Claudia, Queen of the Seventh Grade

  Message three: “Hello, this is Mr. Addison, regarding Thursday’s sitting job. Our meeting has been changed to next Monday. I know it’s short notice, but please call us back as soon as possible.”

  CALL ADDISONS, I wrote on the bottom of my sketch pad, as the last message sounded:

  “Uh, hello. This is the mayor of Stoneybrook. Have there been any calls for me?”

  That voice I recognized.

  I burst out laughing. “JO-O-O-OSH!”

  What a goon. He’d really fooled me.

  My door opened. It was my genius sister, Janine. “Could you keep it down to a dull roar, please?”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  (I ask you, what other high school-age sister in the world makes dumb jokes like that?)

  Janine walked back to her room. I picked up my charcoal pencil and sketched out a rough scheme of the SMS gym.

  When I heard Janine’s door click shut, I played Josh’s messages again.

  I chuckled to myself. Every last bit of anger and frustration — zip, out the window. What was I worried about? I was the Queen of the Seventh Grade. I was about to pull together the best seventh-grade prom SMS had ever seen. I was a Baby-sitters Club member. And I had good friends who knew how to make me laugh.

  I was pretty lucky.

  Who cared about Mark Jaffe, anyway?

  It was a week of phone tag with the Addisons. During Monday’s meeting, we left a message on their answering machine, saying that Stacey was available to baby-sit. On Tuesday, I came home from school to a message from Mrs. Addison, which said, “Not to worry, girls. We have made another arrangement for next Monday evening.”

  Which was kind of odd. I mean, who was worried? (Well, maybe Mary Anne. She still didn’t want to go near the Addisons.)

  Anyway, Sean and Corrie were not exactly my number-one concern. Not when I had the Royal Service Plan to worry about.

  I was a little nervous at Wednesday’s big committee meeting. Mrs. Hochberger had warned us: Expect only about half of the people who signed up. People love to sign, she explained, but they don’t follow through.

  Well, she was wrong. Way wrong. By the start of the meeting, her classroom was full.

  Except for one crucial person. Yes, King Mark the Lazy was not there. I half expected him to have skipped town. We waited ten minutes and then started without him. Jennifer and Loretta, who were on the music committee, did not look happy.

  Can you guess what happened when Mark finally shuffled in twenty minutes late? A round of loud boos? A barrage of spitballs?

  No. Practically the whole room burst into applause. Applause! A group of boys in back began punching the air and hooting. Loretta and Jennifer discovered their smiles again. Mark took about a dozen bows, grinning as if he’d just won a gold medal at the Olympics.

  I wanted to barf.

  “Don’t worry, Mark, we’ll give you a map for next time!” Josh called out.

  Mark’s face went blank. A whole bunch of people giggled.

  Good old Josh. I couldn’t help laughing.

  But you know the weird thing? Part of me wanted to defend Mark. Partial insanity, I guess. I quickly rejected that idea.

  Anyway, after that glorious entrance, we plunged right back into work. Two of my friends became committee heads: Joanna for publicity and Josh for awards. Shira was on the charity drive committee, which pleased her mom, I’m sure. (Jeannie had signed up for Mark’s music committee, which was now headed by a friend of his named Spud.)

  Afterward I practically floated home for the BSC meeting. It was happening. The Royal Service Plan — my idea — was under way!

  I was singing when Kristy and Abby arrived at 5:25.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Abby remarked. “What happened, you found a good deal on a carton of Snickers?”

  Kristy grinned. “Nahhh, her boyfriend walked her home.”

  “Boyfriend?” I repeated.

  Kristy settled herself in the director’s chair. “You know, the cute little dude with the hat.”

  “Josh?” I said. “Look, Kristy, first of all, he’s only a year younger than we are. Second, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Claudia has a boyfriend?” asked Stacey, rushing through the door. “I want all the dirt.”

  “Josh,” Abby said.

  Stacey grinned. “You mean the chipmunk?”

  “Will you guys stop it?” I demanded. “He’s not a chipmunk, he’s not a little dude. He’s a friend, with a nice personality and a great sense of humor. That’s it.”

  “What more could you ask for?” Abby commented.

  “Touchy, touchy,” Kristy said.

  “I think the King is much cuter, anyway,” Stacey said. “Ask him to call me when he’s in eighth grade.”

  They all burst out giggling.

  My terrific mood was going ffssssssshhh, like air from a balloon. I could not believe how superior they were acting. As if I were in kindergarten.

  My so-called best friends. Not one of them had asked about the RSP (Royal Service Plan, as you probably figured out).

  “You know,” I began, “if you would stop joking for a minute, I could tell you —”

  “Claudia! How did it go?”

  Jessi and Mallory raced into the room, all excited.

  “Did the jerk show up?” Jessi asked.

  “Did you decide how you’re going to decorate the gym?” Mallory asked.

  Hallelujah. At least some of my friends cared.

  * * *

  The next day in school, I realized my transformation was complete. In a few short weeks, I had gone from Claudia Who? to Claudia the Human Magnet. Between classes, I could barely walk down the hallway without being stopped by classmates. Questions, questions, questions. How many tables did we need for the charity clothing drive? How can we place an ad on the local radio station, WSTO? Do we need to give awards to everyone, to be fair? How long should the music cassette be?

  I gently reminded the people on Mark’s committees that they needed to report to him. He usually sent them back to me. (Grrrr.)

  I saw Jeannie in the hallway after last period. She looked upset.

  “I hate him,” she growled.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Spud. The head of the music committee. All he likes is fifties, fifties, fifties. We’re going to listen to Elvis Presley until we drop.”

  “We don’t have to, Jeannie. You guys are a committee. You’re supposed to discuss things.”

  “That’s what I said. You know what Spud answered? ‘I’m acting under the King’s orders!’ ”

  “Stand up to him, Jeannie!”

  “Have you seen how big he is, Claudia? Everyone’s afraid of him.”

  “I’ll mention something to Mrs. Hochberger.”

  We turned into the lobby and walked outside. In front of the school, a group of seventh-graders shouted hello.

  I recognized them right away. The food committee. They were supposed to go to Mr. Jaffe’s restaurant.

  “Where’s Mark?” I asked.

  “You mean he isn’t with you?” asked Loretta, who was the committee head.

  Uh-oh.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  By then I knew Mark’s schedule. He had gym last period, like I did.

  I ran toward the boys’ locker room. I found Mark sauntering up the hallway, surrounded by adoring classmates.

  “Heyyy,” he said, flashing his killer smile. “My Queen arriveth!”

  Oooh, why why why was that smile getting to me? “Hi,” I said calmly. “Do you know your committee is waiting out front for you?”

  “Committee?” Mark repeated.

  “The food committee,” I reminded him. “Remember? You’re supposed to take them to your dad’s restaurant?”

  Mark slapped his forehead. “Auuugh! I forgot!”

  His friends started laughing. “The Space King,” one of them said.

  “Daffy Jaffe,” remarked another.

  “Look, y
ou guys go ahead to Brenner Field,” Mark said. “If I have time, I’ll meet you later.”

  As his friends walked away, grumbling, Mark gave me a sheepish look. “We were going to play Ultimate Frisbee. Good thing you caught us.”

  I heard loud kissing noises from the direction of Mark’s friends. One of them had wrapped his arms around himself so that it looked as if someone were hugging him.

  The others were cracking up, as if that were the funniest and most original joke ever invented.

  “Just ignore those bozos,” Mark said, his face turning red.

  “It’s okay.” Part of me wanted to laugh. But I was still upset about the food committee. I looked toward the front door. “So —?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them,” Mark quickly said. He took a deep breath and began walking. “My dad may pin me with the meat cleaver, but hey, a king has to take risks, right?”

  I watched him go. I didn’t know what to say. As he disappeared around the corner, I called out, “Good luck, King Mark.”

  He’d probably need it.

  It all started at approximately 5:35. The Monday BSC meeting had just begun, and I was about to unload all my complaints about Mark.

  The ring of the telephone cut me off.

  I snatched up the receiver. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club. Queen Claudia speaking.”

  I was just kidding around. I like to see how grown-ups react to silly greetings.

  But the answer was not silly.

  Nor was it from a grown-up.

  “Hello? Claudia? It’s — it’s — OWWW!”

  I heard a loud crash. Then the clunk of a dropped telephone. “Hello?” I repeated. “Hello?”

  More crashing and thumping. Then, “It’s Sean! Can someone come over? Not a sitter, but you know, someone to help me?”

  “Sean, what’s wrong?” I cried.

  “I’m alone and — well, I kind of had an accident — a really bad one!”

  “Are you all right? Is it something serious?”

  “Uh, I have to go! Come over now!”

  The line went dead. I hung up. “Sean’s in trouble. He’s all alone in the house.”

  “Alone?” Mary Anne said. “I thought they had a sitter!”

  Stacey was already putting on her coat. “It was my job. I’ll go.”

  “Can someone drive her?” Kristy asked.

  “My parents are still at work,” I replied.

  Stacey zoomed out before we could say good-bye.

  The Addisons live at least a half mile from my house, but Stacey ran all the way there.

  From outside, the house looked fine. At least it wasn’t a fire, Stacey thought.

  She sprinted up the front porch steps, rang the bell, and banged on the door.

  The door flew open. Sean’s face was red and tear-streaked. “I — I didn’t mean — in the kitchen —” he stammered.

  “Where’s Corrie?” Stacey demanded.

  “At a friend’s house,” Sean replied. “Playing.”

  Stacey bolted inside. She raced through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  And then she saw what had happened.

  Bubbles.

  Mounds of them. Billowing out of the dishwasher and all over the floor, practically burying the legs of the kitchen table and chairs.

  “Oh my lord,” Stacey murmured.

  “I didn’t mean to do it!” Sean blurted out. “I was just trying to do the dishes!”

  The dishwasher was completely buried under the suds, but Stacey could hear it chugging away. She plunged into the mess, bushwhacking through the bubbles. When she uncovered the control panel, she pressed the off switch.

  “Help me beat them down!” Stacey commanded, swinging her arms through the mess.

  With grim determination, Stacey and Sean stamped, swatted, and blew on the suds, trying desperately to make the pile manageable.

  I wish I could have been there. I would have been hysterical.

  Stacey and Sean were not seeing the humor of it, though. Sean was practically in tears.

  “How did you do this, Sean?” Stacey asked.

  “I don’t know!” Sean replied. “I just put in the detergent, closed the door, and pressed the —”

  “What detergent?” Stacey asked.

  Sean pointed to the dishwashing liquid by the sink. “That.”

  Stacey groaned. “No wonder! You’re supposed to use dishwashing detergent!”

  “Well, you wash dishes with that stuff, don’t you?”

  “Dishes in the sink, not dishes in the dishwasher! It’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind. Just help me clean up.”

  Stacey tossed him a sponge. She filled the bucket with water from the tap and went to work with the mop.

  They both scrubbed away. When the floor was clean, Stacey dumped the suds into the sink and noticed that the Addisons have an old-fashioned hose attachment near the sink faucet. Stacey used it to spray down the suds inside the dishwasher.

  The spraying left a pool of frothy water at the bottom, below the plate rack.

  “What now?” Sean asked.

  Stacey shrugged. She closed the dishwasher door and scanned the control panel. “Maybe this’ll do it,” she said, pressing Cancel.

  Sure enough, the Cancel button drained out the water. But it also made a few more bubbles that spilled out the edges of the door.

  Stacey had to spray the bubbles and run Cancel about four times before the mess was totally cleaned up. Finally she poured in some real dishwashing detergent and let the machine run its normal cycle.

  She and Sean plopped themselves down on the kitchen chairs.

  “I’m sorry, Stacey,” Sean whimpered. “Now I’ll know better.”

  “Sean, why are you here alone, anyway?” Stacey asked. “Where’s your baby-sitter?”

  Sean was looking at the floor. “I’m the sitter.”

  “You? Your mom said she’d made arrangements.”

  “She did. With me,” Sean mumbled. “I told her none of the Baby-sitters Club sitters could make it.”

  “But we called you! We left a message that said I was coming!”

  Sean didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, his voice was barely audible. “My mom and dad let me take down the messages on the phone machine. I write them on a sheet of paper. Anyway, I heard the message from the Baby-sitters Club, and, well, I changed it.”

  “You lied?” Stacey interpreted. “You purposely gave your parents the wrong message?”

  Sean nodded. “I wanted to prove I don’t need a sitter. I told them I could stay home by myself with the doors locked. It was just me. I wasn’t going to have to take care of Corrie. I said they could call me as much as they wanted, to check up. And I wanted to surprise them with clean dishes when they came home.”

  Stacey sighed deeply. “You are going to have a lot to explain to your parents.”

  “But — but it was just a mistake!” Sean insisted.

  “Look, Sean. If your parents decide you don’t need a sitter, fine. But they didn’t decide that. You forced them into this by lying. And look what happened. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to take a sitter to college with you!”

  Sean’s bottom lip quivered. He ran out of the kitchen and into the den, sobbing.

  Stacey felt a pang of guilt. She followed after him.

  He was curled up on a sofa, hiding his face behind a throw pillow.

  “I’m sorry,” Stacey said. “I didn’t mean that last part.”

  “You’re right!” came Sean’s muffled voice from behind the pillow. “I’m nothing but a big baby! I can’t do anything!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is! You should buy me a pacifier and walk me to school every day!”

  “Sean …”

  “Other kids in my grade can stay home by themselves. But me? No!”

  “What other kids?” Stacey asked.

  Sean sat up and threw the
pillow aside. “Like Mel Tucker! He hasn’t had a sitter since he was nine!”

  A blond, tough-looking boy. That was Abby’s description of the boy Sean had run away from in the mall parking lot. Abby didn’t know Mel Tucker, but Stacey did. And the description fit.

  “Sean, is Mel the guy who’s been giving you trouble in school?” Stacey asked.

  Sean nodded.

  “I know him,” Stacey said. “He lives near the Hobarts.”

  “Have you baby-sat for him?” Sean asked.

  “No, but —”

  “See?”

  “Sean, we are not the only baby-sitters in town,” Stacey said. She remembered seeing Mel with a girl, about high school age, at the supermarket.

  Stacey found the local phone book and set it on the kitchen desk. “If there’s another extension of the phone, go to it.”

  As Sean ran off, Stacey looked up Tucker and tapped out the number.

  “I’m here,” said Sean from the other line.

  Stacey shushed him. The line rang twice and a deep male voice said, “Frank Tucker here.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tucker, I’m Stacey McGill, calling on behalf of the Baby-sitters Club. I was wondering if you might need our services for your children?”

  “I only have one child,” Mr. Tucker said with a chuckle. “And we have a regular sitter, my niece who lives nearby. She and Melvin are very close. But thanks anyway.”

  “Thank you,” Stacey said. “Good-bye.”

  Stacey waited for Sean triumphantly at the bottom of the stairs. As he thumped down, she folded her arms. “Well, what do you have to say now?”

  Sean’s face was lit up with a big, sly grin.

  “His name is Melvin?”

  * * *

  By the time the Addisons arrived home with Corrie, Sean and Stacey had both calmed down. Of course, the Addisons were puzzled to see her. She began to explain, but Sean stopped her.

  “I did it,” he said softly. “So I guess I should be the one to explain.”

  Stacey stayed while Sean told them everything — the lie, the dishwasher, the call to the BSC. The Addisons listened intently. They did not look happy.

  Stacey slipped out while they were discussing a suitable punishment.

  She hoped they wouldn’t go overboard. She knew Sean had learned his lesson.