Kristy's Mystery Admirer

  “Now are you guys so sure the notes are from Bart?” I asked.

  “No,” replied everyone else.

  “They must be from Sam,” added Claudia.

  “That’s what I said in the first place and no one listened to me!” I cried. “Now that the notes are weird, you think they’re from my brother after all. But even Sam wouldn’t go this far. I know him and his jokes too well. He’d stop after about two notes and find some way to let me know he was behind them. Sam likes to take credit for his work and he can’t wait very long for it.”

  “Well, who are the notes from then?” Mal wondered. (Everyone was settling back into their places.) “They can’t be from Bart.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I replied. “Maybe he’s, like, really sick or something. I read this book once about a fourteen-year-old boy everyone thought was so normal and nice, and it turned out he was … a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Kristy!” exclaimed Stacey. (She sounded like my mother.)

  “Well, that’s what the book was about.”

  “Was it a true story?” asked Stacey.

  “No,” I answered. “But it could have been.”

  Stacey looked as if she were about to say, “See?”

  “Before you say anything,” I rushed on, “remember the notes. They’re real. Someone is sending them.”

  The room was quiet. No one knew what to say. I felt that I had to remind my friends about one small point.

  “I invited Bart to the Halloween Hop, don’t forget,” I said.

  “Aughh!” shrieked Mary Anne again. “You’re going with a psycho!”

  “Oh, my lord,” whispered Claudia.

  “Now just a second,” said Mallory calmly, “you don’t know that the notes are from Bart.”

  “I don’t know that they aren’t from Bart, either,” I pointed out, “and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Dawn.

  “I’m thinking of un-inviting Bart to the Hop.”

  “Oh, Kristy!” exclaimed Stacey.

  But the phone rang before she could go on. (I’d almost forgotten that we were having a club meeting.)

  We took the calls that came in for the next few minutes, lining up jobs with the Rodowsky boys, the Kuhns, the Perkinses, and Jenny Prezzioso.

  Then Stacey immediately said, “Kristy, you can’t un-invite Bart to the dance, especially when you don’t even know if the notes are from him. I think you should confront him. Ask him straight out if he’s your mystery admirer, and if he is, why he would write such awful things.” She shivered. “I can’t help thinking about that ‘I’ll remember you when you are dead’ poem. That gave me the creeps.”

  “Think how I feel!” I said. “And anyway, I don’t know about confronting him. Would you confront a psycho?”

  “You don’t know for sure if he is the psycho. I mean, a psycho,” said Jessi. “I believe in giving a person the benefit of —”

  “Wait a second!” I cried. “Oh, no! Oh, no! I just thought of something. You made me think of it, Jessi. You said, ‘A psycho.’”

  “So?” said Jessi, and the rest of my friends looked puzzled.

  “What,” I began, “if the notes aren’t from Bart or Sam or anyone else we can think of? What if they are from just ‘a psycho’?”

  “Well —” Stacey started to say.

  But I kept right on going. “Don’t forget. I’m rich. I mean, I’m Watson Brewer’s stepdaughter, and Watson is a millionaire. What if some weirdo out there is playing a cat-and-mouse game and then, when he’s ready, he’s going to pounce on me?”

  My friends looked more puzzled than ever.

  “Kidnap me,” I explained. “He’s going to scare me to death, then kidnap me and ask Watson for the ransom money. Watson could afford to pay the ransom, and he’d do it. I’m sure he would.”

  “You know,” said Mal, “we just read this short story in English class. It was by an author named O. Henry, and it was called ‘The Ransom of Red Chief.’ In it, these guys kidnap this little boy, only it turns out that the boy is such an awful child his parents don’t want him back, so they refuse to pay the ransom and the kidnappers are stuck with the boy.”

  Jessi, Dawn, and Mary Anne snickered. Claud and Stacey managed not to snicker, but even they couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “Come on, you guys. This is serious,” I said. “I have been getting notes, Watson is rich, and things like this do happen — and not just on TV, either. They happen in real life. Where do you think the TV writers get their ideas from?”

  That shut everyone up and stopped the smiling.

  But then Stacey, our skeptic, said, “Oh, Kristy, this really is ridiculous. No one’s going to kidnap you.”

  “Convince me,” I said.

  My fellow BSC members looked everywhere but at me.

  “The notes said he was coming to get me,” I reminded my friends.

  “One note said that,” Mary Anne pointed out. “One note.”

  “I’m not convinced,” was my only reply.

  * * *

  Later that night, I sat in my room and tried to do my homework. Needless to say, I could not concentrate. I couldn’t think of my room as just a room. It had become a room in a mansion. And Watson wasn’t just my stepfather, he was a millionaire.

  I abandoned my homework. I got up from my desk, took all the notes out of their hiding place between the pages of The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and spread the notes on my bed in the order in which I’d received them. I read them. I looked at them. I examined the paper, the typing, the stickers, the envelopes.

  They were definitely the work of a lunatic. But he was not going to get me.

  I jumped up. I ran from window to window in my room and made sure they were shut and locked. I checked the lock on my door. It worked, too. Mom and Watson tell my brothers and sisters and me not to lock our doors at night because it’s a fire hazard, but I would have to risk that. I figured there was a better chance of getting kidnapped than of Watson’s house (excuse me, his mansion) burning down. Why did Mom have to marry a rich guy?

  Then I thought of something horrible. A lunatic could get into my room through one of the windows even if it was locked. He’d simply wrap some cloth around his hand, punch through a pane of glass, reach in and unlock the window from the inside, and open it. Of course, I’m on the second floor, but the kidnapper could climb a ladder. He could be quiet. And in the dead of night, who would notice him?

  I was trying to figure out how to board up my windows when something else occurred to me: The kidnapper could get me any time. He could get me walking to my house from the bus stop or on my way into school or to a baby-sitting job. I decided that I should try to be with people as much as possible. It would be harder to kidnap me if I weren’t alone.

  Should I tell Mom and Watson about the danger I was in? I wondered. No. They might think I was crazy.

  I turned on my radio. I needed to listen to reports of missing lunatics. As far as I knew, there were no insane asylums around Stoneybrook, but who knows what a psycho is capable of?

  I tuned in just in time for the news. I heard about the President’s press conference, a plane crash, a kid who was raising money to help fight drug abuse by running all the way from Connecticut to New York City, and I heard the sports and weather reports.

  But the newscaster didn’t say a word about a missing lunatic.

  Okay, so he wasn’t escaped. He was a new lunatic, one who hadn’t been caught yet.

  I didn’t finish my homework that night.

  Two days later I told Shannon my lunatic theory. She thought I was a lunatic for having come up with it. In fact, she had a new theory.

  “I think,” said Shannon, who had either read or heard about every single note I’d received, “that Bart is the note writer.”

  “But you said he couldn’t be. You said you go to school with him and you know him and —”

  “I know what I said, but listen. I think Bart’
s afraid your Krushers are going to beat his Bashers in the World Series, so he’s trying to psyche you out. He’s trying to make you crazy so you won’t be a good coach and the Krushers will play badly and lose.”

  I was incensed. Especially considering that Shannon and I were on our way to the ball field for a game against the Bashers. (As we walked along, I kept my eye out for slow-driving, suspicious-looking cars.)

  Ahead of us were walking David Michael, the Papadakis kids, and a couple of other Krushers from our neighborhood. They were laughing and talking, paying no attention to Shannon and me.

  “Well, if that’s what Bart is doing, that is really … that is really despicable!” I exclaimed. (That was the worst thing I could think of to say.)

  “I know,” said Shannon. “I agree. I refused to speak to him in school today.”

  “Thank you,” I told her.

  The thought that the notes might be from Bart after all did two things for me. One, it made me less worried about a lunatic being after me, and two, it made me incredibly angry — which was good. The more angry I am the more energy I have, and the more energy I have, the better I coach the Krushers. We were going to beat the Bashers that day.

  “You know what else is wrong with your lunatic theory?” asked Shannon as we reached the playing field.

  “What?” I replied, even though I was tired of hearing about all the things wrong with my theory.

  “If a psycho really did want ransom money, why wouldn’t he kidnap Karen or Andrew? They’re Watson’s own children, plus they’re littler and they’d be easier to capture.”

  I just made a face. I didn’t like the way Shannon had implied that “real” children are more important than stepchildren. And I didn’t like to think about Karen or Andrew being kidnapped.

  Shannon didn’t see my face, though. She had spotted Mary Anne and Dawn. They were sitting under a tree. Dawn had brought the Braddock kids to the ball field (Matt as a player, Haley as a cheerleader), and Mary Anne had just come along to cheer the Krushers on. Shannon ran over to them and they began to talk. I almost joined them, but I was a little angry at Shannon for making those comments (even though I knew she hadn’t meant to hurt me or upset me). Besides, the Krushers were excited and ready to begin the game, and the Bashers were nearby, looking tough.

  I caught Bart’s eye (he was surrounded by his team) and he grinned at me, but I just looked away. How could he smile at me like that?

  The game began. The Krushers were up at bat first, and I’d placed Matt Braddock in the number-one spot in the lineup. He may be deaf, but he is one of our best hitters.

  The Bashers pitcher wound up and slammed a ball to Matt.

  CRACK!

  Matt hit the ball with such force that I thought it would break a window at Stoneybrook Elementary. But it hit the ground first. An outfielder scrambled after it. Meanwhile, Matt was running bases and had lost sight of the ball. He hesitated at third base.

  Nicky Pike signed something to him frantically and Matt frowned. He stayed where he was, looking completely confused. A few seconds later, the third baseman was holding the ball triumphantly, and Haley Braddock had her head in her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  “Nicky was signing, ‘Swim! Swim!’ to Matt. I think he meant to sign, ‘Run, run.’ Matt could have made a home run, but he didn’t know what was going on.”

  No wonder Matt had looked confused, I thought. Then I said to Haley, “Will you explain things to Matt later? Tell him it wasn’t his fault and I’m not mad. I’ll talk to Nicky. I think he needs a refresher course in sign language from you, Haley.”

  Next up at bat was Claire Pike. She is not a good hitter, and I wanted to get her turn out of the way as quickly as possible. Claire surprised me, though. I think she surprised herself, too, when her bat connected with the first ball pitched and sailed away from her.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took off for first base.

  But — SWOCK! The pitcher caught Claire’s ball on the fly.

  “One out!” called the referee.

  Claire immediately threw a tantrum. “Nofe-air! Nofe-air!”

  I let Nicky and Vanessa calm her down and sent Jake Kuhn up to bat. He struck out. Two outs. Matt stood on third base with his hand on his hip, looking disgusted and disappointed. I couldn’t blame him.

  Jackie Rodowsky was up next. He swung and missed twice before getting a hit. But it was a low grounder, and the pitcher scooped the ball up and tossed it to the catcher, who got it just before Matt slid home. Three outs.

  Matt looked like he was ready to kill someone, or maybe a lot of someones. First his chance at a home run had been ruined, then his chance to score.

  “Don’t worry,” I said calmly to my team before they headed, discouraged, to the field. “The score is still zero to zero. Nicky, you’re pitching. See if you can keep the game scoreless. The rest of you, just play your best.”

  Nicky did not, unfortunately, manage to keep the game scoreless. By the end of the first inning, the score was 3–0, in favor of the Bashers.

  “Come on, you guys,” I said cheerfully to the Krushers as the teams changed places again. “I know you can earn some runs this time. I can feel it. Now get out there and give it your best.”

  “Okay, Kristy Thomas,” said Gabbie Perkins.

  (I am always amazed at how the Krushers just keep on going. Sometimes they are disappointed or Claire throws a tantrum, but for the most part, the kids cheer each other on, don’t begrudge anybody anything, and are understanding of each other and their shortcomings. Still, they must have been upset at the prospect of losing to the Bashers, after finally beating them, especially with the World Series just around the corner.)

  The Krushers dutifully got into the batting order, though, and Buddy Barrett stepped up to the plate. He was nervous but trying not to show it.

  The Basher pitcher wound up and let fly a fastball.

  Buddy was prepared. THWACK. The ball sailed through the air — but it was out of bounds.

  And it hit Shannon on the head.

  “OW!” she shrieked.

  She and Dawn and Mary Anne had seen the ball coming toward them and, in trying to duck, had gotten in each other’s way. Shannon hadn’t been able to avoid the ball.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Dawn and Mary Anne cried.

  “I’m sorrier!” That was Buddy. He and I and a whole group of kids had run over to Shannon.

  “Are you all right?” everyone kept asking.

  “I think so,” Shannon replied, patting her head cautiously. (This is why we play softball.)

  “Are you really all right?” asked Buddy anxiously.

  “Yes, I really am.” Shannon smiled at Buddy, and he looked back at her with what can only be called love.

  Bart had run over to us by this time, along with some of his teammates.

  “Are you okay, Shannon?” he asked, genuinely concerned. (Shannon was rubbing her head, even though she was smiling at Buddy.)

  Shannon did not answer Bart. She didn’t even look at him. (Neither did Mary Anne nor Dawn. I had a feeling Shannon had told them her suspicions about Bart.) And I focused on Shannon, feeling only mildly sorry for Bart.

  When Shannon had convinced us that she truly was fine (or was going to be) and had even asked to keep the ball with which she’d been hit, the collected Krushers and Bashers finally returned to their game. Buddy lingered for a moment, though, received another smile from Shannon, then ran to catch up with his team.

  The rest of the game went about the same way as the first inning. The Krushers simply were not a match for the Bashers that day, no matter how hard they tried, and no matter how loudly the cheerleaders shouted. In the end, the Bashers beat the Krushers 10–1, and that one run was suspect, but the Bashers “gave” it to us, since they already had eight runs at the time and the game was nearing its end.

  When the game was over, Bart trotted up to me and said, “Good game, Kristy. Y
ou coached your kids well.”

  I glared at him. How could he try to psyche me out, then be so nice to me? Bart looked confused, but I pretended not to notice, and when he asked if he could walk me home, I thanked him but said I was busy. Then I joined Shannon, Dawn, and Mary Anne.

  They were talking about Bart and the letters.

  “Maybe,” Dawn began, “he’s not trying to psyche you out for the World Series. Maybe he’s mad at you because of that fight you two had over how the series should be played. The weird letters started after the fight, didn’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “And you know how boys hold grudges,” said Shannon, sounding wise.

  I shrugged. “Either way, what he’s doing is crummy.”

  My friends agreed.

  Then I had to leave. I had to help the Krushers with their equipment, see that everyone got picked up, and finally help Charlie load our car. He drove Karen, Andrew, David Michael, and me home, and I tried not to feel too depressed.

  What had I gotten myself into? I was still supposed to go to the Halloween Hop with Bart, and Bart was either crazy or mean. (If he was the note writer. If he wasn’t, I didn’t want to think about who was.) Anyway, I had to decide whether to un-invite Bart to the dance.

  Later, I was in the middle of figuring out how to do that, not having had much experience with boys, when our phone rang. Of course, it was Bart. Great.

  I didn’t even bother to sneak into the closet with the cordless phone. I just took the receiver from Mom, who had answered the extension in the kitchen and said, “Hi, Bart. I’m sorry but I can’t talk to you now,” and hung up.

  As I returned the receiver to the cradle, I could hear him saying, “Hey, Kristy,” but I didn’t feel too bad. Not when I thought about his notes.

  However, it took me a long time to fall asleep that night.

  When Mary Anne arrived at the Barretts’, she found them organized, for once. Or maybe they’re generally more organized now. Anyway, they were a far cry from the way Dawn Schafer used to find them when she first began sitting for them. The children were dressed and set for softball practice, Mrs. Barrett was ready to leave but wasn’t in one of her mad dashes, their house was tidy, and Pow the dog had even been walked.