishers. They sprayed inside the house. The fire went out, but a lot of things were burned. Now our house is being fixed. We have to live with my aunt and uncle’s family. My aunt was a teacher at the school and she lost her job.

  “‘Some of my clothes were in the washing machine. Those didn’t get burned. I wear them every day now. Our TV and VCR burned, too. My aunt and uncle have a TV but not a VCR.

  “‘Things aren’t too bad. Sometimes it’s fun to have so many people around. But my brother wakes up with nightmares sometimes, and my grandmother and my mom cry a lot.

  “‘My cousin says we’re lucky. She’s in high school. She wishes her school burned. My mom got mad when she heard this. She said our education is the most important thing we have. I don’t think we’re lucky, either. I miss school.

  “‘Write me back at my aunt and uncle’s house. I wrote the address on the envelope. ’Bye.

  “‘Your friend, Theresa.’”

  Well, Stacey’s heart just about broke as she read the letter. (Mine did, too, when she told us about it at the Wednesday meeting.)

  “Isn’t that sad?” Charlotte said.

  Stacey nodded. “Yeah, it really is.”

  Char’s brow was wrinkled, the way it gets when she’s upset about something. “What would happen if my house burned, Stacey?”

  “Oh, Char, you don’t need to worry about that —”

  “Could we move in with you?”

  Stacey didn’t know what to say. “Well, I guess — sure, I mean, Mom would —”

  “Because we don’t have aunts and uncles in Stoneybrook, and I don’t want to move away. I would be so lonely.”

  Charlotte was fiddling nervously with her pretzel, so Stacey reached out to touch her hands. “It’s okay, Charlotte. Nothing like that is going to happen.”

  That’s when Stacey decided to tell her about my plan — even though we had all promised not to tell anyone until we actually got started. Stacey figured it might help Charlotte feel better. (Later on, we all agreed she did the right thing.)

  “Char,” she began. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Charlotte perked up. “A secret? About what?”

  “Well …” Stacey leaned forward and lowered her voice, sounding mysterious. “Dawn thought up this plan to help your pen pals. Only the members of the Baby-sitters Club know about it. We want everyone in your school to be in a food-and-clothing drive — you know, going door-to-door and collecting stuff to send to your friends. We’re also going to ask kids to try to raise money on their own. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! When —”

  “Wait. I didn’t tell you the best part. There’s going to be a humongous sleepover in the SES gym for everyone who helps out.”

  “Wow! That is so fantastic!”

  “But don’t tell anybody,” Stacey said. “We want to figure out a good way to spread the word fast — to the school, the parents, the whole town!”

  “Ooh! Are you going to have a big assembly?”

  “Well, something like that —” Stacey cut herself off. She couldn’t believe none of us had thought of an assembly.

  “That would be so much fun, Stacey!” Charlotte went on. “You guys can announce it to the whole school, then we’ll tell our friends and parents. And our parents can tell their friends.”

  Stacey grinned. “Char, you are amazing. I can’t wait to tell Dawn.”

  “Really?” Charlotte said, beaming.

  “No. I have a better idea. Since you thought of it, why don’t you tell Dawn? We can ride over to her house right now.”

  “Okay!” Charlotte ran to the garage while Stacey wrote a note to the Johanssens, in case one of them came back early. Then Stacey followed Charlotte out, closing the door behind her.

  Char was already on her bike, and Stacey had ridden hers to the Johanssens’, so she hopped on it. “Okay,” she said, “let’s go, but be careful.” (Once a baby-sitter, always a baby-sitter.)

  Stacey rode down the driveway and onto Kimball Street, ahead of Charlotte. They pedaled fast, making the ride to Burnt Hill Road in about five minutes (at least that’s what Stacey said, but I think she was exaggerating).

  Mary Anne and I were both home. Let me tell you, I have never seen Charlotte so excited. Once, when the younger girls were all involved in a beauty pageant, Charlotte was too nervous to recite a section of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the talent competition. You would never know this was the same person.

  “Char, that’s a perfect solution,” I said, and I meant it. “I’ll talk to Ms. Besser and set up the assembly.”

  “For when?” Mary Anne said. “We all have to be in school, remember?”

  “It won’t take that long,” I replied. “We’ll just have to get permission to leave for a little while.”

  “You think you can?” Charlotte asked hopefully.

  “Yup,” I said. (Even though I wasn’t a hundred percent positive, I was pretty sure we could convince our teachers.)

  We talked about it a little longer, until Stacey decided it was time to leave. She said that Charlotte kept
chattering about the assembly right up until her mom came home, but then she kept the secret and didn’t say a word.

  Stacey could tell Charlotte was much happier — and not only that, she was probably going to be a big help with our project.

  “Kristin Reinhardt?”

  “Here.”

  “Jodi Reynolds?”

  “Present.”

  “Nicole Rogers?”

  “Here.”

  I could barely hear my homeroom teacher, Mr. Blake, reading the roll call. My brain felt like it was spinning in my head. It was Friday, the day we were going to have our assembly at SES.

  Are you surprised at how fast it happened? I was. I had only talked to Ms. Besser about the assembly on Wednesday. Then she spoke to the SES principal, who arranged everything. At ten-fifteen on Friday, all the second-, third-, fourth-, and fifth-grade classes were going to meet in the school auditorium.

  To hear me!

  That’s right — since it was my plan, I was supposed to tell them about it. I don’t mind giving school reports or talking in front of a class, but this was really making me nervous. I mean, four whole grades! And as an experienced baby-sitter, I knew those kids were not all angels. It’s hard enough to get them to listen to a story, let alone a long presentation.

  So these were the thoughts tumbling around in my head — Will the kids listen to me? Will they want to get involved? Will I be so nervous that I say something stupid?

  For about the tenth time, I reached into my shoulder bag to make sure the speech I had written was still there.

  I didn’t even hear when Mr. Blake called my name.

  I snapped back to reality when I felt Mary Anne nudge me (she sits behind me in home-room). Then I heard Ray Stuckey, the class clown, saying, “Earth to Dawn! Earth to Dawn!”

  A few people laughed, but I was too nervous to be embarrassed. “Here!” I said quickly.

  Mr. Blake went on with the roll call, until he was interrupted by the intercom.

  “Attention, please. This is Mr. Taylor speaking.”

  Mr. Taylor is the principal of the Stoneybrook Middle School. He speaks very slowly, and whenever I hear his voice over the intercom, I feel like going to sleep.

  But not this time. This time I knew he was going to be talking about me.

  “The following students will be dismissed at five minutes to ten,” Mr. Taylor went on. “Claudia Kishi, Stacey McGill, Mallory Pike, Jessica Ramsey, Dawn Schafer, Mary Anne Spier, and Kristy Thomas. All teachers please be advised.”

  When I turned to look at Mary Anne, she had a big, excited grin on her face. She didn’t look nervous at all. Why should she? She wasn’t the one who had to do the talking.

  “Well, excuuuuse me!” Ray said under his breath. “If I join the Baby-sitters Club, will I get a day off, too?”

  “Mr. Stuckey!” Mr. Blake’s voice boomed out.

  “Eat your heart out, Ray,” I whispered. That is not something I would normally say, but I was feeling so keyed up, I couldn’t help it.

  Homeroom ended, then came math class and boring, boring algebraic equations. I looked at the x’s and y’s and thought I was reading ancient Greek. I could have sworn the clock on the wall was running at half speed.

  The exact moment the clock read 9:55, I raised my hand. Ms. Berner, my teacher, nodded at me and said, “Good luck.”

  I guess the news had spread to the SMS teachers, too. That made me feel even more nervous — like there was this big audience waiting to hear how I did.

  I ran outside, where Ms. Downey, the school secretary, was waiting in a station wagon. “Thanks for doing this,” I said to her.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, smiling. “I’m thrilled to get away from that computer screen for an hour!”

  As I got in the front seat, I heard “Hey, Dawn!” and I looked out the window to see Claudia and Mary Anne running out the school entrance.

  Kristy and Stacey followed close behind, then Mal and Jessi. They all piled in — Mary Anne next to me; Claudia, Kristy, and Stacey in the backseat; and Mal and Jessi in the back of the station wagon.

  We were off. I don’t remember much about the trip to the elementary school. I was too busy trying to control the flutter in my stomach and the tingle in my fingertips. (I can’t imagine how an actor must feel. Like this? And if so, how come actors always look so relaxed?)

  The SES parking lot was pretty full, so Ms. Downey dropped us off at a back entrance. There, Ms. Besser was waiting.

  “Hi!” she said cheerfully. “You must be Dawn. You look just like your brother.”

  I don’t think so, but everyone says I do. Anyway, I think I nodded and said, “Thanks,” or something else meaningless.

  “I’m so glad you girls are doing this,” Ms. Besser went on, leading us inside. “The kids will be really excited about it.”

  We walked through the school cafeteria, which was empty and smelled like overboiled broccoli. Then we entered a long corridor.

  “My class is already there, along with a couple of others,” Ms. Besser said over her shoulder to us.

  That’s when I could hear the noise coming from the auditorium — it was like a playground, only with an echo. Every few seconds, a weary adult voice shouted out, “Turn around, Justin!” or “All right, keep it down!”

  Suddenly I wished I had never thought of this plan. I wanted to turn and run.

  I looked at my friends and noticed they were all looking at me. Mary Anne quickly took my hand and squeezed it. “You’re going to be great!” she said.

  I took a deep breath and followed Ms. Besser through a door that led to the backstage of the auditorium. Ms. Reynolds, the SES principal, was waiting for us there. She has red hair and a strong, kind face. I liked her right away. Shaking our hands warmly, she said, “Is there anything you need?”

  Everyone sort of stared blankly, until I replied, “No, I think we’re just going to talk.”

  She nodded. “This was a very smart idea, you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said again. My voice sounded squeaky.

  Behind us was a curtain that hid the audience from us. Ms. Besser had walked around it and onto the stage. Now she reappeared, saying, “They’re almost all here. Are you ready?”

  Feeling numb, I nodded.

  Mary Anne squeezed my hand again as Ms. Besser walked back onstage, saying, “Okay, quiet please! Take your seats!”

  As soon as the kids quieted down, we followed Ms. Reynolds onto the stage. There was a podium with a microphone in the center of it. Behind the podium were nine chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Ms. Reynolds gestured for us to sit down.

  We did, and I made the mistake of looking into the audience. I felt that a million pairs of little eyes were staring at our every movement. There was a lump in my throat the size of a basketball.

  It’s amazing how loud an auditorium full of kids can be, even when no one’s actually saying anything. All the fidgeting, sighing, coughing, hiccuping, burping, switching seats — it’s never completely silent.

  Ms. Reynolds walked to the podium. “Good morning,” she began. “When we called this a special assembly, we really meant special. These girls are familiar to some of you. They have something in common with all of you — they care about the children in your sister school in Zuni, New Mexico.”

  Now the kids really quieted down. Ms. Reynolds went on a little while, then said, “Now, these girls have school, too, so they’ll have to leave right after the assembly. If you have any questions later on, you can ask Ms. Besser.” Ms. Besser, who was sitting with us, stood up and smiled. “Now I’d like to introduce you to the mastermind of the plan. She’ll fill you in on all the details. Here’s Dawn Schafer!”

  I was on. As I stepped up to the podium, clutching my speech, I didn’t feel much of anything. I caught a glimpse of Vanessa Pike, grinning widely. Ms. Reynolds had adjusted the mike downward, but I had to adjust it some more. It made a loud scrawwwk, and some of the kids laughed.

  “Hi
, everybody,” I said. The sound of my own voice startled me. It boomed out from the speakers on the auditorium walls, and it sounded high-pitched and mumbly and awful!

  “Hi, Dawn!” came a voice from the back. I was pretty sure it was Haley Braddock, and I smiled.

  “Um, first I’d like to introduce my friends behind me,” I said, turning around. “Next to Ms. Besser is Mary Anne Spier …”

  Ms. Besser said something to Mary Anne, and she stood up. Her face was redder than I’d ever seen it.

  “Yay, Mary Anne!” That was a different voice. There was some applause, too.

  One by one I introduced the BSC members. Occasionally I heard a cheer from the crowd. I was beginning to loosen up. Obviously, we had some fans. (Which made sense, considering all the baby-sitting hours we’d put in!)

  Then I began reading from my speech. I mentioned how concerned we were about the Zuni kids, and how the fire had put people out of homes and jobs. At one point I heard a huge, loud yawn. When I looked up, a teacher was pulling a boy up the aisle by his right hand. A few other kids laughed.

  Great. I was boring them.

  I decided to look up from my speech to tell them about the plan by heart. (Hey, if I didn’t know it well enough by now, I was in bad shape.) Sure enough, I didn’t make any mistakes. As I outlined the food drive, the clothing drive, and the fund-raising, I could see everyone just looking at me. When I urged the kids to spread the word about our project, I could see a few heads nodding.

  And you know what? I was beginning to feel confident. I could tell the kids were interested.

  Of course, I saved the best for last. “This is all going to be a lot of work,” I said. “And it’s always nice to get a reward when you work hard, right?”

  A couple of kids answered, “Right!”

  “I think your biggest reward will be knowing that you helped your friends,” I went on. “But we would like to give you a celebration of your own. Whoever participates in the drive will get to go to a slumber party in the school gym — with food, games, storytelling, contests, you name it!”

  Well, all of a sudden they became kids again. Some of them bounced in their seats and clapped. Others let out squeals and began talking to their neighbors. Still others raised their hands, as if we were about to pick people to go to the sleepover.