By the time Dawn moved here, we were doing so much business that we wanted her in the club, too, and when Stacey had to move back to New York, we replaced her with both Jessi and Mal. So our club has grown to six people. Actually, it’s seven people as far as I’m concerned. Stacey isn’t really gone; she’s just the New York branch of the Baby-sitters Club!
Kristy runs the club in a very businesslike manner. She insists that’s the only way to do things. And so we keep a club record book and a club notebook. The record book is really important. It’s full of information. As secretary, it’s my job to keep track of our clients’ names and addresses and stuff like that, and also to schedule all of our sitting jobs on the appointment pages. And Dawn, as treasurer, keeps track of our money in the record book, too.
The notebook is something that most of us don’t like too much. In the notebook, we have to write up every single job we go on. Then we’re responsible for reading the notebook once a week to see what’s happened when our friends were sitting. I have to admit that finding out how other people handle sitting problems is helpful … but, boy, do we get tired of writing in that book.
It was one of Kristy’s ideas, though, and that’s another reason she’s president. She’s always coming up with new projects or ideas to keep the club fresh. For instance, Kristy dreamed up Kid-Kits. Kid-Kits are decorated boxes filled with games and toys and books — mostly our old things. Each of us has made a Kid-Kit. Whenever I take mine on a sitting job, the kids are thrilled. For some reason, another person’s toys are always more interesting than your own. So the kids are happy and their parents are happy, and when parents are happy, they call our club again! Kid-Kits are good for business.
As vice-president, Claud’s job is … well, she doesn’t exactly have a job. She’s the vice-president because she has her very own phone and private phone number, so her room is a good place for us to hold our meetings. We don’t have to tie up anyone’s line three times a week. Claud is really nice about letting us use her things and eat her junk food.
You already know what my job is about. I keep records and schedule sitting jobs. In order to do that, I have to know when Claud’s art lessons are, Jessi’s ballet classes, Mal’s orthodontist appointments (she just got braces), and that sort of thing. Sometimes I complain about my job, but mostly I like it.
Dawn took over the office of treasurer when Stacey moved away. Her job is to collect dues money from us club members every Monday and to make sure we always have enough money in our treasury. We use the treasury money to buy new things for the Kid-Kits (crayons, coloring books, anything that gets used up), to pay Kristy’s brother Charlie to drive her to and from meetings now that she lives on the other side of town, and to treat ourselves to a sleepover or a party every now and then.
Our junior officers, Jessi and Mallory, don’t have actual jobs. “Junior” means that since they’re younger than the rest of us, they aren’t allowed to sit at night, unless they’re sitting for their own brothers and sisters. They’re a big help, though. They take a lot of the afternoon jobs, which frees us older club members to take the evening jobs.
Last but certainly not least, there are Logan and Shannon. Logan and Shannon are associate members. That means that they don’t come to meetings, but we can call on them if a job comes up that none of the rest of us is free to take. Believe it or not, this happens. And we’d hate to have to tell one of our clients that we couldn’t provide her (or him) with a sitter. Shannon Kilbourne, by the way, is a friend of Kristy’s. She lives across the street from her in Kristy’s new neighborhood.
On the day I went toy-shopping for Tigger, Kristy had just barely called the meeting to order when the phone rang.
We looked at each other and smiled. A job call so early in a meeting must be a good sign.
Claudia reached for the phone, a plastic charm bracelet dangling from her wrist. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” she said. There was a pause. Then she put her hand over the receiver. “Oh, Mary A-anne,” she called to me in a singsong voice, “it’s for you-ou.”
I took the phone, glancing at Kristy. She doesn’t like us to get personal calls during meetings.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi!” replied a cheerful voice.
Logan! I was really happy to hear from him. I just hoped he was calling about business.
“What’s up?” I asked him.
“I need a sitter.” Actually, he said, “Ah need a sittuh.” (Logan’s family moved here from Louisville, Kentucky, not long ago.)
“For Kerry and Hunter?” I asked. Kerry is Logan’s nine-year-old sister and Hunter is his five-year-old brother. None of us has baby-sat for them before, because Logan always does it.
“Yeah. It’s for this Saturday afternoon. Mom and Dad have some tennis thing lined up with friends of theirs, and I’m going to baseball practice at school. I was supposed to sit, but then practice came up. Can one of you do it?”
I was dying to do it, of course, but I had to treat this job like any other. “I’ll check our schedules and call you back in just a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay.”
This is how we handle club jobs. The person who gets the phone call or who answers the phone never just takes a job. It’s open for everyone.
I told the others about the job as I looked at the appointment pages in the record book. “Well,“ I said, “Kristy, you and Mallory and I are free.“
My friends were very generous and let me take the job. I called Logan back.“What’s all that sneezing I hear?” I asked, after I’d told him that I would be the sitter.
“Oh, it’s my brother. It’s allergy season.”
“Poor Hunter,” I replied, remembering his bare, dust-free bedroom. “He —” I stopped. I had glanced at Kristy. Her eyeballs were practically falling out of her head in her effort to get me to end my personal conversation.
So I said good-bye quickly. Our meeting continued. When it was over, I dashed out the door, calling good-bye to Claudia’s grandmother Mimi, who replied in confusion, “I will take six, please.”
Then I ran home to play with Tigger.
My dad used to be strict with me. Very strict. It wasn’t so long ago that I had to fix my hair in braids and wear clothes he picked out, that I had to live in a little-girl room, wasn’t allowed to ride my bicycle downtown, couldn’t talk on the phone after dinner unless it was about homework, etc. I think my dad made up those rules because he was trying to be a good mother. That may sound funny, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. He was nervous about raising a daughter by himself and he wanted me to turn out okay, so he decided he had to practically take over my life.
Luckily, he and I have both been changing lately. I’ve shown him that I’m more grown up and mature than he thought, and he realized that he doesn’t have to live my life for me. So he let me take my hair out of braids and fix up my room so it isn’t so babyish. Then came bigger changes. Now I can go places with my friends and talk on the phone after dinner. But Dad is still Dad. There’s a ten-minute time limit on phone calls. And if Logan comes over when Dad isn’t home, Logan has to stay outside. He is not allowed in.
Which is why the two of us were sitting outside one Friday afternoon that was so gray it was almost raining. But we had no choice. Well, I suppose we could have gone inside. How would Dad have known? But I just am not able to break one of his rules. I’m afraid he’ll find out somehow. Magically, maybe. Anyway, a rule is a rule.
Besides, it wasn’t raining, and it was fairly warm, so being outside wasn’t actually unpleasant. How could it be unpleasant with Logan next to me, and Tigger playing at our feet?
Logan had untied one of his sneakers and was dangling the lace in front of Tigger. Tigger thought this was a great game. He batted at the lace. He tried to catch it. He stood on his hind legs and stretched out his round tummy, reaching as far as he could.
“Aw, look. He’s so cute!” I said. (I say that, oh, sixty-five times a day.)
Logan grinned.
I had said it ten or twelve times just since he’d come over.
I changed the subject. “I’m glad today is Friday. I like school and everything, but …”
“But there’s nothing like two days off,” supplied Logan.
“Right.”
“And think of it. This happens once a week. Boy, are we lucky. I’d like to thank whoever arranged things that way.”
Tigger got tired of playing with the lace then and darted away from us. He pounced on a bug. He ran after a seed pod that dropped from a tree.
“Aw, he’s so cute,” I said. Then I called, “Careful, Tigger!” Tigger has only been allowed outdoors for a couple of weeks now. Sometimes I even let him go out alone. He can stay happily in the yard for hours — playing and napping. I worry about him, being outside on his own. Then I remember how great it felt when Dad finally let go of me. I wonder — does Dad worry about me every day the way I worry about Tigger?
“You’re sure quiet,” said Logan suddenly.
I looked over at him. “I was thinking about how Dad treats me and how I treat Tigger and —”
“Again?” said Logan sharply.
I paused. Logan hardly ever speaks like that. I decided to ignore it. “How’s baseball practice going?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the coach? What’s his name?”
“Coach Blake.”
Conversational dead end. Okay…. Now what?
“Hi-hi!” called a little voice.
It could only belong to Jamie Newton. I glanced up and there he was, standing at the edge of our yard.
“Hi!” I called back.
Jamie’s family lives nearby, so the members of the Baby-sitters Club, especially Claudia, sit for the Newtons all the time. Jamie is four and has a baby sister named Lucy.
Jamie ran across the lawn. “Oh, goody!” he exclaimed. “There’s Tigger.”
Tigger looked like he might be tiring out. He was sitting in the grass — very neatly, with his tail curled around his front feet. But he wasn’t doing anything. Nothing I knew about, anyway. Maybe he was doing some secret cat thing.
“Can I play with Tigger, Mary Anne? Please?” asked Jamie.
“Sure,” I answered, “but carefully. I’m not sure he wants to play right now.”
Jamie lay on the ground near Tigger. He and Tigger looked at each other.
I glanced at Logan. Usually Logan and I would have turned to each other at a moment like that and smiled. But Logan was staring into the distance.
“Earth to Logan, Earth to Logan,” I said, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Come in, Logan.”
“I am in, Mary Anne,” he replied, without bothering to look at me.
I felt stung.
In the grass, Jamie inched closer to my kitten. “Tigger, Tigger, Tigger, Tigger, Tigger,” he whispered. He swept one hand from side to side.
Tigger immediately fell into a crouch position. His head moved back and forth, following Jamie’s hand. Suddenly — POUNCE! Tigger landed on Jamie’s hand. (Luckily Tigger’s little claws are only about as sharp as pine needles.)
Jamie burst into giggles. “Tigger!” he squealed. He rolled onto his back and put Tigger on his tummy.
I glanced at Logan again. This time at least he was smiling. “Pretty cute,” I commented.
“Boy,” said Jamie, “I sure do wish I had a pet. I’d get a … dog. No, a rabbit. No, a — a chicken. No, a cat. I mean, a kitten. That’s it. I’d get a kitten just like Tigger. Gray and white. And pounsive.”
“Pounsive?” said Logan and I at the same time. I elbowed Logan as a way of telling him not to laugh. He didn’t.
“Hi, Jamie!”
“Hi, Jamie!”
“Hi, Myriah! Hi, Gabbie! Hi-hi!” called Jamie. Standing in their yard next door were Myriah and Gabbie Perkins. The girls are good friends of Jamie’s.
The Perkins family moved into Kristy’s house when Kristy and her mom and brothers moved to Watson’s. Considering I lost my best friend then, I feel lucky that such a nice family moved in. Us club members baby-sit at the Perkinses’ a lot. Myriah is five and a half, Gabbie is two and a half, and their little sister Laura is an infant.
“Come on over!” Jamie called to the girls.
“Overrun with kids,” I thought I heard Logan murmur, but I wasn’t sure.
“No, come over here!” cried Gabbie. “Come on, Jamie. We have something to show you.”
“Okay.” Jamie set Tigger on the ground. He called good-bye to us, and ran next door.
“Want something to drink?” I asked Logan.
“Sure,” he replied.
I knew exactly what he wanted. That’s how well we know each other. I didn’t even need to ask him.
“Be right back,” I said, as I got to my feet. Logan didn’t like having to wait outside (I could tell by the look on his face), but what could we do? I ran inside, opened two sodas, and ran back outside. I handed one to Logan as I sat down again.
“So,” I said, as I settled myself on the stoop, “how are Kerry and Hunter?”
“You mean, what are you getting yourself into when you sit tomorrow?”
“No!” I said, even though I knew Logan was teasing me.
Logan smiled. “Well, Hunter’s allergies are as bad as ever, and Kerry is going through a stage.”
“A stage?”
“Yeah. She’s been saying that we treat her like a baby. I think she wants to be, you know, more independent. She could also use a few friends. She hasn’t really made any since we moved here.”
I nodded, staring down the street.
A few moments later I said, “I think we have more company.” Charlotte Johanssen was headed our way. She’s eight, another kid our club sits for. And she reminds me of myself — nice, but shy, trying hard to please people.
“Hi!” I called to Charlotte as she reached the end of our driveway. “Want to come see Tigger?” I turned to Logan and whispered, “It’s all right with you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure.”
I couldn’t tell what sort of tone was in Logan’s voice, but I didn’t worry about it. I watched Charlotte approach Tigger. Now he was a little livelier. He waited until Charlotte had almost reached him, then he jumped away.
Charlotte began to giggle. She sat down in the grass. She closed her eyes. “Oh, I can’t see you, Mr. Tigger,” she sang. “So come back to me. Come on back.”
Charlotte sat very still, peeking every now and then. Tigger crept toward her, right into her lap.
“Gotcha!” exclaimed Charlotte, opening her eyes and cupping him in her hands.
Logan laughed. So did Charlotte and I. (“Oh, he’s so cute,” I said.) Tigger looked at the three of us with surprised eyes. What had happened?
“Gosh,” said Charlotte, as she turned Tigger onto his back, “if I could have three wishes, you know what I’d wish for?”
“What?” Logan and I asked at the same time.
“Tigger,” she replied. “A pet of my own.”
“And the other two wishes?” asked Logan.
“Tigger and Tigger.”
The three of us laughed — and I watched Logan and remembered something. I remembered one reason I had liked him so much when I was first getting to know him. Well, I have to admit, when I first saw him, I just thought he was gorgeous. But later I liked a lot of other things about him. For instance, he’s good with kids. And he can laugh easily. (Obviously today was not one of his better days. But laughing just now had reminded me of that.)
You know what I still can’t figure out, though? I can’t figure out why Logan likes me. Why would any boy like shy me better than sophisticated, outgoing Claudia? Or self-assured Dawn?
I didn’t know then and I still don’t know now. But Logan put his arm around me, and we watched Charlotte and Tigger for a long time. At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter why Logan likes me.
At last Charlotte stood up. “I better go,” she said.
Beside me, Logan stood up, too
. “Same here.” (I think he was getting cold. I was.)
I sighed. “Okay.”
Charlotte ran off, and Logan jumped on his ten-speed and pedaled away.
I scooped up Tigger. “Come on, Bigger Tigger,” I said. “Time to go inside. I have a meeting of the Baby-sitters Club and you’ve been outdoors long enough.”
But Tigger struggled and mewed. He did not want to leave the yard. So finally I let him stay outside. As I ran across the street to Claudia’s house, I could see him pouncing on invisible things in the grass.
“Hi, Tigger, wherever you are!” I called. “Come see me!”
Our meeting was over and I was at home again. It was time to start dinner. Dad and I like to eat pretty soon after he returns from work, and he returns between six and six-thirty most nights. So as soon as I’m home from club meetings, I get busy.
That night I set a huge pot of water on the stove. At breakfast that morning, Dad and I had decided we wanted spaghetti for dinner. And with that, I thought, a salad and some garlic bread. I’m not much of a cook, but I can throw a meal together.
I was busy getting vegetables out of the refrigerator when I realized something. Tigger wasn’t running between my feet like he usually does at this hour of the day. I always feed him while I’m making dinner — and he knows it.
Where was he? He hadn’t come when I’d called. I checked to make sure that his special cat door was open. Sure enough, it was. I was surprised that he hadn’t come inside while I was at Claudia’s. He knew it was getting to be dinnertime … didn’t he?
Well, wait a second. Maybe he was inside. He has an awful lot of good hiding places.
“Tigger, Tigger, Tigger!” I called as I got his food out.