Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
“I’m free!” I shouted.
I closed the front door behind me and ran into the kitchen. It was Friday afternoon. School was over. Spring vacation had begun. I was ready to celebrate.
So was our puppy, Shannon. She jumped all over me, yipping happily.
Sitting around the kitchen table were Porky, Arnold, and Piglet. Actually, they were my three brothers — Charlie, Sam, and David Michael. At least I assumed they were. I couldn’t see their faces. They were practically buried in a bowl of chips and pretzels.
Charlie’s seventeen, Sam’s fifteen, and David Michael’s seven. During snack time, though, they enter a time warp. Dzzzzt — transformed into greedy two-year-olds. I could have been King Kong and they wouldn’t have noticed me.
“Please, don’t all say hello at once,” I said, throwing the day’s mail on the table.
The radio was blaring in the background. “This is Donnie Donaldson on WSTO, bringing you a beeeeootiful spring day in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. We have mo-o-ore music and another ticket giveaway coming up later, so get ready to send us a postcard with yourrrrr phone number!”
“Waw weh dah woo?” grunted Sam, sending a spray of chips onto the floor.
“Ewwww!” shouted David Michael.
Crunch, went my footstep on some pieces of chip. “Saaa-aaam!” I cried out.
Sam swallowed. “I said, ‘Why don’t you enter that one?’ You know, the ticket giveaway.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Sweepstakes are for suckers. Your odds are, like, a million to one.”
“Kristy entered the last one,” Sam said.
“Figures,” Charlie grumbled.
“You did?” David Michael asked.
“Yes,” I said defiantly. “But only because it was for a Blade concert.”
Sam grimaced. “Blade? Yuck.”
I ignored the comment. I love my brother, but he has no taste in music. Blade is my new all-time favorite rock group. They are the coolest. Personally, I think you’d be a sucker not to enter a free-ticket sweepstakes for Blade.
“Uh, Sam, would you please clean up your mess?”
“Shannon will eat it,” Sam said.
“Shannon hates chips,” I reminded him.
Sam reached for a sponge. “Bossy, bossy, bossy.”
I was not offended. Do you know how many times I, Kristy Thomas, have been called bossy? At least a zillion. It’s okay. See, I think bossy is a code word. When a boy is forceful and responsible, people say he’s “strong-willed” or “a born leader.” But if you’re a girl, you’re “bossy.”
Frankly, I take it as a compliment.
I think of myself as the strong, silent type. Well, maybe not so silent. I tend to speak my mind. A lot.
Okay, the strong, loud type.
Trust me, when you have a family the size of mine, you have to be loud. How big is my family? Sixteen. Three grown-ups, seven kids, and six pets.
It’s a good thing our house is so big. You might even say it’s a mansion. My stepfather, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire. But don’t picture a snobby guy with a year-round suntan and mirrored sunglasses. He’s quiet and balding, and he likes to garden and cook.
The third grown-up in our house is my grandmother, Nannie. She moved in with us after Watson and Mom adopted my adorable two-and-a-half-year-old sister, Emily Michelle, who was born in Vietnam. Watson’s two kids from a previous marriage live with us during alternate months. (Karen’s seven and Andrew’s four.) This month they were with their other parents, the Engles.
Age-wise, I’m somewhere in the middle. Which kind of makes me the hub of the family (ahem). I’m thirteen, although if you saw me you might guess younger. I’m just over five feet tall. My friend Stacey thinks I should wear shoes with heels or lifts. My friend Claudia thinks I should fluff up my hair to create an illusion of height. Fat chance. The Kristy Thomas motto: Comfort over fashion. I think jeans and T-shirts look and feel great, and I like to wear my hair pulled back into a ponytail. Why change a perfect combination? End of argument.
Here are some other things you need to know about me: I love sports, especially baseball. I’m in eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I am the founder and president of the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC, which I will tell you about later.
In case you’re wondering — yes, I have a biological dad. Yes, he’s alive. And no, I don’t know exactly where he is. His name is Patrick and he abandoned our family soon after David Michael was born. Mom says that my dad “had problems connecting.” As far as I can figure out, that means two things: (1) He couldn’t hold down a job, and (2) he couldn’t stand the pressures of parenthood and marriage.
Needless to say, things were tough after he left. But good old Mom pulled through (with a lot of help from Charlie at first, and then Sam and me as we grew older).
On that Friday afternoon, Mom and Watson were in the backyard, puttering around in the garden. In the kitchen, Sam wiped up his spat-out chips, Charlie shuffled through the mail, and I opened the fridge. I dug out a butterscotch pudding and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo and brought them to the table.
Charlie was ripping open an envelope. He pulled out a glossy brochure and read aloud: “ ‘Wissahickon College … We mold today’s thinkers into tomorrow’s leaders.’ ”
David Michael made a face. “They put mold on you?”
“It means they make you into a leader,” Sam explained.
“They all say that,” Charlie said with a sigh.
“Boring,” David Michael commented. “Go to a college that’ll make you an astronaut.”
Charlie flipped through the other envelopes. “Rhineback School of the Arts … Levithan Polytechnic Institute … I’ve never heard of these places. How am I supposed to pick one?”
“Go to Stoneybrook University,” Sam piped up, “so you can live at home and drive us around.”
“Yeah!” David Michael agreed.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Hmmmm … where’s that University of Alaska brochure?”
He was kidding (I think).
You would not believe how many colleges have sent him brochures this year. Maybe a hundred. I didn’t blame him for being confused.
Slurping my Yoo-Hoo, I picked out the one envelope addressed to me. It was a catalog from Bouncy Bottoms Baby Boutique.
Why, you may ask, did I receive that? Because of my ex-sort-of-boyfriend, Bart Taylor. You see, we each coach a kids’ softball team, and my team was once sponsored by a diaper service company. Well, we’re not sponsored by the company anymore, but back then Bart thought it would be hilarious to put my name on Bouncy Bottoms’ mailing list.
Har har.
Bart and I are still friends. We used to be something, well, more. Not ever exactly boyfriend and girlfriend. But he thought we were, so we had to cool things off. Sort of break up, so we could be just plain pals. Does this make sense? I guess you could say Bart and I have a real seesaw relationship.
So do the Krushers and I. They’re my team. Sometimes they’re gung-ho, but lately they’d been very ho-hum
. I was at wit’s end trying to figure out why.
A bored team, an obnoxious ex-sort-of-boyfriend, a brother headed for Alaska. Good thing it was spring vacation. I needed something positive in my life.
I tossed the Bottoms brochure into the trash and started looking through my mom’s J. Crew catalog.
Rrrrrring!
“I’ll get it,” I said.
It was almost four o’clock. Our Friday Baby-sitters Club meeting was going to start in an hour and a half. I figured a frantic member was calling to tell me she’d be late.
I picked up the receiver. “Brewer/Thomas residence.”
“HELLLLLLLO!” The voice was so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “IS THIS KRISTY THOMAS?”
“Yes,” I said. “Who’s —”
“THIS IS DONNIE DONALDSON FROM WSTO, AND YOU ARE THE WINNER OF OUR HOT TICKET GIVEAWAY!”
I smelled an Alan Gray moment.
Alan is the Goon King of the Eighth Grade, and he loves to play stupid phone jokes. I could hear the radio in the background, and Donnie Donaldson was not speaking on it.
“Alan, you are the worst mimic I ever heard,” I said. “I hear they give lessons in Antarctica. Why don’t you move there?”
“YOU AND THREE OF YOUR LOVED ONES WILL BE OUR GUESTS AT THE STAMFORD CIVIC CENTER FOR A CONCERT FEATURING THE MUSIC OF … BLAAAAADE!”
I nearly choked.
That last word had echo, or reverb, or whatever you call it. Alan couldn’t do that on his phone.
“You mean — I — I won?” I stammered.
My brothers scrambled out of their chairs. They stood close to me, their ears cocked toward the phone.
“JUST TELL US THE NAME OF YOUR FAVORITE RADIO STATION!” Donnie Donaldson honked.
“Double-you-ess-tee-ohhhh!” my brothers and I shouted at the same time.
“THAAAAAT’S RIGHT! LOOK FOR YOUR TICKETS IN THE MAIL!”
“Oh, wow! Oh, I don’t believe this! Thank you!” I gushed.
“WE LOVE YA, KRISTY! SEE YOU AT THE ARENA!”
The phone went dead. I dropped it in the cradle and leaped into the air. “Yyyyyyyyesss!”
“Yaaaaaaaay!” Sam and David Michael were doing victory dances across the kitchen.
Mom and Watson came bounding in from the backyard. When they heard what had happened, we all formed a big hugfest.
Well, all except Charlie. He wasn’t saying anything.
I grinned at him. “Sucker, huh?”
“Sorry.” Charlie’s face was red. “I could drive you, you know. I really like Blade.”
“Can I go?” David Michael asked.
“The concert’s too late, honey,” Mom said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay home with you,” Sam volunteered. “Blade stinks.”
“Blade stink,” I corrected him.
“Then don’t go,” Sam replied.
“No, I mean —” I waved a hand at him. “Never mind.”
“Make it a double date,” Mom suggested. “You and Bart, Charlie and Sarah.”
“Sarah yes, Bart no,” I said.
“Uh, Sarah no, too,” Charlie said softly.
I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“You guys broke up?” I asked.
Charlie nodded and grabbed some more chips.
“Oh …” I felt awful. I liked Sarah. We all did. She and Charlie had been together for the longest time.
I wanted to ask questions, but I could tell Charlie didn’t want to talk. He looked about as comfortable as a mouse in a field of catnip.
He muttered, “It’s really no big deal,” and slunk toward the living room.
We all looked at each other. No one knew quite what to say.
Except David Michael.
He was beaming. “Now can I go?”
Rrrrrring!
I barely heard the phone. Claudia Kishi’s radio was turned up full blast. The moment I’d told all my Baby-sitters Club friends that I’d won Blade tickets, click! On went the radio. Now they all wanted to enter the next ticket giveaway.
The clock read 5:29, a minute before starting time. Claudia was passing around a bag of Cheez Doodles and a box of caramels. Abby Stevenson and Mallory Pike were dancing. Jessi Ramsey was doing ballet stretches to the beat. Stacey McGill and Mary Anne Spier were sitting on Claudia’s bed, completing a crossword puzzle.
Rrrrrring!
I flicked off Claudia’s radio. As I picked up the phone, the clock clicked to 5:30.
“Order!” I shouted.
“Oh, dear,” said a familiar voice over the phone. “Did I call Pizza Express?”
“Uh, no, not Pizza Express, Mrs. Kuhn, the Baby-sitters Club,” I replied. “I was just, you know, calling the meeting to order.”
Everyone was cracking up. I could not keep my face from turning red.
“Oh. Well, I know it’s short notice,” Mrs. Kuhn said, “but I need a sitter for tomorrow, about noon.”
“I’ll see what we can do and call you right back.”
The moment I hung up, Abby exploded with laughter. “One baby-sitter, extra cheese with pepperoni?”
“Is that a deep-dish sitter, or a Sicilian?” Claudia asked.
I ask you, is this any way to treat the club president? Hmmph.
Ignoring the comments, I calmly repeated Mrs. Kuhn’s request to Mary Anne. She ran her finger down the BSC record book. “Let’s see … Mal and I are at the Pikes’, Stacey has the Hobart kids, Kristy’s sitting for the Papadakises … Abby, you’ve got a doctor appointment … Claudia’s available, but Jessi hasn’t had a job in a few days.”
“I’ll do it,” Jessi agreed.
I picked up the phone and called back Mrs. Kuhn to confirm.
Pretty efficient, huh?
In the BSC, we don’t mess around. That’s why we’re so successful.
I should know. I invented us.
Why? For the same reason Edison invented the lightbulb and McDonald’s started making burgers. To fill a Big Need.
Back in the Dark Ages of Stoneybrook, busy parents had to waste time calling individual sitters. Including my mom one evening, back before she married Watson. Neither Charlie, Sam, nor I was available to baby-sit for David Michael. After about an hour’s worth of phone calls, Mom was fed up, and my mind was cooking.
I thought: If Mom were calling a taxi, she wouldn’t call the individual drivers at their homes. She’d call a central number.
Fanfare. Drumroll. History in the making. The Baby-sitters Club was born.
We started small — just Claudia, Mary Anne, Stacey, and me. But parents loved us, and they spread the word. We had to expand fast. Nowadays we have seven regular members, two associates, and one honorary member.
We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in Claudia’s bedroom from five-thirty to six. Our clients know that’s the only time they can reach us all. Why Claudia’s? Because she’s the only BSC member who has a private phone line.
Watson calls us a high-volume business. The “high-volume” part can be tricky. With so many clients, we can’t guarantee each family the same sitter. So it’s important to trade information about our charges. I require all BSC members to write about every single job in an official club notebook, which we read at meetings.
The “business” part is no sweat. We’re a well-run company, with rules, officers, and weekly dues. Our dues help pay Claudia’s phone bill and reimburse my brother Charlie for driving Abby and me to meetings. We also buy supplies for Kid-Kits, which are boxes of toys, games, and books we take with us to jobs.
As club president, I run the meetings, dream up new publicity ideas, and organize most of the events for our charges. Claudia calls me an Idea Machine.
It’s one thing to think of an idea such as the BSC, but it’s another thing to make it run. That’s why our secretary, Mary Anne Spier, is so important. She controls the official record book, which contains our calendar and client list. When a call comes in, she needs to know exactly who’s availab
le to baby-sit. Which means she has to record all our conflicts in advance — doctor, dentist, and orthodontist appointments; lessons; family trips; and after-school activities. In the back of the book, she keeps our client list updated with addresses, phone numbers, rates paid, plus tons of special information about our charges’ likes and dislikes.
Tough job, huh? Well, Mary Anne enjoys it. Ever since we were babies, she’s loved to organize things. (She used to build elaborate cities out of blocks. I would drive a toy truck through them.)
Do you know the song “The Wind Beneath My Wings”? That’s how I feel about Mary Anne. And not only in terms of the BSC. Mary Anne and I are absolute best friends. When my dad ran out on my family, she really stood by me. She is the kindest, most sympathetic person I know.
I have a theory about why Mary Anne is so sensitive. It’s because her life began so sadly. You see, Mrs. Spier died soon after giving birth to Mary Anne. Richard, Mary Anne’s dad, was so devastated that he sent Mary Anne to live with her grandparents. Big mistake. They didn’t want to give her back. They were afraid Richard was too grief-stricken to be a good parent. But he put his foot down, brought his daughter home, and spent the next twelve years trying to be Superparent. He meant well, but he treated Mary Anne like a fragile little baby. As late as seventh grade she had to wear Pollyanna-type clothes and keep her hair in pigtails.
Don’t worry, Richard grew up. Mary Anne is allowed to look her age. Nowadays she has a short hairstyle and wears neat, preppy-style clothes. (Otherwise, she looks kind of like me — five feetish, with brown hair and brown eyes.)
Mary Anne has a stepfamily now, too. The BSC helped that happen. Awhile ago we took in a member named Dawn Schafer, who had moved to Stoneybrook from California with her divorced mom and younger brother, Jeff. Dawn’s mom had grown up in Stoneybrook, and guess who her high school sweetheart had been? Richard Spier! Mary Anne and Dawn reintroduced them, and — tsssss! — the flame was still burning. Mr. Spier and Mrs. Schafer were married, and the Spier family moved into the Schafers’ huge old farmhouse.
Dawn and Mary Anne grew close, but Dawn became homesick for California and moved back to be with her dad. Jeff had done the same thing earlier, so now Mary Anne’s a solo kid again. She misses her stepsister a lot (so do the rest of us), but Dawn is great about phoning and writing. She visits a lot, too — and when she does, Claudia makes sure to stock up on veggie chips and dried seaweed and other disgusting snacks. Dawn’s a health food fanatic.