Starring the Baby-Sitters Club!

  “Over there.” Cokie pointed to Stacey and Sam who were sitting close together (very close together) on a pile of tumbling mats.

  “Stace?” I called. “Can you come here for a sec, please?”

  Well, I don’t know how Stacey’s costume and Cokie’s had gotten mixed up, but somehow they had.

  “I thought something looked weird,” said Stacey. “But I put on everything in the box marked ‘Mrs. Darling.’”

  “Maybe you could pay more attention to your job, Mallory,” said Cokie, in this voice that crackled with annoyance. “You know, your job is not over. You should help Savannah keep track of the costumes. She can’t do it herself. Look. Look over there. What do you see?”

  I ignored the fact that Cokie was talking to me the way a teacher might talk to a naughty kindergartner. “I — I see plenty,” I replied.

  This is what I saw: John’s top hat rolling around in a corner. A headdress belonging to one of the Indians lying in a heap near the curtain. Two eyepatches and a plastic sword gathering dust.

  Yikes.

  I scurried around. In a flash I had gathered up the stray parts to the costumes and put them where they belonged (for instance, on Barry Soeder’s head). Then I found Mary Anne.

  “I’m really sorry,” I told her. “I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t doing my job and I wasn’t letting you do your job and — and I caused a big mess. You are an excellent backstage baby-sitter.”

  Then I made Cokie and Stacey stand in front of me, and I switched things around until they were wearing the proper costumes.

  “Now you look glamorous,” I told Cokie. “You too, Stacey,” I added. (Cokie made a horrible face at Stacey.)

  Finally, I found Savannah and apologized to her. My job was not over, after all. On Friday, I would be an important part of our opening night performance.

  I did not think I would be nervous. I know my lines. I know my dances. I know my songs. I know how to simulate flying. (I still think it is boring, though, and I am now an expert at leaping off of my dresser at home.) But I kept thinking of what could happen tonight. What if I was singing and some spit shot out and everyone saw? What if I opened my mouth to cry, “I’m flying!” and nothing came out, not even any spit?

  These things did not happen during our dress rehearsal, but they could have. The dress rehearsal started at eleven o’clock this morning. And of course it took place at SMS because that is where our stage is. But eleven o’clock on a Friday morning is during school. (In fact, it is during spelling), so I got to miss school to be in the dress rehearsal.

  Here is the thing. Everybody at Stoneybrook Elementary missed school during the dress rehearsal. That is because the kids at my school came to watch the dress rehearsal. They were our first audience.

  I got to leave school before the rest of my classmates, though. At ten o’clock my teacher said to me, “Jackie, you may get ready to go now.”

  Then a school bus drove me and my brother Shea and David Michael Thomas and Nicky Pike and Kerry Bruno and us younger kids over to SMS. We felt very special. As the bus pulled out of the parking lot, one of the Pike triplets (I think it was Adam) shoved his window down and threw his hat out. That was his way of saying, “Yes! Here we go! We are so excited about putting on this play, and now here we are on our way to our first performance in front of a real live audience!”

  Unfortunately, the teacher who was riding with us did not know that was what he was doing. She turned around and yelled at Adam. Plus, she made the driver stop the bus so Adam could get off and run back for his hat. When we were on our way again, she made a no talking rule. She should have made a no hat-throwing rule but I guess it was too late for that. We rode the rest of the way to SMS in silence, but we were still excited.

  “Now,” said the teacher, as the bus stopped at the back door of SMS. (I do not even know that teacher’s name. She teaches fifth grade and I am only in second.) “Now please enter the school very, very quietly. Remember that classes are in session. I will lead you to the auditorium.”

  I felt grown-up walking through the halls of SMS where the big kids go to school. I tried to make myself look taller.

  I felt just a little bit afraid.

  But I felt better when we reached the auditorium. There was Mary Anne, my special coach. And there were Kristy and Stacey and Dawn and Jessi and my other friends in the BSC.

  “Hi! Hi!” I called. I ran to Mary Anne. I knew we did not have to be so quiet anymore. Luckily, that teacher left. I guess she rode back on the school bus by herself.

  “Hi, Jackie,” said Mary Anne. “Are you ready for the dress rehearsal?”

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  The reason the kids were going to watch our dress rehearsal is because a dress rehearsal is just about like the real play. We were going to run through it from start to finish without stopping, and we would be in our costumes and makeup and everything. We would have the chance to perform in front of an audience, and the kids wouldn’t have to pay to see us.

  “Okay, Jackie. I’ll help you with your costume now,” said Mary Anne.

  I took a deep breath.

  My costume.

  In about half an hour every kid in my whole school was going to see me onstage in a nightgown.

  “Mary Anne? Are you sure I have to wear it?”

  Mary Anne looked puzzled. Then she said, “It’s a dress rehearsal, Jackie.”

  “I know. But maybe I could wear a pair of pajamas.”

  “A pair of pajamas? Your costume is a nightshirt.”

  “I think it’s too big.”

  “Jackie.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I put on the nightshirt. I wondered how Mary Anne would feel if she had to go on a stage in her underwear. I didn’t ask her, though. I could not say “underwear” in front of a girl.

  When I was ready I wandered over to the curtain. I stood right behind the crack where it opens. I listened. I could hear voices and footsteps. They were getting louder. I peeked through the opening.

  Our audience was arriving.

  I was looking at my teacher and the kids in my class and the other teachers and the kindergartners and fifth-graders and all the students in between. And I was wearing a nightgown.

  While the other people in the play put on their costumes, I sat under a desk. I would not talk to Mary Anne. But when Mr. Cheney called, “Places, everyone!” I ran to my spot.

  Guess what. When I made my entrance onstage, nobody laughed. Not one person. Maybe because Barry Soeder was wearing his nightshirt, too, and Dawn was wearing her nightgown. I don’t know. Or maybe because it was so easy for them to imagine that they were really watching the Darling children in their nursery at nighttime. And they were waiting for Peter Pan to come.

  I stopped worrying about my costume. But I didn’t stop feeling jittery. I jumped a mile when Kristy appeared in the window. And I jumped another mile when I heard Nana bark. When the curtain closed at the end of Act I, I ran to Mary Anne. I was breathing hard.

  “You did great, Jackie!” she cried.

  “Thank you. But I’m nervous.”

  “That’s okay. Everyone is.”

  “I didn’t realize what the audience would look like from the stage. All I can see are eyes. Hundreds of them.”

  “Listen to the applause. You guys are a hit.”

  “The applause is nice, but my stomach feels funny.”

  “You have stage fright. That’s natural. Okay. Act Two is starting.”

  I was back onstage before I knew what had happened. I tried not to look at the audience. I tried not to think about the audience. Act II is very complicated, and lots of people are on the stage, or running on and off the stage, so I could not think about anything except my next line or my next step.

  Think, think, concentrate, I told myself.

  I turned around, ready to —

  “Aughhh!” I yelped. (But not very loudly.)

  I was facing that crocodile. It was slithering closer
to me. I froze. I could not remember what I was supposed to be doing just then. But I did not want that croc anywhere near me.

  I stepped toward the croc. I took another step, then another.

  I picked up a gray Styrofoam rock (it was part of the scenery) and I bonked the croc over the head with it.

  “Hey!” yelled Pete Black. I knew I had not hurt him, but I bet I had surprised him.

  For about two seconds no one said anything. I waited for Mr. Cheney to yell at me, but he didn’t. This was a true dress rehearsal. We were not going to stop the play for anything. Then the kids in the audience began to laugh. I had made them laugh! It was a nice feeling.

  So the next time the crocodile scared me, I threw another fake rock at him. “Cowabunga!” I yelled, and the kids laughed harder. I threw a third rock and yelled, “Crocabunga!”

  Mr. Cheney was not going to say a word to me.

  By the time Act II ended, I had yelled “Crocabunga!” two more times. I really knew how to make that audience laugh.

  But when I ran backstage to get ready for Act III, Mr. Cheney was not laughing. Neither was Mary Anne.

  “Jackie,” said Mr. Cheney, “do you remember the script for Peter Pan?”

  I frowned. “Yes.”

  “Does the word ‘cowabunga’ appear anywhere in it?”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “Does the word ‘crocabunga’?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Jackie, if you do anything during Act Three that we have not rehearsed, you may not be in the play tonight. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to you further at the end of the rehearsal.”

  “So will I,” added Mary Anne.

  Bullfrogs. Adults do not know how to have fun.

  I did not have to be near the crocodile in Act III, so he could not scare me. I think the audience wanted me to say “crocabunga” again. But I did not.

  When the play was over, it was time for us to take our bows. Dawn went first, by herself. Then Barry. Then me. (Kristy got to go last, even after the Lost Boys and the pirates and everyone. She is the star.) But when I ran onto the stage, the audience cheered as loudly for me as they did for Kristy later. Some fifth-grade girls even stood up. They gave me a standing ovation! And a bunch of boys yelled, “Crocabunga!”

  I grinned until my cheeks hurt.

  I was going to be a star myself one day. This was a sign.

  So I did not feel too bad when Mr. Cheney snagged me as soon as I ran backstage. “All right, Jackie,” he said.

  Mr. Cheney gave me a long talk about how we can’t play around with the words that Mr. J. M. Barrie wrote. I had heard him say the same thing to Dawn a few weeks earlier. He said “crocabunga” would change the tenor of the play. He said “tenor” so many times I decided I better look it up in Webster’s later.

  Then Mary Anne talked to me. She did not use big words or tell me about Mr. Barrie. She just said, “Jackie, don’t you dare do that tonight. It is not allowed. Absolutely not allowed.”

  “Okay.”

  When school was over that day, I ran home.

  “How was the play?” Mom asked me.

  And I said, “Today was the best day of my entire life.”

  We did not have a rehearsal on Friday afternoon. Rehearsals were over. (It was hard to believe.) The dress rehearsal had taken place in the morning, our first performance would take place that night, our final performance would take place the next night, and … that was it. So much work for two shows. All the tears and sweat and planning and memorizing. The play was almost over and it hadn’t even begun.

  On Monday, we would start holding our BSC meetings again.

  When school ended on Friday, my friends and I walked home together, except for Kristy, who takes the bus. The rest of us stood in the school parking lot and watched her find a seat.

  “Get some rest this afternoon!” Stacey called to her through an open window.

  “Clear your mind,” called Dawn.

  “Eat smart,” added Mary Anne.

  “Yes, Mom,” replied Kristy as the bus pulled away from the curb.

  “We should take our own advice,” I said to Jessi, Mal, Stacey, Dawn, and Mary Anne. “We should spend this afternoon wisely, and use it to get our heads together for tonight.” The six of us walked away from school in a pack.

  “I think we should hang out in your room and pretend this is any ordinary Friday,” said Mallory.

  “No, we should go to a movie,” suggested Stacey.

  “I vote for a group nap,” said Dawn. “I’m exhausted.”

  In the end we went off to our separate families, to take individual naps or do whatever would best help each of us relax. Personally, I didn’t feel a nap was necessary. I was just going to be in the audience that night, sitting with my parents, my sister, and Russ and Peaches, who are my favorite uncle and aunt.

  No one was at home when I let myself into our house. Mom and Dad were at work, and Janine operates on a schedule of her own. She was probably holed up in a library somewhere.

  I decided to eat an energy snack, although I wasn’t sure why I would need extra energy to sit in an audience all evening. Well, I was going to have to arrive at school early to check on the scenery before the show began. I would need energy for that. What gives you energy? I asked myself. Sugar, I replied. And where is the very best place to find sugar? In your bedroom, I said to myself.

  I sprinted upstairs and dug an Almond Joy bar from inside my pillowcase. Ahh. Junk food. Dawn was probably at her house biting into a carob bar or something. Carob is just not necessary. If you want to enjoy the flavor of chocolate, then eat chocolate. Oh, well. To each his own.

  While I ate my candy bar, I talked to Mimi. Mimi was my grandmother. She used to live with us. Mimi and I loved each other so much. She understood me and I understood her. Mimi never yelled. But after she had her stroke, she changed. And awhile later she died. I thought I would never stop feeling sad. Also, I was afraid I would forget what Mimi looked like. So I hung a portrait of her in my room. I had painted the portrait myself. Now I can look at Mimi whenever I want. Sometimes I talk to her.

  It is quite helpful.

  “Hi, Mimi,” I said. “Excuse the candy bar. I’ll try not to speak with my mouth full. Well, I guess you know what tonight is. It’s here at last. Russ and Peaches are coming. I can’t wait to see them. Peaches said she got a perm.

  “My friends and I are really nervous about tonight. Especially Kristy, Stacey, and Dawn. They’re the ones who have to be in the play. Logan, too. Kristy is the most nervous of any of us. She’s Peter Pan, the lead. But she’ll be fine. So will Stace and Dawn.

  “We finished the scenery on Monday. Mr. Cheney liked all my ideas. I was scared about my job at first — being in charge of the scenery — but now I’m proud of what I did. I especially like the scenery for the nursery. I’m not sure why. But the Home Underground, where the Lost Boys live in Neverland, is pretty cool, too. I think I will be very sad when they strike the sets, Mimi. You know what that means? It’s when they strip the stage after the play is over. I don’t know what they’re going to do with the sets and scenery. If the Home Underground wasn’t so big, I’d bring it here and keep it in my bedroom.”

  I paused. I wished Mimi could answer me. No matter what anyone says about the value of memories, they do not hold a candle to the real, live person. I’d have given anything for Mimi to be sitting in my room then, so I could have talked to her and not her portrait. But she was gone.

  “Well,” I said, “wish me luck, Mimi. If you’re up there floating around somewhere, peek down at the play tonight and look at the sets. I’ll be in the audience, so look down at me, too.

  “I love you.”

  I turned away from the portrait. I never know how to end my talks with Mimi. Over and out? Hasta la vista? Have a nice day? So usually I just say, “I love you.”

  I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. I was supposed to
be back at school at six. And I was supposed to relax until then.

  “Relax?” I said aloud. “Whose bright idea was that?”

  I couldn’t relax. For one thing, I’d just eaten a candy bar for energy, and I had energy all right. I was getting jittery.

  I was so jittery that when the phone rang, I fell off my bed. As soon as I was back on my feet, I grabbed the receiver. I took a deep breath before saying, “Hello, Baby-sitters Club.” (I’d started answering my phone that way when we stopped holding meetings. People were calling for sitters pretty much whenever they felt like it.)

  “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Hi, Stace.”

  “Claud? Are you relaxing?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Are you relaxed?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Want to come over?”

  “So we can be jumpy together?”

  I giggled. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Be right over.”

  Stacey was true to her word. Ten minutes later she was running up the stairs and along the hall to my room.

  “I just had this horrible thought,” she greeted me.

  “How horrible? Do I want to hear it?”

  “I guess so. I mean, it’s scary, not disgusting. Besides, I’m going to tell you anyway.” Stacey straddled my desk chair.

  I sighed. “Okay. But remember, this is supposed to be a nice, relaxed, stress-free afternoon. Just keep that in mind.”

  “What if,” began Stacey, “there were a blackout in the middle of the play and the lights went off and there were panic in the auditorium?”

  “I have several thoughts about that,” I replied. “One, you sound like Mary Anne, the demented version. Two, I think you’re worrying about blackouts so you won’t worry about your part in the play. And three, the school has an emergency generator.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Stace, is your father coming tonight?”

  “Yup. All the way from New York. He’s going to spend the night in a motel, though. I don’t know why he won’t stay in our guest bedroom. After all, he and Mom were married to each other for years.”

  “Parents are weird,” I said.