The doorbell rang then and I ran to answer it. It was probably Kristy. She often arrives either early or late since she’s at the mercy of Charlie’s schedule.
Sure enough, it was Kristy. She let herself in even before I’d answered the door.
“Hi, Claudia!” she cried. She looked like she was in a really good mood, but I wished for the thirty-nine thousandth time that she’d do something about her clothes and hair. Kristy is really cute, but she never bothers to make herself look special. All fall she’s been wearing the same kind of outfit — jeans, a turtleneck, a sweater, and sneakers. And she hasn’t been doing a thing to her long (well, longish) brown hair except brushing it. Here’s an example of one of the big differences between Kristy and me. I was wearing a very short pink cotton dress, white tights, and black ballet slippers. I had swept all of my hair way over to one side, where it was held in place with a piece of pink cloth that matched the dress. Only one ear showed, and in it I had put my big palm tree earring. (Kristy was not wearing any jewelry.)
We are so different, it is amazing.
Dawn, Mary Anne, and Stacey arrived a few minutes later. Actually, as you might guess, we are all different — but some of us are more different than others. Stacey is kind of like me. She wears trendy clothes and is always getting her hair styled or permed or something, but she’s not as outrageous as I can be. I did notice that day, though, that she had painted her fingernails yellow and then put black polka dots all over them.
Mary Anne, who is quiet and shy, dresses more like Kristy (who’s a loudmouth). But Mary Anne is beginning to pay some attention to what she wears. Dawn falls in between Stacey and me, and Kristy and Mary Anne. She’s just an individual. She’s originally from California and tends to dress casually, but with flair.
The five of us went upstairs to my room and closed the door. I found a bag of Doritos in my stash of junk food and passed it around, while Kristy took her seat in my director’s chair and Mary Anne opened the record book so she’d be ready with our appointment calendar when the first call came in.
While we ate the Doritos and waited for the phone to ring, I said, “Did any of you see that new girl? Ashley Wyeth?”
The others shook their heads. But nobody made any snide comments about new girls. That’s because Stacey and Dawn were both new girls themselves not too far back. (Stacey’s from New York City. She moved to Stoneybrook about a year ago, which was about six months before Dawn moved here from California.)
Ring, ring! We all leaped for the phone. That usually happens with the first call of the meeting. Kristy got it, though.
“Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” she said in her most adult voice. “Hi, Mrs. Rodowsky … Thursday? That’s short notice, but I’ll check and call you right back, okay? Bye.”
“Mrs. Rodowsky?” I said, groaning, as Kristy hung up the phone. The Rodowskys have three boys, and one of them, Jackie, is completely accident-prone. The only thing that ever happens when you sit at the Rodowskys’ is that Jackie falls off things, on things, or into things. Sometimes he gets caught in things or breaks things or loses things. He’s a nice little kid, but sheesh.
Mary Anne began to giggle. “Hey, guess what, Claud?” she said. “You’re the only one who’s free that day.”
“Oh, no!” I clapped my hand to my forehead as Kristy picked up the phone to call Mrs. Rodowsky back. But I didn’t mind as much as I let on. I’ve sat for Jackie and his brothers a few times now, and Jackie’s beginning to grow on me.
The meeting continued. Calls came in, we got jobs. It was your average meeting. Pretty uneventful.
I loved every second of it.
The Baby-sitters Club is very important to me. It’s almost as important to me as art is. I don’t know what I’d do without the club — or my friends.
All that night and all the next morning on my way to school, I looked forward to seeing Ashley Wyeth again. Would she be in any of my other classes? What was her morning schedule? But I didn’t see her until English class, not even at lunchtime, although she must have been in the cafeteria since everyone in my grade eats at the same time.
In English, I smiled at her and she smiled back, but when the bell rang at the end of class, Mrs. Hall asked to see me privately, so I missed walking upstairs with Ashley. (By the way, I wasn’t in any trouble. Mrs. Hall just wanted to assign me some grammar stuff to work on in the Resource Room.) I couldn’t believe I had completely missed Ashley. Oh, well. Maybe the next day.
That afternoon, I went to one of my art classes. I’m taking two kinds of classes right now. One is this general art class where we get to work in all different media. (That means we get to sculpt, draw, sketch, and paint in acrylics, watercolors, and oils.) We’re working on sculpture now. I like it, but it’s hard. I’m better at painting and drawing. On the weekends I take a pottery class. Pottery is my new love. Over the summer my family went to this mountain resort where you could swim, ride horses, go on hikes, and take art classes. (It was sort of like camp, except it was for adults, too.) Anyway, I went to some pottery classes and loved throwing pots, so Mom and Dad signed me up for a Saturday class in Stoneybrook.
Since the Stoneybrook Arts Center isn’t far from Stoneybrook Middle School, I got to my class a little early that day. I was the second person there. (I’d even beaten the teacher.) I set up the piece I was working on in class and was about to make a little change on one part when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned around.
“Ashley!” I exclaimed.
There she was. She was wearing a puffy white blouse, a blue-jean jacket, a long blue-jean skirt, and those hiking boots again. Beaded bracelets circled both wrists, and she’d tied a strip of faded denim around her head, like an Indian headband. Since her hair was loose that day, I couldn’t get a good look at her ears. I wanted to see if she was wearing six earrings again.
“Hi, Claudia,” she said, fixing her serious gaze on me. “I can’t believe you’re in this class.”
“You’re joining it?” I cried, even though it was obvious that she was.
Ashley nodded. “I took lots of art classes in Chicago. This was the only one we could find here, though. Is it a good class?”
“It’s great. You should see all the stuff we’re doing.”
“What’s the teacher like?”
“Ms. Baehr? She’s nice. Really, you know, encouraging.”
“Where did she study?” Ashley wanted to know. “Has she exhibited any of her work?”
“Huh?” I replied brightly.
“What’s her background? Is she qualified?”
I could feel my cheeks burning. Of course Ms. Baehr was qualified. She was the teacher. If she weren’t qualified, she couldn’t teach … could she? “I — I don’t know,” I stammered, but Ashley was already off on another subject. She eyed my sculpture, which was of a hand. Just a hand. If you think it’s easy to sculpt (or draw) a realistic hand, try it sometime.
“Hey, Claudia, that’s terrific,” said Ashley. “It’s beautiful.” She walked all around the hand, looking at it from different angles.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s just an exercise piece, though. I’m practicing on it, learning things.”
“Well, it’s still terrific. What else have you done?”
I noticed that Ashley was carrying a portfolio under one arm. “Do you want to see my portfolio?” I asked her shyly. I always feel like I’m bragging when I offer to let someone look through my portfolio, even though I’m not sure my work is all that good. Lots of people say it is, but I usually think, What do they know?
“Sure,” replied Ashley.
“Well … okay,” I said uncertainly. Our portfolios are stored on shelves that line the back wall of the room. I retrieved mine, laid it on the worktable next to my sculpture, and opened it for Ashley.
Very slowly, Ashley looked at every sketch and drawing that I’d saved in the portfolio. She turned them over one by one and studied each before going on to the next. I stoo
d across from her, watching her face for a reaction. I felt as nervous as if I were waiting for a teacher to tell me whether I’d passed into the next grade.
When Ashley was finished, she closed the portfolio and regarded me gravely with china-blue eyes. “You are really talented,” she said. “I hope you know that.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thanks,” I replied. “I’m glad you liked everything.” Since art is one of the few things I think I’m any good at, I just die if people don’t like my work. I hesitated. “Could I look at your portfolio?” I asked her. “Would you mind?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t mind.” Ashley slid her portfolio across the table to me.
I opened it, wondering what kind of artist Ashley was. You can tell a lot from a person’s portfolio. I always look at the subjects that the person has chosen to draw or paint, and the pieces that she’s decided to save in the portfolio. That kind of thing. It’s psychological, I guess.
Ashley’s first drawing nearly made me gasp. It drove all thoughts of psychology right out of my head. I had never seen a more realistic portrait in my life. It looked like a photograph.
I’m sure my eyes were bugging out in a really undignified way.
“Whoa,” I whispered. “Amazing.”
Ashley waved her hand at it. “That’s not really anything,” she said. “It’s old. But this next one …”
I turned to the next piece in the portfolio. It was a watercolor. I wasn’t sure what it was a watercolor of, but I knew it was very, very good.
“That is innovation,” Ashley told me.
I glanced at her to see if she was kidding, but she looked as grave and serious as always.
The rest of Ashley’s portfolio was as amazing as the beginning. When I finally closed the folder, my heart was pounding. “How long have you been taking art lessons?” I asked.
“Oh, forever,” Ashley replied. “Since I was four or five.”
“Wow. Where did you take lessons? Anywhere special?”
“Do you know the Keyes Art Society? It’s in Chicago. That’s where I used to live.”
“You studied at Keyes?!” I could barely contain my excitement.
Ashley nodded.
“Wow. But how’d you get in? Only a few kids are chosen to study there.” Keyes was famous among art students. I once asked my parents if I could try to get in for the summer session, but they said it was too far way and much too expensive.
“I was just chosen,” Ashley said modestly. “When I was eight.” She looked uncertainly around our little room in the Stoneybrook Arts Center. “I hope this school is good. And I hope Ms. Baehr is as good as Mr. Simmons. Mr. Simmons was my old teacher.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s all … fine,” I lied. “Wow, did you really like my portfolio?”
“Are you kidding? It’s fantastic. If you lived in Chicago you could go to Keyes.”
“Wow …” I felt as if the floor were melting away under my feet. A person who had gone to Keyes thought my work was good. I hoped I was impressing Ashley as much as she was impressing me.
A bunch of kids had arrived by then and I introduced Ashley to them. I thought it was a good way for her to get to know some other kids in Stoneybrook. But Ashley didn’t seem very interested in the other students. I noticed that she always looked at a kid’s sculpture (not at the actual kid) while I was making introductions. Then she’d just kind of nod, and we’d go on to the next person. The only person she looked at for a moment was Fiona McRae, the second best student in the class. (I’m the first. At least, I was the first until Ashley arrived.) Ashley looked appreciatively from Fiona’s sculpture of a stag to Fiona and back to the stag before we moved on. Then I showed Ashley where our supplies were stored, and then, just as Ashley was sitting down next to me, Ms. Baehr entered the room.
Ashley got to her feet, looking both nervous and hopeful, and I introduced her to our teacher.
Ms. Baehr was apparently expecting Ashley and seemed just as impressed that Ashley had studied at Keyes as I had been. She looked through Ashley’s portfolio, raising her eyebrows, murmuring to herself. I knew I should feel jealous, but I didn’t. After all, Ashley had studied at Keyes and she’d said I was really talented. She ought to know. Furthermore, she’d chosen me (out of all the kids in the class) to be her friend. She’d barely looked at the other kids, and the only people she’d talked to were Ms. Baehr and me.
I was so wound up, I thought I couldn’t stand another ounce of excitement.
And just as I was thinking that, Ms. Baehr finished talking to Ashley, went to the front of the room, and said, “I have an announcement to make. A new art gallery will be opening in Stoneybrook, and in honor of the opening, the owners have planned a sculpture contest for the students at the Arts Center. I’d like all of you to think about entering. You can start a new piece for the show or finish one of the pieces you’re working on now. Even if you don’t win, your entry will be exhibited at the gallery the week it opens. I think it would be a good experience for all of you.”
Ashley turned to me excitedly. “A show!” she whispered. “Oh, we have to enter!”
“Is there a prize?” Fiona McRae wanted to know.
“First prize is two hundred and fifty dollars,” replied Ms. Baehr.
Wow! What I could buy with two hundred and fifty dollars! It was mind-boggling.
“When’s the show? I mean, what’s the deadline for entering?” asked John Steiner.
“Four weeks from today.”
Only four weeks. My face fell. I could kiss the prize money good-bye. No way could I have something good enough to enter in a month. My hand was a practice piece, not a show piece. At home, I was working on two sculptures — one of Mimi (my favorite subject) and one of Mary Anne’s kitten, Tigger. The Mimi sculpture was too personal to enter, and Tigger wasn’t the right kind of thing for a show. No, if I were going to enter, I’d have to start from scratch. And a month wasn’t enough time to start and finish a piece, take my pottery course, keep up in school, and baby-sit.
“I can’t enter,” I told Ashley later, when class had begun.
Ashley looked up from the lump of clay before her. “Why not?”
I explained my reasons.
“You have to enter,” said Ashley. “It would be a sin not to. You shouldn’t waste your talent. I could help you,” she went on. “I bet I could teach you lots of things. Show you ways to branch out. And I only spend time on people with talent.”
“I can’t enter,” I said simply.
“Well, I’m going to. If it’s all I do for the next four weeks, I’m going to create a piece worth entering. And I think you should, too. Remember. I’ll help you.”
“We-ell,” I said. “I’ll see.”
Ashley smiled. “I thought you’d change your mind,” she said.
“Oh, no! Look out!” I cried.
THUD! Crunch, crunch.
“Oops,” said Jackie Rodowsky.
I buried my face in my hands. I was hoping that maybe when I opened my eyes the Rice Krispies would have disappeared from the kitchen floor. But no, when I took my hands away, the linoleum was still covered with a crunchy carpet of cereal, and Jackie was still sitting in the middle of the mess with the overturned box in his hands.
It was Thursday, and my ordeal with the Rodowskys had only just begun. After his mother had left, the very first words out of Jackie’s mouth had been, “I’m hungry. Let’s make a snack.” The next thing I knew I was up to my ankles in Rice Krispies.
I glanced at the kitchen table, where nine-year-old Shea and four-year-old Archie were sitting. (Can you imagine naming a helpless little baby Archibald?) Shea and Archie were never any trouble. Well, not usually. They might look exactly like Jackie, but that red-haired, freckle-faced seven-year-old was the only walking disaster in the Rodowsky house.
“Well, let’s clean up,” I said with a sigh. I meant for Jackie and me to clean up, but Shea and Archie leaped out of their chairs, disappeared for a moment, and
returned with a dustpan and brush, and a mini vacuum cleaner. They know everything there is to know about cleaning. Life with Jackie has done that to them.
Archie held the dustpan, Shea swept the cereal into it, and I followed them around, vacuuming up Rice Krispie dust.
Jackie watched from the sidelines. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Stand still,” I replied.
But for Jackie, that was much, much easier said than done.
I concentrated on making sure that Shea and Archie and I left no traces of cereal on the floor. Then I helpfully added Rice Krispys to Mrs. Rodowsky’s grocery list, which was fastened to the refrigerator with a magnet.
I was just finishing when I heard Shea speak the dreaded words: “Where’s Jackie?”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Shea, you and Archie look upstairs. I’ll look down here and in the rec room.”
The boys tore upstairs while I dashed into the living room and then the dining room. No Jackie and no signs of him, either — everything was intact and unstained. I leaned down into the rec room. “Jackie?” I called.
No answer.
Then I heard Shea’s voice. “Um, Claudia? Can you come here?”
I ran upstairs and found Shea and Archie standing outside the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was closed.
“Is Jackie in there?” I asked.
“Yes,” answered Shea. “And the door’s locked.”
“Hey, Jackie!” I yelled. “Unlock the door! You know how to do that, don’t you?”
“Yeah!” he replied. “Only I can’t.”
“How come?”
“I’m stuck in the bathtub.”
“How can you be stuck in the bathtub?”
“My hand’s down the drain. I can’t get it out.”
Archie tugged at the hem of my shirt. “He was trying to get his Blasto-Plane out. It gurgled right down the drain last night.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, clapping my hand to my forehead. “All right. Shea, where’s the key to the bathroom?”
Shea shrugged.