“Good-bye, you three,” said Mrs. Barrett when she’d put on her coat. She kissed Buddy (who’s eight), Suzi (who’s five), and Marnie (who’s two), wished Buddy and Suzi good luck at practice, and left.
“Well,” said Mary Anne, “let’s get going. We should leave now if you want to be at the ball field on time.”
“Okay,” said Buddy. He looked at Suzi. “Do you want to get it or should I?”
“I will!” Suzi cried.
Mary Anne had no idea what they were talking about, but she didn’t have to wait long to find out. Suzi returned in a flash, holding something behind her back. She whipped it out and held it up proudly.
“It’s a Krushers T-shirt for Marnie!” said Buddy.
“Yeah. She comes to almost all the games. She needs one,” added Suzi.
So Mary Anne, smiling, put the shirt on over Marnie’s sweater, checked to make sure everyone was wearing a hat, and led the kids out the back door to the garage, where Marnie’s stroller was kept.
They set off, Buddy and Suzi chattering away, and Marnie pointing at things and crying out, “Doggie! Big doggie!” and, “Smell flowers, Mary Anne,” and, “Play ball!” which made everyone laugh, because she had said it just like a sportscaster.
Then they fell into a silence, which was broken by Buddy saying tentatively, “I wonder if that girl will be there again.”
“What girl?” asked Mary Anne.
“He means Shan-non,” Suzi answered in a singsong voice.
Buddy blushed. “I hit her on the head at our last game and she wanted to keep the ball, just like a real fan.”
“Oh,” said Mary Anne, remembering.
“Buddy li-ikes Shannon, Buddy li-ikes Shannon,” sang Suzi.
“Want to make something of it?” asked Buddy, not denying the charge.
“Buddy and Shannon, sitting in a tree —” Suzi began.
Buddy grabbed her arm. “Cut it out!” he yelled. “Or I’ll tell Mary Anne and Mom about the … you know.”
Suzi was instantly quiet.
The rest of the walk to the ball field was quiet, but Mary Anne had a feeling that everyone (except Marnie) was thinking about or wondering about whatever Suzi had done. Mary Anne felt it wasn’t her business to pry, though.
At the playing field, everyone oohed and ahhed — first over Marnie in her T-shirt, and then over the cheerleaders. They had gotten their costumes together and were wearing them. They had even managed to find wigs that matched The Three Stooges’ hair.
A few kids laughed, but Charlotte, Vanessa, and Haley didn’t care. Their costumes were funny and they knew it.
“We ought to pep you guys up,” said Haley to the Krushers, and the Krushers agreed.
Everyone was in a good mood. I sensed that as soon as I set foot on the grounds of Stoneybrook Elementary. David Michael was with me. He had been talking nonstop about the World Series, which was fast approaching. Then there were Vanessa, Haley, and Charlotte in their crazy outfits, and Marnie Barrett in her little Krushers T-shirt.
I was probably the only one who wasn’t entirely psyched for the game. I still didn’t know what to do about Bart and the dance, and then, when I was leaving the house for practice, I found another note on our front steps. Thank goodness David Michael was still inside, looking for his mitt. I didn’t want him to see what I’d found.
The new note said, “Beware. I’m coming sooner than you think. And once I find you, this is all that will be left of Kristin Amanda Thomas.” I looked in the envelope and saw … fingernail clippings.
Oh, ew. EW. I almost dumped them out, but decided I might need them for evidence sometime.
“Hey, Kristy!” called David Michael then, and I thrust the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans.
“What?” I yelled back.
“I can’t find my mitt.”
So we had to have a mitt-search before we could leave for the ball field.
By the time we reached Stoneybrook Elementary, I was tired. David Michael and I had a fair amount of equipment to carry and no one to help us, although Charlie had said he’d pick me up after practice. So we had to carry everything ourselves. Besides being tired, my mind wasn’t on the game. It was on Bart, the school dance, and the notes, especially the one I’d just received. So, despite The Three Stooges cheerleaders, practice did not go very well. But it was not entirely my fault.
Even though my Krushers were their usual enthusiastic selves, they just did not play well. Jackie Rodowsky kept tripping when he ran bases. Jamie Newton began ducking balls again. David Michael’s pitching was not up to par.
I gathered the Krushers together after two innings of mistakes. “You guys,” I said, “remember the basics, okay? All the old stuff. Pay attention to what you’re doing. Keep your eye on the ball. Don’t swing at wild pitches. And no fancy stuff. Concentrate on the game, not on stealing bases, okay?”
“O-kay!” chanted the Krushers.
“Do you need a break before we continue our game?”
“Maybe just a little one,” replied Myriah.
“All right,” I said. “Take ten.”
I walked over to the trees, where Mary Anne and Claudia were sitting with Marnie Barrett, Laura Perkins … and Shannon!
“Hi, you guys,” I said wearily, and then added, to Shannon, “When did you get here? I thought you were busy this afternoon.”
“Our hockey practice was canceled,” she replied.
“Well, I’m glad you came to watch us,” I told her.
“Me, too,” said a voice from behind me.
It was Buddy Barrett, gazing adoringly at Shannon. (I had no idea what was going on then, because I hadn’t read Mary Anne’s notebook entry yet.)
“Hey, Buddy,” I said, “could you go give Jackie some hitting tips?”
“Sure,” he replied, looking both pleased and disappointed. (Disappointed at not being able to stay with Shannon, I guess.)
“Is anything wrong?” Mary Anne asked me.
I nodded. “Yeah. This.” I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and showed my friends the newest note.
Their reaction was nearly the same as mine had been:
“Gross!” (Claudia)
“Repulsive!” (Mary Anne)
“Disgusting!” (Shannon)
After that, no one knew what to say, but I had a feeling we were all wondering the same thing. Would Bart really do something so gross, repulsive, and disgusting?
“Well,” I said, “back to the game. Cheer us on, you guys.”
The Krushers returned to their practice. The third inning began. And on David Michael’s first pitch, Buddy Barrett swung and hit the ball with a loud crack! I saw Mary Anne and Claudia throw themselves in front of the strollers, and Shannon duck and cover her head. But they didn’t need to worry. The ball sailed into the outfield. Buddy had hit a double.
“Yea!” cheered Shannon.
And that was the end of our good luck. Jake Kuhn fouled out. David Michael’s pitching went downhill. Then Jackie hit a double himself, but tripped and fell just as he was approaching second base.
“Out!” yelled Nicky Pike.
At least Buddy made it home, scoring one run.
The cheerleaders went wild. “Who are the greatest? Who are the greatest?” they yelled, jumping up and down. “The Krushers, the Krushers! Yea!”
By the time they were finished, all of their wigs had fallen off, and Vanessa’s pants were practically at her knees.
“Vanessa!” hissed Haley, aghast.
“I know, I know.” Vanessa tugged desperately at her pants.
“I guess we’ll have to work a little harder on our costumes,” said Charlotte.
After another inning, I called a halt to practice. Nothing was being accomplished. Margo Pike was in the outfield, blowing on blades of grass and staring into space. David Michael was paying more attention to a scrape on his elbow than to his pitching. Buddy had eyes only for Shannon, and even I wasn’t concentrating. Not on the game, anywa
y, but I sure couldn’t keep my mind off the notes.
Mary Anne rounded up Buddy and Suzi and set off for the Barretts’. Their mother would be home soon. Suzi seemed gloomy as they walked along, but Buddy was in seventh heaven.
“Did you hear how Shannon cheered for me?” he asked.
“Buddy and Shannon, sitting in a tree —” sang Suzi.
“Suzi, one more word and I’ll tell about the …”
“Okay, okay, okay.”
Mary Anne smiled — then remembered the fingernail clippings and stopped her smiling abruptly.
After our disastrous practice, Bart once again appeared at the schoolyard and asked to walk me home. And once again, I rode with Charlie instead.
“What’s with you?” Bart called after me as I climbed into the car. “Why won’t you speak to me? Why won’t Shannon speak to me? Girls are …”
His voice faded away as we drove off.
“Why won’t you speak to Bart?” Charlie wanted to know, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror and frowning.
But I wouldn’t answer him, either.
And that night, when Bart called, I said to Sam, “Tell him I’ve gone to Europe,” which Sam did with a certain amount of glee. Telling Bart I’d gone to Europe was tantamount to a goof call, for Sam.
* * *
Considering all this, you can imagine how surprised I was when the doorbell rang the next afternoon, and who should I find on our front steps but Bart.
“Bart!” I exclaimed.
“Can I come in?” he asked seriously.
“I guess so,” I replied. Nannie was home. Sam, too. I wasn’t baby-sitting, and it’s a lot easier to hang up on somebody (or have your brother tell him you’ve gone to Europe) than it is to slam a door in his face.
Bart stepped inside and I closed the door behind him. “We have to talk,” he said. “In private. Where can we go?”
“My room, I guess,” I answered with a sigh. I went to the kitchen, told Nannie that Bart was here and we were going to my room to talk, then led him upstairs. This felt weird. Bart had only been inside my house a few times, and he had certainly never been inside my room. I fervently hoped that I hadn’t left any underwear lying around and that my room was at least reasonably neat. (I’m not exactly a slob, but if anybody were ever asked to list ten things that describe me, the word neat would not come to mind.)
I walked into my room ahead of Bart and was relieved to see that it was presentable. (There might have been some underwear under the bed, but Bart would never know.) I looked around to see who should sit where, and decided that I should sit in my desk chair and Bart should get the armchair.
“So?” he said, trying to fold his tall body into the small chair.
“So?” I countered.
“Kristy, what … is … going … on?” he said in a measured voice.
“I think you know.”
“I do not. If I knew, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“You sure are a good liar,” I said bluntly.
“Liar?! I’m not lying. I don’t know what’s going on and I want you to tell me. Either you or Shannon. But you’re the one I’m supposed to be going to a dance with,” said Bart. He looked angry and I began to feel afraid. First of all, I’d never seen him this angry. Second, it probably wasn’t a good idea to get a lunatic angry. I was glad that Nannie and Sam were home.
But I didn’t let Bart see my fear. “Okay. You want to know what’s going on? I’ll show you what’s going on.” I marched over to my bookshelf, pulled out The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and removed the notes from between the pages. Then I spread them across the bed. “There. That’s what’s going on — as if you didn’t know.”
Bart looked at the first few notes — the love letters — and reddened.
“So you did write them,” I said.
“Yeah,” admitted Bart. “Only I didn’t write this many.” He frowned and read the rest of the notes. When he was finished, he looked at me with horror. “You think I wrote these notes to you?” He peeked into the envelope containing the fingernail clippings. “You think I sent these to you? How could you think that? And why would I do this?”
“I — I don’t —” I stumbled over my words. “To psyche me out so the Krushers would lose the World Series?” I suggested feebly.
“That’s crazy!” Bart was almost shouting.
“SHHH!” I hissed.
“Well, it is crazy,” said Bart, lowering his voice. “It’s the craziest thing I can think of. If we play, we play fair and square.” He paused. Then he asked, “Does Shannon know about these letters? Is that why she hasn’t been speaking to me?”
I nodded. (I thought Bart would explode.) “Well, you did send some of the letters,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, the — the, um — the nice ones,” agreed Bart. I was melting. Bart really liked me. But he was still angry.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry for accusing you of sending the notes, especially in order to psyche me out,” (I didn’t mention that that had been Shannon’s idea), “but it was easier to believe that than to believe …”
“To believe what?” asked Bart curiously.
“That some lunatic was sending them. I’m afraid someone’s going to kidnap me and ask Watson for the ransom money. I mean, the guy does say he’s going to get me. And then he keeps talking about death.”
Bart sighed. “I can see why you’d be scared,” he said, “but I still can’t believe that you would believe that I would … oh, forget it.”
For a few seconds Bart and I just looked at each other. I felt so confused. Finally I said quietly, “Thank you for the first notes. I liked them a lot. That’s why I saved them.”
“Really?” said Bart.
“Yeah. I did. I never got” (I almost said love letters) “I never got notes like those before. I felt … I don’t know how I felt. But I know I’ll never throw those letters away.”
Bart smiled. “That’s how I wanted you to feel. You’re really special, Kristy.” (I know I blushed.) Then he asked, “What about the other letters?”
“Why did I keep them, too?”
“No, I mean what about them? Where did they come from? Who sent them? What do they mean?”
I was relaxing. Even though I didn’t have the answers to Bart’s questions, I felt as if things were falling into place. Bart had written the love letters. That made sense. Then someone else had written the scary letters.
“I don’t know,” I told Bart. “Shannon and I have read the letters a million times and we can’t come up with a thing.”
Bart leaned over. Just as I had done so often, he read all the horrible letters to himself again. He even murmured the poem aloud, shivering at the “I’ll remember you when you are dead” part.
“See why I’m afraid they’re from a lunatic?” I said.
“Well, I can see why they frighten you, but a lunatic? I don’t know, Kristy. That sounds like —”
“Don’t say, ‘That sounds like something you’d see on TV.’”
“Okay, I won’t…. But it does.”
I sighed. “I know. Still, I don’t have any better ideas.”
“Got any enemies?” asked Bart.
I shook my head slowly. “I don’t think so. Not unless you count Alan Gray, but he’s too much of a dweeb to think up something like this.”
“Who’s Alan Gray?”
“A jerk. A boy at school who’s been a pest all his life and probably will remain that way into adulthood.”
Bart laughed. “But he wouldn’t do this?” He pointed to the letters.
“No. I don’t think so. It takes brains to do that.”
“What about Sam?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Poor Sam,” I said. “Everyone fingers him as a likely suspect. He’s going to have trouble living down his reputation. Shannon thought the notes were from Sam, my friends at school thought they were from him. Even I thought the first ones were from him, before I could believe that any boy would like
me enough to send me lo — to send me notes like those,” I said.
“Hmm,” said Bart, looking deep in thought. “Kristy, how many people know about the notes?”
“Well, let’s see. Just Shannon, my friends in the Baby-sitters Club, and now you. Oh, and David Michael was here when Shannon brought the first letter over. It was in her mailbox for some reason.”
“Oh,” said Bart. “That was Kyle’s fault, I guess. He must have gotten the mailboxes mixed up. I, um, I sent him to deliver the notes. I was afraid to go myself. I thought someone might see me on your street and you’d figure out who was sending the notes.”
I giggled. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“So,” Bart went on, “pretty many people know you’ve been getting notes.”
“I guess so,” I replied. “But what — ?” I was interrupted by David Michael yelling up the stairs. “Kristy? Phone for you!”
“Just a sec,” I said to Bart. I answered the second-floor extension. It was Shannon. I told her what was going on and invited her over. I figured that with three people, we could do some real brainstorming.
So Shannon came over. After she apologized to Bart for having given him the silent treatment, she sat on my bed, being careful not to disturb the notes. “Any theories about the notes?” she asked us, sounding like a detective.
“No theories,” I answered. “But we know there are two people responsible for them. Bart did write the first notes, the nice ones, just like you thought. But somebody else is writing the others. The question is who? And don’t say Sam,” I said quickly.
“Kristy doesn’t have any enemies,” Bart added.
“Maybe someone is trying to sabotage the Krushers and make them lose the World Series. Can either of you think of anybody who would want to win so badly that they’d do all this?” Shannon waved her hand across the bed, indicating the notes.
Bart and I shook our heads, and Bart added, “None of the Bashers is old enough to do something like that. And I’m sure none of their parents would do it.” He paused. “You know what’s weird, though? The scary notes look just like the ones I wrote. Who could have seen me writing the notes? I did that privately.”