“Great idea!” Claudia said. She reached for the phone immediately and punched in Mark’s number. “And I know you’re going to be nuts about him. This is so excellent.”
I rolled my eyes. What was I getting myself into?
As it happened, I didn’t see Maria and Tiffany for several days. (Mrs. Kilbourne had no classes, and the dance committee wasn’t meeting.) And by the time I returned to the Kilbourne home, I discovered that war had broken out.
War?
That’s right. A Sister War. Declared by Tiffany and Maria. The enemy? Shannon, of course.
I saw the document they’d drawn up, soon after the room-cleaning disaster.
The declaration of war was bad enough, but I nearly lost it when I saw the battle plans they’d drawn up. Like Operation SOS, it was in list form. But this time, the list wasn’t full of lovely, sisterly acts. This time it included every nasty prank, obnoxious trick, and diabolical deed two little girls could possibly think up.
They really were going to make Shannon’s life miserable.
And there was nothing I could do to stop them.
I tried, believe me. I told them their war wouldn’t work if what they wanted was Shannon’s attention and love. I told them it wasn’t nice to treat their sister that way. And I told them I would do everything I could to make sure they didn’t wage war during the times I was sitting for them.
They didn’t care. They’d declared war and they were sticking with it. And I was on hand to see the very first battle.
It happened at dinner that night. Mrs. Kilbourne had asked me to stay after an afternoon of sitting since she and Shannon would have to leave right after the meal was over. They had a dance committee meeting. Mr. Kilbourne wasn’t home. He had a dinner meeting with some clients.
It was going to be a quick, informal meal, but Mrs. Kilbourne still wanted everyone seated at the table. “Family dinners are important,” she said. “And we don’t have them nearly often enough.”
I knew that was no lie, based on what Maria and Tiffany had told me. I took the seat Mrs. Kilbourne pointed out, between her and Shannon. Maria and Tiffany sat opposite us. Their chore had been to set the table, and now they waited while Mrs. Kilbourne filled their plates with microwaved lasagna and store-bought salad.
Once everyone had their food, we began to eat. Mrs. Kilbourne asked each of the girls what they’d done in school that day. Maria and Tiffany gave short, two-word answers. Shannon told a funny story about something that had happened in her math class, but neither of her sisters laughed. They just sat there poker-faced.
Then they started in. “Excuse me, but could you pass the Shannon?” Maria asked Tiffany politely.
Without so much as a blink, Tiffany passed Maria the salt.
“Shannon you,” said Maria.
“You’re Shannon,” said Tiffany.
Shannon — the actual Shannon — just stared at them. Mrs. Kilbourne had given up on polite dinner conversation and was busy going over some lists as she ate. She barely seemed to notice what was going on.
Tiffany smiled at Maria. “Wasn’t it a Shannon day today?” she asked. Maria nodded and smiled back.
Shannon frowned.
Maria took a large bite of lasagna. “This Shannon is absolutely Shannon, don’t you think?” she asked her sister.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Come on. That’s annoying.”
“I agree,” Tiffany said to Maria, ignoring me. “But don’t Shannon with your Shannon full. It’s rude.”
By this time Shannon was gritting her teeth. “Cut it out, you two,” she said.
“Shannon it out?” asked Tiffany. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” said Shannon through pinched lips. “You’re driving me nuts.”
Maria and Tiffany looked at each other and grinned.
Turning their sister’s name into a household word had been incredibly effective, and they kept it up all through dinner, until Mrs. Kilbourne finally caught on to what was happening and made them stop. After that, they simply whispered Shannon’s name as the three sisters cleared the table and tidied the kitchen. Shannon did her best to ignore them, but Maria and Tiffany knew they’d gotten under her skin. The Sister War was on — and they were winning! Their first objective had already been met.
I must say that Tiffany and Maria know their sister well. They had no trouble figuring out the best ways to aggravate Shannon. Three days after the scene at the dinner table, I was on hand to witness the results of the girls’ next Sister War scheme.
I was sitting in the kitchen with Tiffany and Maria when Shannon walked in. It was a little unusual to see her home from school so early; normally she has at least two after-school activities.
She flopped into a chair and helped herself to a granola bar. “Whew, am I beat,” she said. “I’m so happy I didn’t have to stay too late at school today. You can go home now, Kristy.”
I noticed her sisters exchanging a raised-eyebrow look. But before I could say anything, the phone rang.
Shannon jumped up to answer it. “Hello? … Oh, hi, Nancy…. What? French Club? Today?” She shook her head — as if the person on the other end of the line could see her — and went on. “Are you sure? I have it written down for tomorrow.” She reached over and fumbled with her backpack, which was hanging on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. In a moment, she pulled out a green datebook. She flipped through it. “Yes, definitely. I mean, oui. It’s for tomorrow.” She listened again. “Everybody else is there? Well, I guess I must have it wrong. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She put down the phone and looked at her sisters. “You don’t have anything to do with this, do you?” she asked. “Or with the fact that I missed a lunchtime meeting of the Honor Society? Not to mention the Astronomy Club planning session I was supposed to attend yesterday?” She threw the datebook down on the table and put her hands on her hips.
Maria and Tiffany looked blank. “Us?” asked Tiffany innocently. “What could we have done?”
“We didn’t do anything,” Maria insisted. “You just have too many meetings all the time. You must have lost track.”
“Right,” said Shannon. “Look, you guys. Whether you admit it or not, I think you’ve been fooling around with my datebook. And I want you to stop. Now. I can’t afford to miss these meetings. Not only is it embarrassing, but it might mean I end up being kicked out of one of my clubs.” She didn’t wait for excuses or answers. She just dumped her datebook into her backpack and walked out the door.
“Uh, guys?” I said. “I think she means it. And she’s right. If you’d messed up one of her baby-sitting jobs, for example, we might have been pretty mad. The BSC doesn’t put up with people missing jobs.”
“We would never have done that!” blurted Maria. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing that she’d practically admitted that they had made all the other changes. “Oops,” she said, looking at Tiffany.
Tiffany shrugged. “The Sister War isn’t over yet,” she said. She was unfazed and ready to carry on.
By the end of that week, the Sister War was the main event at the Kilbournes’ house. Tiffany and Maria had done everything on their list — and more. There was only one problem. Shannon was still ignoring them.
No matter what they did, she managed to keep her cool. She let them know how she felt about their pranks, but after that first night at the dinner table she never blew up at them. In fact, she barely acknowledged her sisters at all. Which meant just one thing:
Tiffany and Maria were losing the Sister War.
“Excuse me, but have you seen my friend Kristy Thomas? She’s the president of this club, and she’s usually here by now —” Stacey looked down at her watch and then back at me, a bewildered expression on her face.
“Oh, give me a break,” I said. “I don’t look that different, do I?”
Stacey just stared at me. “Actually,” she said, “you do.”
Claudia grinned. “Cool,” she said.
br />
Of course she thought it was cool. She was the one responsible for my new look. Claudia and I had gone shopping that day.
That statement might not mean much to people who don’t know me well. But for anyone acquainted with the real Kristy Thomas, those words could cause an advanced state of shock. Why? Because Kristy Thomas does not shop.
Especially not with someone like Claudia, the Queen of Style. Claudia and I exist in parallel universes as far as fashion is concerned. In her world, fashion rules. You are what you wear. In mine, fashion doesn’t even register on the radar. The phrase “Big Sale on Accessories” means nothing to me.
But Claudia insisted on taking me shopping for a new outfit to wear on our double date. “Haven’t you heard what they say about first impressions?” she asked me at school as we talked near my locker after the last bell had rung. “You’re going to be meeting this guy for the very first time. Don’t you want him to think you’re cute?”
I didn’t answer.
“Kristy?” asked Claudia.
“I’m thinking about it,” I said. “And the fact is, no, I don’t want him to think I’m cute. I want him to think I’m nice and smart and funny. Why should I care what he thinks of the way I dress?”
“It’s not about the clothes,” said Claud. “It’s just about a way of presenting yourself. A way that says to other people, ‘I’m special.’ Like, see this jumper?”
“How could I not?” I said. Claudia’s jumper was made out of an old pair of overalls, and it was decorated with embroidered birds, animals, suns, moons, and stars. Claud had done all the needlework herself, and even I had to admit it looked terrific. “It looks great. And even if I didn’t know you, I’d be able to tell you are a creative person.”
“My point exactly. Your clothes should say something about you. You can make a statement with what you wear.”
“What statement am I making right now?” I asked, looking down at my forest green turtleneck, my blue jeans, and my old, beat-up running shoes.
Claudia paused, considering. “You’re saying, ‘I don’t care too much about clothes.’ ”
“Bingo!” I said. Claudia looked crestfallen. In fact, she looked so bummed out that I had to give in. “But just to humor you,” I went on, “I’ll pretend to care a little bit, just this once. Deal?”
“Deal!”
And so our journey began.
“Can’t we go to Bellair’s?” I asked. It was three o’clock, and Claudia and I were sitting in the Junk Bucket, which was parked in our driveway. Claud had come home from school with me. She knew better than to let me out of her sight once I’d agreed to go shopping.
Claudia sighed. “I thought I explained this already,” she said. “We go the mall. Why?” She held up three fingers.
“For better variety,” I said tiredly, and Claudia put down one finger. “For better bargains,” I went on in a singsong voice. Claud put down another finger and raised her eyebrows. “And for fun,” I said flatly. She put down the third finger and grinned. “As if,” I said under my breath. Shopping, fun? Not on my planet.
Claudia ignored my attitude. “You’re learning,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, what could be more perfect? Charlie’s going to the mall anyway. He’ll take us there, then drive us straight to my house for our meeting. Believe me, once you see what shopping with an expert is like, you’ll love it. You’ll be begging me to take you again.”
“Right,” I said. “Sure.” I sank down in my seat, trying to remind myself that Claudia meant well.
Charlie jumped into the driver’s seat just then and fired up the engine. With a rattle and a cough, we were off. Unfortunately, the car ran fine for once and did not break down. We made it to Washington Mall in record time.
The mall is huge. It has five levels and more stores than you can imagine. I became well acquainted with the mall when my friends and I worked there for a while as part of a special class at school called Project Work. I didn’t have a job in a store, though. I was with Mall Security. I loved it, but I’ve never understood why some people consider it fun to hang around the mall, looking in store windows all afternoon. I’d rather be outside playing ball.
Claudia, on the other hand, probably considers the mall her second home. She sighed with contentment as we entered the main doors. “Here we are,” she said happily. “Now, where to start? We’ll walk the entire mall, if we have time,” she said, as if there were no room for argument there. “But as always, there’s only one question.”
“About where we should eat?” I suggested.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “About whether we should go clockwise or counter-clockwise. Stacey and I always disagree about whether it’s better to start with Steven E. and move on toward Macy’s or if it’s more fun to start at Steven E. and go toward Lear’s.” She shrugged. “Well, we’re starting at Steven E. in any case. So let’s go. Shall we?” She made a mock bow and offered me her arm.
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not make a whole big production out of this, okay?” I asked. “Let’s just find an outfit and be done with it.” I started walking, and Claudia trotted after me.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” she said, shaking her head. “It’s fun. Really. You’ll see.”
I had my doubts about that, but I resolved to keep an open mind. After all, Claudia was trying to do me a favor. The least I could do was humor her.
Easier said than done.
It was hard to hide my feelings when we walked into Steven E. “This is such a weird store,” I said.
“It’s not a store, it’s a boutique.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I see.” As far as I could tell, the difference between a store and a boutique was that A) the salespeople all looked like models and acted like royalty; B) there were only about five things on display: one perfect sweater, one perfect skirt, one perfect pair of gloves — well, you get the picture; and C) I felt an immediate need to turn and run.
Claudia insisted that we look around. “Just for inspiration,” she whispered.
I picked up a plain white T-shirt that was lying, perfectly folded, on a beautiful antique table. “This isn’t bad,” I said, holding it up to show Claudia. She nodded. Great! If I could buy a T-shirt and make her happy, my job was over. I flipped over the price tag and nearly fainted.
The shirt cost seventy-nine dollars.
“We’re out of here,” I announced to Claudia. I didn’t wait for a response. I just turned and left the store. Excuse me, boutique.
I knew there was no point in asking Claudia how a white T-shirt could possibly be worth seventy-nine dollars. It was just one of those fashion things I’ll never understand. So I kept my mouth shut.
Next, Claudia led me on a forced march to Macy’s, with stops at some interesting stores along the way. Interesting, that is, by Claud’s definition. Not mine. She didn’t let me even look at the puppies in the window at Critters, the pet shop. She hustled me right past Donut Delite, ignoring my pleas for just one cruller. And she absolutely refused to let me stop in at the Cheese Outlet, where it’s always fun and educational to try the free samples.
Claudia was on a mission. She was going to find me a new outfit if it killed her or drove us both crazy, which it very nearly did. Finally, though, we agreed on a flowered skirt, a soft fleecy vest, and a silky cream-colored blouse, all of which we found in the juniors’ department at Macy’s.
“Phew!” I said, as the salesclerk handed over the bag that contained the clothes I’d been wearing when I walked in. (Claud had insisted that I wear my new outfit, so I could learn to feel at home in it.) “We’re all set. How about a Super Burrito at Casa Grande? I’ll treat.”
Claudia was looking at me as if she thought I’d lost my mind. “All set?” she asked. “Have you forgotten about makeup? And shoes? We still have a lot to do.”
I groaned. “Makeup? I have to wear makeup?”
“Just try it. They have a great counter here where they’ll make you up for fr
ee.”
I could see she wasn’t going to buckle, so I agreed — on the condition that my reward would be a Super Burrito. I then spent the next ten minutes seated on an uncomfortable stool with my eyes closed while a woman named Lana applied about three pounds of cream, foundation, powder, blush, and mascara to my face. I kept telling her I wanted a natural look, and she kept agreeing. Then she’d add another product to the list of essential items I was going to have to buy and use.
It was a nightmare.
And when I opened my eyes, the nightmare didn’t end. I looked at myself in the mirror Lana held up and saw a thirty-five-year-old woman who looked as if she should be reporting the seven o’clock news. “You can wash it off, you can wash it off,” I told myself. It was the only way to keep from screaming.
Next was a quick journey to the land of Antoinette’s Shoe Tree, where Claudia made me try on not just one, but five pairs of shoes before she found a pair she approved of. They were black strappy things with a chunky heel, and all I can say is they won’t be replacing my running shoes as daily footwear.
Finally, the torture was over. I got my Super Burrito — though by then I’d nearly lost my appetite — and we met Charlie for the ride home. I glared at him so hard when we first saw him that he didn’t say a thing, but I could see it was nearly killing him to keep his mouth shut.
Then there was the BSC meeting to sit through, where I had to listen to all my friends tell me how wonderful I looked while Claudia sat nearby gloating. I couldn’t wait to go home, take off the shoes, scrub my face, and trade the skirt and blouse for a pair of sweats and a T-shirt (one that had cost four ninety-nine, that is). Still, before I did all that, I couldn’t help taking one look at the new me. And you know what? Even though the makeup was overdone and the shoes were too shiny, the outfit really did look pretty good. I could tell that with a few changes here and a little adjustment there I would be able to wear it comfortably on my (ugh! eek!) blind date. I had to give Claudia some credit. She really is a good shopper.