Dawn and the We Love Kids Club

  Dad was still in the kitchen when we hung up. He’s not the type to go crazy over stuff like this, but even his jaw dropped when I told him the news.

  Jeff? Well, let’s put it this way. I did not hear one joke (or insult) escape his mouth during the rest of the day.

  * * *

  I discovered something on Wednesday. Being a star is boring.

  At first it seemed incredibly glamorous. The camera crew was at Sunny’s house when the four of us arrived after school. Our neighbors had crowded around to gawk. Workers with headphones and WPCN T-shirts were keeping people away from the lawn. Scratchy conversations squawked out of walkie-talkies left and right. Wires snaked around, held down with silver tape. The crew looked ready to start shooting any minute. Or so I thought.

  Mrs. Winslow was out on the sidewalk, talking to Clover, Daffodil, Ruby, and Sara — along with some other kids who had dropped by. As we arrived, the kids cheered and swarmed around us.

  “Ready for fame and fortune?” Mrs. Winslow asked with a big smile.

  Behind us, a sharp voice called out, “Are you the girls?”

  We turned to see a bearded guy with a baseball cap approaching us.

  “Uh, yes,” Sunny answered.

  “Hi, I’m Stu, the A.D.,” he said. (That stands for assistant director.) “We’re still setting up, so Tina will go inside with you to do makeup and hair, okay?”

  A gorgeous red-haired woman appeared behind him, holding a bulging satchel.

  “Okay,” Sunny squeaked.

  We marched inside with Mrs. Winslow and Tina. Twenty minutes later we emerged, looking like movie stars (at least I thought so). The crew was still setting up. The kids were playing on the lawn. Chuck Raymond was nowhere to be seen.

  We sat on Sunny’s porch and gabbed. And sat and gabbed.

  Then we finished gabbing and just sat.

  And sat….

  The crew set up white sheets on square frames. Then they set up lights on tripods. They argued and moved the white sheets. Then they argued and moved the lights. Then they talked into their headphones.

  Honestly, I don’t know how real movie actors do it. I was totally drained of energy after an hour of this.

  Finally Chuck Raymond showed up with the director, a very tanned, very chic woman named Marisol.

  The two of them rounded up the kids and told us to begin playing. “Have some fun!” Marisol said. “Be natural.”

  Oh, sure. Be natural, with fifty people swarming around, pointing mics and cameras at you. No problem.

  “Playing” never looked so stiff. We W♥KC members were lifeless from the wait, and the kids kept looking into the cameras. One of the boys got bonked on the head with a plastic ball and began to cry. Terrific.

  Chuck Raymond, bless his heart, knew just what to do. He’s a fantastic mimic, and he put on a little act for us. (I could see Jeff in the crowd, looking at him in awe.) Soon we’d loosened up. Tina rushed over to freshen Mr. Raymond’s makeup and put spray paint on a bald spot on the back of his head (yes, really). He turned to the camera as we played on the lawn, and began his talk: “Here in Palo City, four extraordinary young women have become the most popular people in the neighborhood….”

  He sounded natural, but he was actually reading the words from an electronic screen next to the camera. After a few “takes” of that, we went into the living room, where he interviewed us. Each time anyone said something, it had to be repeated immediately — one time so the camera person could shoot the speaker, and another time to shoot the listener’s reaction. (They were going to edit the film to make the interview look like one conversation.)

  By the time the crew left, it was pitch-dark outside. All four of our families (including Carol) were now at the Winslows’, and we decided to celebrate by going out for an early dinner.

  As we headed for the cars, Sunny said, “Dawn, do you realize how long everyone was here today? This is going to take up the whole news broadcast.”

  “Maybe it’ll be, like, a special report,” I replied.

  For about the twentieth time that day, we squealed and hugged each other.

  “Make me barf,” Jeff said, plopping into the backseat of Dad’s car.

  * * *

  The broadcast was scheduled for Friday night. Carol showed up after dinner with a director’s chair for me, tied with red ribbon. The word DAWN was on the back, in the middle of a gold star. A pair of sunglasses and a visor hung from the arms.

  I wore them as I made a huge bowl of popcorn. Sunny, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, Jill, and Maggie came over a half hour before the show, with nuts and granola bars and chips.

  We gathered around the TV at showtime. I checked and double-checked the VCR to make sure I’d programmed the tape right (which didn’t really matter, because everyone I knew was taping it). Jeff tried to act nonchalant, but he was so excited he couldn’t sit still.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the eight o’clock news,” the anchorwoman said.

  My friends and I squirmed and looked at each other. I grabbed Sunny’s hand.

  Well, we sat through the international news. Then some commercials. Then the national news. Then more commercials. The weather. The sports. More commercials. Then …

  “Now we go to Chuck Raymond, who has the story of a very unusual business, whose customers are, well, some pretty happy parents. Chuck?”

  This was it. Our big moment. Now we were all clutching hands. Mrs. Winslow was staring to cry.

  Chuck Raymond appeared, saying his introductory piece, looking as if he were making up the words. In the background, we were running around and laughing. The way the camera was angled, you couldn’t see any wires or white sheets or crew or gawking neighbors. It looked as though Chuck Raymond had just happened by Sunny’s house with a mic in his hand.

  “There you are!” Carol exclaimed.

  Sunny, Jill, Maggie, and I were silent, eyes wide and mouths open.

  The camera cut to the living room — and me, describing the club! I nearly died. I looked so … wide. And pale. But I didn’t really care. I was on TV!

  They cut me off at the end of a sentence. Then Maggie said a few words, Sunny told about a sitting experience, and Jill nodded enthusiastically. A few more outdoor scenes, and it was over.

  “That’s it?” Jill said.

  Maggie looked at her watch. “Four minutes. That’s not bad.”

  A whole, grueling afternoon for four minutes. How weird.

  Ah, show biz. At least I now had a lot more to include in my letter to the members of the BSC.

  Not to mention a videotape to send them.

  “You look so different!”

  Stephie was in awe of my TV performance. She told me she’d fallen asleep during the broadcast, so I brought her the tape when I sat for her on Saturday. She made me play the W♥KC segment five times.

  “I look like a ghost,” I replied.

  Stephie shook her head. “Oh, no. You always look so pretty, Dawn.”

  I do love Stephie. And not only because she says nice things about me.

  Our friendship has really grown. When I first met Stephie, she was this frail little thing with terrible asthma, who always seemed on the verge of crying. Whenever I’d talk to her and try to draw her out, she’d only nod or give one-word answers.

  So I decided not to force anything. I just quietly made myself available to her. Little by little she began opening up, and I discovered a sensitive, fun-loving girl. The more I got to know her, the more she reminded me of Mary Anne. (In fact, when my friends in the BSC visited Palo City, Stephie and Mary Anne grew pretty close.)

  Like Mary Anne’s mom, Stephie’s mom died when she was a baby. Stephie has talked about her only once, very matter-of-factly. She said that since she couldn’t remember her mom, she didn’t feel any sadness. (I wondered if she was telling the truth. Mary Anne doesn’t remember her mom, either, but she often cries when she thinks of her.)

  A month or so after I started sitting for Stephie,
her dad told me her asthma was improving. He was convinced it was because she was happier (Stephie’s attacks are usually brought on by emotional stress). Whoa, did that make me feel good.

  Now Stephie and I are almost like sisters. She always asks for me to sit for her when Joanna’s out.

  Our video clip was fading on the TV. “Thank you, Chuck,” the TV anchorwoman said with a bright smile. “It’s nice to know local parents can leave their kids in good hands.”

  “Almost makes this bachelor want to go out and start a family,” the sports announcer said with a chuckle.

  “Oh my, Gary, is that a proposal?” the anchorwoman asked.

  They both started laughing. (Ugh.) I reached for the remote.

  “She’s single?” Stephie asked.

  “I guess,” I said. “But I think those kinds of jokes are, like, written in advance.”

  “Oh. Too bad. She’s so beautiful. Did you get to meet her?”

  “No,” I said. “Only Chuck Raymond.”

  “Rats. I wish my dad would date someone like her.”

  Aha, a matchmaker! Yet another side of shy Stephie Robertson. “Well, if I find out anything about her, I’ll let you know.”

  “I like your dad’s girlfriend. Wouldn’t it be great if they got married? Then you’d have two moms.”

  “Yeah.” (To be honest, it didn’t sound great at all. It was something I was trying hard not to think about.) “Don’t worry. I’m sure your dad will meet someone nice.”

  She shrugged. “Probably not. He hardly ever goes out anymore.”

  I shut off the TV. “You really want a mom, don’t you?”

  Stephie looked at the floor. “I guess. I used to pretend Joanna was my mom, but I don’t anymore. It’s not the same.” She suddenly smiled and stood up. “Want to see something?”

  “Sure.”

  Stephie ran upstairs to her room. I heard a drawer open and close. When she returned, she was clutching a smudged old envelope. She held it out to me and said, “Open it.”

  I did. Inside was a typical school photo — a bookcase in the background, Stephie looking into the distance, smiling awkwardly with a tooth missing.

  It wasn’t a great picture. Stephie’s dress was old-fashioned, her hair looked weird and stiff, and she seemed heavy.

  Then I realized something. Stephie didn’t have any missing teeth.

  And the date scrawled in the margin was almost thirty years ago.

  I gasped. “Stephie, is this….?”

  “My mom,” she said. “Doesn’t she look like me?”

  “Oh, wow. This is incredible!”

  Stephie carefully put the photo back in the envelope. “I like to look at it sometimes. I make believe we’re talking to each other.”

  My throat tightened. I could feel tears coming to my eyes.

  Stephie ran upstairs to put the photo away. When she came down again, she said she was dying to go outside.

  We spent the next hour or so playing catch and riding bikes. Stephie saw a kid do a wheelie, and tried desperately to do one herself.

  She couldn’t, but I was impressed. She used to hate physical activity.

  On our way home, Stephie said to me, “You’re fun, Dawn. I wish you’d stay in Palo City for good.”

  “Oh, Stephie, I wish I could, too. But I’d miss my other family.”

  “My teacher told us someday people might be able to clone themselves into identical twins. That would be so cool. Then you could be in both places.”

  “I’ll find the laboratory and sign up,” I said.

  Back at Stephie’s house, we ate a big cheese-and-cracker snack. Mr. Robertson was due home in fifteen minutes, so I mentioned to Stephie that I would have to leave pretty soon.

  “Can we draw?” Stephie asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Stephie found some blank paper and crayons. “Let’s draw our families.”

  “All right.”

  I used a light green crayon to draw a rough map of the United States. On the right side I drew three people: my mom, Mary Anne, and Richard (Mary Anne’s dad). On the left side I drew Jeff and my dad. I couldn’t figure out on which side to draw myself, so I finally decided on the top of the map. I drew a blonde girl with hands stretched to both coasts.

  Then I looked at the West Coast side and realized I hadn’t drawn Carol. I felt guilty. She was like family, sort of. I think she and Dad are in love, and she is at the house all the time.

  Then I thought, Nah. She wasn’t related. That had to be the requirement.

  I added a surfboard and a bright sun on the West Coast. As I was deciding how to decorate the East Coast, I glanced at Stephie’s paper.

  With her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth, she was busily drawing four people next to a house. I looked closer.

  A small female and a tall male were obviously her and her dad. Between them was a woman. I figured that was Joanna.

  But on top of the paper, floating in the sky over the three figures, was a second woman. “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s my mom,” Stephie said. “In heaven.”

  I looked again. Her mom’s face wore a huge smile, and wings were coming out of her dress.

  Then I looked at the other woman, the one between Stephie and her dad. She was wearing a white dress with a funny kind of hat that drooped over her face.

  “Is that Joanna?” I asked.

  “No,” Stephie said, shaking her head. “That’s what my new mom will look like someday.”

  I realized what her outfit was.

  A wedding dress with a veil.

  “Wait! One at a time. What was the last name of the people who called you, Jill — Van Druten? How do you spell that?” Sunny was frantically paging through the W♥KC record book. It hadn’t been opened in weeks.

  Usually, when we do use the book, we all just write our own jobs in it. But this time Sunny figured it would be easier if one person handled the scheduling. (This is about as organized as the W♥KC gets.)

  “V-A-N, space, D-R-U-T-E-N,” Jill replied.

  “And yours, Maggie?” Sunny said.

  “Smith. S-M-I-T-H.”

  “Duh. Thanks for the help.”

  Maggie suddenly let out a gasp. “Oh, no! I think I double-booked myself! Is the eighth a Tuesday?”

  “Hang on.” Sunny closed the address section of the book and turned to the calendar. “No, it’s a Monday.”

  “Whew,” Maggie said.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, looking at the calendar on Sunny’s wall. “It is a Tuesday.”

  “Nope,” Sunny insisted, holding out her book. “Look, Dawn.”

  I glanced at it. “Uh, that’s last year’s, Sunny. Look at your wall.”

  Sunny’s eyes widened. “I knew I forgot to get something at the stationery store.”

  What a meeting. A week had gone by since the TV broadcast. As you can see, things were becoming a lot less laid-back.

  If the history of the W♥KC is ever written, I think it’ll be divided into two eras: BF and AF. Before Fame and After Fame.

  Our phones were ringing day and night. I don’t know how some of these people found our numbers. Maggie received a call from a parent in San Diego (I guess because she’s the only Blume in our county’s phone directory). Maggie had to explain patiently that Palo City was more than two hours away. I received a call from a very young-sounding boy who wanted me to send him my autograph. Sunny was grilled by an eighth-grade girl who wanted to start her version of the club in another town. Not to mention all the actual baby-sitting jobs that came in.

  Neither the Palo City Post nor WPCN had publicized our phone numbers (for privacy reasons) but they received tons of calls asking about us.

  Great, huh? Well, yes and no.

  I’d always thought of the Baby-sitters Club as a tight ship, and the We ♥ Kids Club as sort of a surfboard riding the waves. Each was fun in its own way.

  Now I realized the W♥KC was in danger of
wiping out.

  Sunny yanked the calendar off the wall. “This will be our official calendar until I get a book-sized one,” she said. “Okay, let’s start again, one by one. Tell me who called, and the date and time you’re supposed to sit. Dawn?”

  I was holding four scraps of paper in my hand, on which I’d written the information. “Let’s see, I said I’d sit for Stephie on Thursday … two new kids, Sarah and Nathaniel Walden, a week from Friday … a girl named Catya McMullen next Saturday … Erick and Ryan DeWitt on … oh, no!”

  Thursday, I had scribbled. The same day I’d agreed to sit for Stephie.

  “I double-booked, too!” I said. (Me, veteran BSC member, of all people! I imagined Kristy wagging a finger at me.)

  “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Sunny said, writing furiously. “What day was Catya —”

  Bleeeeep!

  I picked up the phone. “We Love Kids Club!”

  “Hello, my name is Lisa Schwartz, and I saw your article in the paper,” a voice said. “We just moved into town, and we’re wondering if you have a brochure.”

  A brochure? “Uh, no, we don’t as of yet,” I said, “but one of us will be happy to meet with you and your children.”

  “Well, I need someone this Friday. I’d love it if one of you could come a half hour early and meet my two boys.”

  “The Facklers called you?” I heard Sunny suddenly say to Jill. “They called me, too!”

  Mrs. Schwartz heard her, too. “Is this a bad time?” she asked.

  “No, not at all,” I lied. “Let me take your number and call you back in a few minutes.”

  I wrote the number down, hung up, and plunged back into the roaring surf.

  Sunny told me the current problem. Not only had Maggie and I both double-booked sitting jobs, but somehow Mr. and Mrs. Fackler had double-booked two different sitters!

  “What a mess,” I said.

  Sunny let out a big sigh. “Let’s solve one thing at a time. What should we do first?”

  “I guess I could call Mr. Robertson and the DeWitts,” I said, “and see if I can sit for the kids together.”

  “I’ll do that, too,” Maggie agreed.

  “I bet the Facklers will call one of us when they realize what they did,” Jill said to Sunny. “Then the one who gets the call can call the other.”