Claudia’s the opposite. Vice-president is the perfect position for her because she has a huge vice: junk food. She hides candy, cookies, chips, pretzels, and cupcakes all over her room. Her parents would faint if they knew. They are the Nutrition Police of Stoneybrook. (Literature Police, too. Believe it or not, Claudia has to hide her Nancy Drew books because they’re not “serious reading.”)
How does a human sugar worshipper look? Zit-free and gorgeous. I don’t understand it. Claudia could be a model. Let me be more specific. She looks like a thirteen-year-old Japanese-American model with long black hair, a constant smile, and weird clothes.
What do I mean by weird? Well, that Friday, for instance, she was wearing an old fringed leather vest she’d found in a thrift shop; an oversize plaid shirt with a super-thick striped tie; and bell-bottomed pants with two different-color legs. Her hair was pulled back with a hairclip in the shape of a VCR.
Everyone complimented her on how cool she looked. Me? I kept wanting to press the eject button to see if a teeny cassette would pop out of the hairclip. (I should never have admitted that to Claudia. She calls me style-deficient.)
Claudia is one of a kind. Her artistic talent is amazing. She can paint, draw, sculpt, and make jewelry like a pro. The talent doesn’t carry over into schoolwork, though. I think the Art section of her brain is so huge that it swallowed up the Math, Spelling, and Science sections in one big gulp. She fell so far behind this year that she was sent back to seventh grade. Sigh. I miss having her in my classes, but at least she’s finally receiving good grades. And it’s great to see her confidence grow.
The other Kishis are real brains (especially her older sister, Janine the Genius), so Claudia needs all the self-confidence she can get. Her grandmother, Mimi, was the only one who really understood her. Ever since Mimi died, Claudia has kept a picture of her on her wall, for inspiration.
Claudia’s other vice-presidential function (besides supplying junk food) is answering stray phone calls during non-meeting hours.
Our treasurer is Stacey McGill. She collects dues every Monday and adds up all our funds. Stacey loves numbers. She happens to be the top math student in the state. (It’s true. She won the title in a Mathletes competition.)
She also happens to be Claudia’s best friend. They like to talk fashion. Stacey doesn’t wear VCRs in her hair, though. She always looks as if she just stepped out of a Sassy or YM cover. Personally, I think she wears too much black, but she insists it “sets off” her blonde hair. Whatever.
Stacey says that if I’d grown up in New York City like she did, I’d have a fashion sense, too. (Which is sort of like saying that wombats could speak if they went to school.)
Stacey’s parents are divorced. They were still married back when the McGills first moved to Stoneybrook. They came here because Mr. McGill’s job had transferred him to Connecticut. Stacey settled in, joined the BSC, and whoosh — the company transferred Mr. McGill back to New York. Well, Stacey’s parents hadn’t been getting along, and all the moving pushed them over the edge. Next thing we knew, Stacey was back in Stoneybrook for good, with her mom.
Post-divorce life has meant lots of shuttling between NYC and Stoneybrook (a pretty short train ride), but Stacey can take it. She’s tough. Looking at her, you’d never know she has a serious health condition. It’s called diabetes. Her body can’t handle sugar. Too much (or too little), and she could become very sick, even pass out. Diabetes is controllable, though. Stacey has to eat meals at regular times, stay away from sweets, and give herself doses of a hormone called insulin. (She has to inject it, but she assures me it’s not as gross as it sounds.)
Abby Stevenson is the BSC’s other New Yorker. She was born and raised on Long Island. Now she lives two houses away from mine, with her mom and her twin sister, Anna. (Her dad died in a car accident when she was nine, but she hardly ever talks about him.) When I saw them moving in, I couldn’t believe my good luck. Dawn had left for California, the BSC was overloaded with work — and suddenly two eighth-grade girls appeared on my street! We asked them both to join the club, but Anna said no. She didn’t think she’d have enough time. She practices violin for hours every day. (Beautifully, too. I can hear her from my house.)
Oh, well, one out of two isn’t bad. Abby turned out to be a great sitter. She’s hilarious, for one thing. She’s great at sports, for another (a little undisciplined, if you ask me, but lots of natural ability).
What you notice first about Abby is her thick nest of curly dark brown hair. Or maybe her bloodshot eyes and reddened nose. Abby is allergic to just about everything. She has asthma, too, and needs to carry around inhalers in case of an attack.
Abby couldn’t be more different from her sister. Anna the Musician is quiet, thoughtful, and serious. Abby the Comedian is wild and loud. (Nonmusical, too. You should hear her sing. No, I take that back. You shouldn’t, if you value your hearing.) The one time I saw Abby truly serious was at her Bat Mitzvah. That’s a ceremony Jewish girls go through at age thirteen, and it involves lots of studying and a recitation in Hebrew.
Abby is our alternate officer. She takes over for any officer who might be absent. (Which doesn’t happen too often.)
Not all of us BSC members are thirteen. Jessi Ramsey and Mallory Pike, our junior officers, are eleven years old and in sixth grade. They’re best friends, too. We call them “junior” because their parents won’t allow them to baby-sit, except for their own brothers and sisters, at night. This isn’t a problem, though. They do a lot of afternoon sitting, which frees the rest of us for nighttime jobs.
Jessi is African-American. She moved to Stoneybrook, which is mostly white, from a racially mixed community in New Jersey. The adjustment wasn’t easy. I didn’t realize bigotry existed in Stoneybrook, but it does. Fortunately, things have smoothed out. The Ramseys are a strong family, but I sure wish they hadn’t had to go through that. Jessi has an eight-year-old sister named Becca and a baby brother named John Philip (everyone calls him Squirt).
Jessi’s hair is always pulled back tightly into a bun, to keep it out of her face when she dances. She’s a fantastic ballerina, and she takes lessons in Stamford (Stoneybrook’s nearest city).
Mallory and Jessi have much in common. They are both addicted to books about horses. They’re both the oldest kid in their families. And they’re both creative. Mal’s talents are writing and illustrating. She wants to be a children’s book author when she grows up.
Mal is Caucasian, with reddish-brown hair and freckly skin. She has to wear glasses and braces, both of which she hates. Her family is huge — eight kids altogether, including triplets.
Our two associate members are Shannon Kilbourne and Logan Bruno. They don’t have to attend meetings or pay dues, but they fill in for us whenever we’re overloaded. Logan is Mary Anne’s boyfriend. Unlike Mary Anne, he’s kind of a jock, involved in lots of after-school sports. Shannon’s the only BSC member who goes to one of the local private schools, Stoneybrook Day, and she’s in a million different activities herself.
Okay, enough about us. Back to the meeting.
While I was talking to Mrs. Kuhn, confirming Jessi’s sitting job, a loud crash sounded in the background. As Mrs. Kuhn was hanging up, I could hear her yelling, “Jake, how many times have I told you not to play with the softball near the African violets!”
I couldn’t help laughing. Jake and his two sisters, Laurel and Patsy, belong to the Krushers. Jake’s always been a little … coordination-challenged. He had been improving, though, before the team sank into their latest group funk.
Oh, well, at least he was playing with the softball. That was a good sign.
After I hung up, I turned to Jessi. “Make sure you work with Jake on his fielding.”
“The last time I was there,” Jessi said, “all three of them wanted ballet lessons.”
“Work it in,” I suggested. “They can wear their mitts. You know, spin … catch. Pirouette … throw.”
Jessi looked horrified.
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“No, huh?” I said.
“Bring the Kuhns over to my house,” Mallory suggested. “Mary Anne and I will be there, Kristy. Mary Anne’s going to be sitting and I’m going to be around. We can play softball in our yard.”
That wasn’t a bad idea. Not at all.
But I could feel the Idea Machine churning out a better one.
Ka-ching!
“I know!” I said. “A clinic! The first annual Krusher Spring Klinic. We’ll gather the whole team at Stoneybrook Elementary. We’ll have batting and fielding drills, calisthenics, base-running contests. If they practice every day during spring break, we might be in shape for the season.”
Mallory and Mary Anne were looking pale. “We wouldn’t actually have to … do any softball ourselves, would we?” Mary Anne asked.
“I’ll help coach,” Abby volunteered.
I picked up the BSC record book, which was open to the calendar. “I figure one practice a day, around noon —”
“Well, I’ve got that doctor appointment tomorrow,” Abby said. “And on Thursday, Mom’s taking us to Pennsylvania….”
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll get Bart to help out. This’ll be perfect. He can bring some of his team over, boost up that competitive edge. Maybe we can even schedule a few preseason games —”
“Uh, Kristy?” Stacey said. “This is supposed to be a vacation.”
“Next stop, the Super Bowl,” Claudia said, pulling a bag of Milk Duds from behind her bed. “Here, Kristy, have a milk product. It’ll calm you down.”
Abby was howling. “The Super Bowl is football, Claudia.”
“Don’t give her any ideas,” Jessi piped up.
“Okay, so I can count on Abby,” I said. “Who else?”
“I’ll help,” Jessi volunteered. “I guess.”
Not enthusiastic. But better than nothing. I picked up the phone and began tapping out the numbers of my team members. If I expected them to be there the next day, I had to start right away.
Spring training right here in Stoneybrook.
I loved it.
“What do you mean, you can’t help coach the clinic?” I said into the kitchen telephone.
“Don’t shout, Kristy,” answered Bart Taylor.
“I’m not shouting!”
“It would be weird, Kristy, that’s all. I mean, we’re opponents. All the stuff I do with my players — batting tips, positioning, coaching signs — you’d be learning all my secrets.”
“Secrets? Bart, it’s only a game!”
Bart laughed. “Is this Kristy the Competitive talking? Look, I told the Bashers we’d have our own clinic this week. At the Stoneybrook Day field. They’re looking forward to it, sort of a team preseason.”
I took a deep breath. “No problem, Bart. I can find plenty of coaches. See you.”
The truth? Without Abby and Jessi, I had no other prospects. Claudia still can’t figure out which hand to put a mitt on. Stacey hates softball. Mary Anne and Mallory will watch a practice happily, but they’d rather eat a cactus than actually participate.
“Hi,” said my brother Charlie, bouncing into the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge and pulled out a box of raisins, a bag of green grapes, a bottle of Coke, and a tub of Cool Whip. “You look grumpy. Another fight with your boyfriend, Alan Gray?”
“Ha-ha. It’s just Krusher stuff.”
Charlie plopped down on a chair and dipped a bunch of grapes in the Cool Whip. “Want some frosted grapes?”
“Nahh.” I was still pretty full from dinner. Besides, I was too anxious to eat.
Charlie was scarfing down frosted grapes and soda. From upstairs, I could hear Nannie singing Emily a lullaby. The kitchen clock read 9:05, which meant Watson and Mom were still at the movies. Sam and David Michael were outside, playing some kind of explorer game with a flashlight.
“I have a new plan,” Charlie announced. “Clown college. It really exists. They teach you how to do mime and juggling and stuff.”
“You can’t do any of that!”
“Wrong. Guess what I’m imitating?” Charlie began puckering and unpuckering his lips, eyes wide open.
“A fish?”
“Bart Taylor kissing my sister!”
I threw a grape at him. “Low, Charlie. Very low. For your information, good old Bart refused to help me coach the Krusher Klinic, and it’s starting tomorrow.”
Charlie swallowed a handful of frosted grapes. “Now he tells you?”
“Well, I only thought up the clinic idea today. But I’ve already called all the Krushers.”
“Do the coaching yourself,” Charlie suggested. “You don’t need him.”
“Sure, Charlie. I’ll pitch to the kids. Then, when they miss, I’ll run behind them and retrieve the ball. If they hit it, I’ll instantly appear in the outfield to coach the fielders. And in the meantime, I’ll play catch in foul territory with the others. No problem.”
“So call it off. No one will kill you.”
“Are you crazy? These kids need the practice. They’re rusty. They have no energy. We can’t start the season like that —”
“I could help you,” Charlie said.
“Especially if Bart is going to have a Basher clinic —” Screech went the brakes in my head. “Wait. What do you mean? You know someone who’d do it?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said with a shrug. “Me. All I’m doing this vacation is hanging out and pretending to look at colleges.”
“You mean it? You would come to the clinic every day and run drills and teach the kids and cheer them on?”
“Sure. I like kids. Why not?”
I let out a loud whoop. “You are the greatest brother!” Honestly, I almost kissed him.
“And,” Charlie said with a proud smile, “I may be able to arrange a visit by the Mets’ famous all-star third baseman, Jack Brewster.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously. I know someone who is super-close to him. Can you see it? The kids’ll go nuts. They’ll never forget this the rest of their lives.”
“Do you think you can really do it?” I asked. “I mean, he is a celebrity. He’s probably got product endorsements and fantasy camps and stuff all lined up for the summer.”
Charlie shrugged. “Well, I’ll try.”
“I won’t mention it to the kids until you find out. Anyway, who is this person who knows Jack —?”
Charlie sprang up and grabbed the bottle of Coke, which was now empty. “Ladieeees and gentlemen, Buddy Barrett steps up to the plate. Due to the expert coaching of Charlie Thomas and Jack Brewster, Barrett has brought his batting average up seventy points. Heeeere’s the pitch!” He tossed up a grape and smacked it with the bottle.
The grape went sailing toward the sink. It bounced off the edge and rolled toward the door.
In ran Sam. Splat went the grape.
“Eew, what was that?” he asked.
“A mouse,” Charlie replied.
Sam’s face went white. He quickly lifted his foot to see.
“Made you look, made you look,” Charlie taunted.
Sam grabbed a spoon from the utensil drawer and scooped out some Cool Whip. Holding it like a catapult, he took aim at Charlie. “Die, alien invader!”
Charlie took off like a shot, with Sam on his tail.
I sat down and picked at the grapes. I couldn’t help smiling.
Okay, I knew the Jack Brewster thing was unrealistic. Definitely worth a try, but not likely to happen. Still, the clinic was a go. And I would be running it with my big brother. My big, goony brother, who was about to disappear to some college and probably never write.
I would never admit this to him, but in a funny way I was already starting to miss Charlie. Watching him read all those college brochures was giving me knots in the stomach.
It would be fun to do something major together. Charlie is a great athlete. He taught me all the basics of baseball when I was little. He knows how to give advice without making you feel stupid. Maybe I sho
uld have asked him earlier to coach the Krushers, but the idea never crossed my mind. Never in a million years would I have thought he’d want to help me with the clinic.
I dipped myself a big bunch of frosted grapes.
I was very, very lucky.
And so were the Krushers.
“Great catch, Karen!” Charlie called out. “Except for one thing.”
Near third base, my stepsister nodded. “I know. It was a hi, not a gimme.”
“Yup!” Charlie cupped his hand to his mouth, and five Krushers stared at him intently. “Okay, everybody, let’s practice. The ball is over your shoulder!”
Up went every glove, as if they were all waving hello. “Hiiiiiii!” they shouted together.
“Now the ball is coming to you waist high!” Charlie shouted.
The kids held out their gloves as if serving a dinner plate. “Gimme!”
I applauded. “Way to go, Krushers!”
I told you Charlie would be a great coach. It was 11:55, five minutes before the official start of the first Krusher Klinic, and he was already running a fielding practice. He was holding his official National League bat, wearing his baseball cap brim-sideways, and wearing a white batting glove. He looked like a pro.
My stepsister, Karen, was playing third base. My stepbrother, Andrew, was behind second. Nine-year-old Linny Papadakis was at first base, and his sister Hannie (who’s seven) was playing shortstop. David Michael was in right-center.
Yes, the Krushers are a multi-gender, multi-age, multi-everything group. The only requirement is that you must want to play softball.
As I unloaded our equipment, Charlie hit a grounder to second base. “ ‘Hi and gimme,’ huh?” I said. “I don’t remember learning that.”
“You never needed to,” Charlie replied. “I did. Dad taught it to me.”
Did I tell you my dad once played for a minor-league team? Well, he did. (I don’t know many details. Maybe he left the team without notice. Ahem.)