Don't Give Up, Mallory

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “All right, class,” Mrs. Frederickson announced to my homeroom. “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Tell us the bad news first,” Benny Ott called from the back of the class. “Get it over with.”

  Mrs. Frederickson waved the stack of computer printouts in her hand. “It’s time for midterm progress reports.”

  “Oh, no!” A groan circled the room, like one of those stadium waves you see at a baseball or football game.

  I was one of the few who didn’t groan. I knew my grades would be good. Well, actually, better than good. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m an excellent student.

  Who am I? Mallory Pike. Mal to my friends. I’m eleven years old and live in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. And I’m a sixth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School.

  “What’s the good news?” Rachel Robinson asked, from her desk in front of me.

  “The good news is, this is only a progress report,” Mrs. Frederickson said. “It’s not your final grade. You still have nearly a month to work hard and bring up your scores if you need to.”

  “That’s the good news?” Benny muttered.

  Mrs. Frederickson ignored Benny’s comment and began calling our names.

  “Mallory Pike.” Mrs. Frederickson waved my report in the air. I left my desk in the third row and walked to the front of the room.

  Mrs. Frederickson smiled over the top of her glasses. “Congratulations, Mallory. You should be very proud.”

  I smiled back as I reached for my midterm report. The piece of paper slipped through my fingers and wafted to the floor between Randy Rademacher and Laura Nelson.

  Randy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he gasped, “Straight A’s? What a brainiac!”

  That wave thing happened again. Only this time everyone was staring at me and repeating, “Straight A’s!”

  “She thinks she’s so smart,” Janet O’Neal whispered across the aisle behind me. “Miss Know-it-all!”

  That did it. First the tips of my ears turned red. Then my cheeks. Then my freckles lit up. In an instant my whole face was glowing.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and made a secret wish for the floor to open up and swallow me. (It didn’t.) I had to pick up my report and walk stiffly back to my desk.

  Luckily, my best friend, Jessica Ramsey, was there to support me. She patted me on the shoulder and whispered, “All right, Mal!”

  I thanked her, then slumped down in my seat and stared at my report. I knew my parents would be proud of me. But they’re proud of all the kids in my family. There are eight of us. Yes, eight!

  People call us stair-step kids because we were born one right after the other. First there’s me, then Byron, Adam, and Jordan, who are ten. They’re identical triplets.

  Then comes Vanessa, who’s nine. She’s our dreamy poet, and she is the slowest person on the planet. Mom has to wake Vanessa twenty minutes before everyone else, because it takes her so long to get dressed.

  Nicky, eight, is a ball of energy. He likes softball, hates girls, and is a champion hider.

  Margo is seven. She’s the reason barf bags were invented. She gets carsick, airsick — Margo even throws up on merry-go-rounds.

  And last but not least, there’s Claire, who’s five. She can be lovable and huggable one second, and the queen of temper tantrums the next.

  Mom and Dad bring the Pike total to ten. Can you imagine what our family vacations are like? They’re nuts. We have to take two cars.

  Most of us Pikes have blue eyes and chestnut-colored hair. I’m the only one whose hair is reddish and curly. I’m also the only one with braces. (Lucky me.) I have pierced ears, because I finally convinced my parents to let me get them pierced. But I wear glasses, and I have to wait until I’m fifteen to wear contacts.

  I’m hardworking and very responsible. For as long as I can remember, I’ve helped Mom and Dad take care of my brothers and sisters. I started out as an unpaid mother’s helper but soon advanced to paid baby-sitter. I even became a member of the BSC (Baby-sitters Club). But I’ll tell you about that later.

  The greatest moment in my life: winning the Young Author’s Day Award for Best Overall Fiction at my school.

  The worst moment: coming down with mononucleosis and having to quit the Baby-sitters Club temporarily. (I’m back in it now.)

  I like studying. And I like earning good grades. I just don’t necessarily like the whole school to know about it. But, boy, does word travel fast.

  Jessi and I were on our way to second period English when Nan White and Rachel Robinson shouted, “There she is — Mallory Pike, Miss Know-it-all!”

  “Ignore those guys,” Jessi whispered, looping her arm through mine. “They’re just jealous.”

  Jessi knows what it’s like to be teased. When she first moved to Stoneybrook, some people made fun of her just because she was the only black student in sixth grade. Isn’t that stupid?

  Luckily, that’s changed. Jessi and her family — her sister, Becca (short for Rebecca), and baby brother, Squirt (John Philip Ramsey, Jr.), her mom and dad, and her Aunt Cecelia — are very happy here now.

  Jessi, who has gorgeous long legs and graceful arms, dreams of becoming a famous ballerina. And I’m sure she will. She is a star student at her dancing school in Stamford and has already danced the lead in several productions, including the ballet Coppélia.

  Jessi and I have a lot in common. We absolutely love horse books, especially ones written by Marguerite Henry. We also love kids, and we’re junior officers in the Baby-sitters Club. We both think Benny Ott can be a major pain. Especially today.

  “Straight A’s, huh, Mallory?” Benny said, shoving his face in between Jessi and me as we made our way down the hall. “I could do that, if I cared.”

  “Yeah, right, Benny,” Jessi shot back.

  Benny crossed his eyes and made his standard goon face.

  I would have laughed, but too many people were teasing me about my grades.

  Jessi and I had reached the door to Mr. Williams’s class, when someone else grabbed my arm.

  “Oh, great,” I thought. “Not another one.”

  Luckily it was Justin Price, president of the sixth grade.

  “Yo, Mallory, don’t forget about fund-raising week,” he said. “It’s just around the corner.”

  “How could I forget?” I replied. “I’m in charge of all the booths.”

  Justin grinned his “cutest boy in sixth grade” grin and said, “I know you wouldn’t forget. I just want to make sure you have things under control.”

  Sixth-grade fund-raising week has always been a major event at SMS. The money each class raises goes to help the school or students in some way.

  As sixth-grade class secretary, I’d spent the entire month of April working with my committee and organizing the event. We planned to hold a different fund-raiser each day of the school week.

  “The booths are ready to go,” I said. “Any more thoughts on what we should do with our donation?”

  Justin pushed his blond hair off his forehead. “That’s still up in th
e air.”

  “We’d better decide pretty soon,” I reminded him. “It’s already the beginning of May.”

  “Let’s contact the rest of the officers and arrange a meeting to talk about this.” Justin checked the calendar that he kept at the front of his notebook. “How does next Thursday sound?”

  “Great. I’ll make the calls,” I said, putting my hand on the doorknob to Mr. Williams’s room.

  By now the halls were starting to empty. I knew that I had only a few more seconds before I would be tardy.

  “I’ll let you know if everyone can make it,” I said, flinging open the door to Mr. Williams’s English class and scooting inside just as the bell rang.

  I took my seat and looked up at my teacher. Mr. Williams stood by the blackboard with his hands resting on top of his little potbelly, a broad grin on his round face.

  “Mr. Kingbridge has announced the next round of Short Takes classes,” Mr. Williams declared. “Naturally, you won’t all be in the same Short Takes groups, but you will study the same subject.”

  I love the Short Takes program. For several weeks at a time, everybody at SMS studies one subject intensively. It’s usually a subject that regular classes don’t cover.

  “I know many of you in this room are going to like this one.” Mr. Williams stepped away from the board to reveal the title of the next course. “Children’s literature,” he said with a grin. “This course is one of my favorites.”

  “Hooray!” I squealed.

  Several of the kids turned in their seats and laughed at me, but it was good-natured. They knew that I plan to be a children’s book author and illustrator when I grow up.

  “Some very dynamic teachers will be teaching this unit,” he explained, “including Mr. Cobb, Mrs. Simon, and Ms. Garcia.”

  “Damien Cobb?” Maria Fazio whispered from across the aisle. “I hope I’m in his class. He is so cool.”

  Mr. Cobb is one of the newest teachers at SMS. And Maria was right. He is cool. He’s also handsome and young. He graduated from Princeton last year. Just thinking about having him for a teacher made my heart thump a little faster.

  “In your classes, you will be analyzing children’s literature, focusing particularly on illustrated books.”

  I didn’t squeal this time. But I wanted to. Could anything be more fun than analyzing picture books?

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Jessi. “Happy?” she whispered into my ear.

  I grinned and nodded. “I’m ecstatic.”

  Mr. Williams explained that the class would begin Monday. “At that time you will receive the list of books to be read and discussed during the course.”

  Monday was only three days away. I could hardly wait.

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. I forgot about my progress report or being teased about my good grades. All I could think about was spending the next few weeks studying children’s literature with Mr. Cobb. Heaven!

  When I went home that Friday afternoon, I wasn’t walking — I was floating.

  “It’s nearly five-thirty,” Vanessa said, sticking her head in our bedroom later that afternoon. “Don’t you have a BSC meeting today?”

  I looked at my alarm clock. 5:27. “Yikes!”

  I’d spent the last couple of hours in my room, rereading children’s picture books and daydreaming about the Short Takes class that would begin on Monday. I’d spaced on the Baby-sitters Club meeting. Which is something you never ever want to do.

  Why? Because Kristy Thomas, our president, hates latecomers.

  “Look out!” I yelled as I bolted past my sister into the hall. I ran down the stairs three at a time. In a flash I was out the door and on my bike.

  I checked my watch. Two minutes to pedal a few blocks to Claudia Kishi’s house. Could I make it? I was going to try.

  There are seven of us in the club, nine if you count associate members, ten if you include our honorary member. But there weren’t always that many of us.

  In the beginning (this sounds really formal, doesn’t it?). In the beginning … there was Kristy. Back then, she lived on Bradford Court across the street from Claudia. Mrs. Thomas was a divorced, working mom trying to raise four kids by herself. Kristy helped out as much as she could by looking after her younger brother, David Michael. But one particular afternoon, Kristy wasn’t available to baby-sit, and neither were her two older brothers. She listened to her mom make phone call after phone call trying to find a sitter.

  That’s when the brilliant idea hit Kristy. Why not form a club? she thought. A baby-sitters club. Then parents could call one number and reach a lot of sitters.

  Kristy talked to her best friend and next-door neighbor, Mary Anne Spier. Then they talked to Claudia Kishi, who talked to Stacey McGill — and presto! The Baby-sitters Club was formed.

  Luckily for me, the club was an instant success, and the girls had to bring in more members. Dawn Schafer was the next to join. Then came Jessi and me. Last, but definitely not least, Abby Stevenson joined us. Dawn has since moved back to California, so that brings our current number of regular members to seven.

  We meet for half an hour, from five-thirty until six, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in Claudia’s room. During that time, we catch up on gossip, eat junk food (courtesy of Claud), and, most important, take clients’ calls. And boy, do they call. Some days the phone doesn’t stop ringing during the entire thirty minutes.

  In fact, when I arrived at Claudia’s, I could hear the phone ringing upstairs. I dropped my bike in the driveway and charged through the front door and straight up the stairs to Claud’s room. I was winded and pouring sweat.

  “Baby-sitters Club,” Kristy chirped into the phone. She caught sight of me bent over in the doorway, trying to catch my breath, and arched one eyebrow.

  I mouthed, “Sorry,” to her, then staggered to my usual spot, next to Jessi at the foot of Claud’s bed.

  “Hi, Mrs. DeWitt,” Kristy said into the phone. She was still watching me as I tried to wipe the sweat off my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. The corners of her mouth curled up in a smile and I relaxed.

  Good. Kristy wasn’t mad.

  Kristy can be a pretty strict leader. Some people might even call her bossy, but that’s what makes her such a good president. She’s the glue that keeps us together, despite the fact that her personal life has been pretty topsy-turvy.

  First her dad walked out on her mom, leaving Mrs. Thomas with four kids: Charlie and Sam, who are both in high school now; Kristy, who is an eighth-grader; and seven-year-old David Michael. Kristy’s mom had to struggle for a long while. But then Watson Brewer came into their lives, and nothing was the same again.

  Watson is — are you ready for this? — a millionaire. He and Kristy’s mom fell in love and wham: Kristy went from living in a nice little house on Bradford Court to this incredibly huge mansion across town on McLelland Road. And that wasn’t the only thing that changed.

  Their family grew bigger and bigger. You see, Watson has two kids from his first marriage — Andrew, who’s four, and Karen, who’s seven. Then Watson and Mrs. Brewer decided to adopt Emily Michelle, a toddler who was born in Vietnam. During the months Karen and Andrew live at Watson’s house (they alternate), there are seven kids around (almost as many as in my family). Luckily for them, Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, moved in to help take care of Emily Michelle (and everyone else).

  Besides being our president and the main idea person behind all of our great events, Kristy is the coach of Kristy’s Krushers, a softball team she formed for some of our younger charges. You’d think such a powerhouse person would be tall. But she isn’t. She’s the shortest girl in the eighth grade.

  No one would ever mistake Kristy for a clotheshorse, either. Kristy’s standard uniform is jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball cap pulled over her shoulder-length brown hair.

  “Two sitters for the Barrett-DeWitts next Wednesday at six-thirty,” Kristy called to Mary Anne after she hung up the phone. “Who’s ava
ilable?”

  Mary Anne ran her finger down the calendar in the BSC record book and said, “Stacey and Claud, your schedules are clear. Do you want to take this one?”

  Stacey gave Mary Anne a thumbs-up and Claudia, who had crawled into her closet to look for snacks, called over her shoulder, “Sign me up.”

  Mary Anne nodded and printed their names into the calendar in her neat, precise handwriting.

  Mary Anne, as I mentioned earlier, is Kristy’s best friend, which proves that opposites really do attract. While Kristy can sometimes be a real big-mouth, Mary Anne Spier ranks as one of the shyest people on the planet. She is a little taller than Kristy, with a very cool short haircut and big brown eyes that fill with tears at the drop of a hat. I’m not kidding. Mary Anne will even cry at TV commercials — especially ones that involve any kind of baby animal (though kittens, like her own, Tigger, are her favorites).

  Whereas Kristy is a talker, Mary Anne is a great listener. She’s sensitive and honest and a true-blue friend.

  You’d think that, being such a shy person, Mary Anne wouldn’t have a boyfriend. But she does. In fact, Mary Anne was the first one in the BSC to have a steady guy.

  Logan Bruno is her boyfriend’s name. He’s very cute and has this charming Southern accent. But the best thing about him is he likes to baby-sit. In fact, he’s one of our associate members. Isn’t that cool?

  Mary Anne’s life has been as complicated as Kristy’s. Maybe even more so. You see, Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was a baby. So Mr. Spier had to raise her all by himself. He was a good dad but a little on the overprotective side. He used to make Mary Anne dress in babyish clothes. And Mary Anne was only allowed to talk on the phone if it was about schoolwork.

  Those things began to change, though, around the time Mary Anne’s father met Sharon Schafer. Or I guess I should say, remet.

  How did it happen? Well, Sharon grew up in Stoneybrook, but went to California for college and, as it turned out, stayed and married there. When her marriage ended, she moved back to town with her two kids, Dawn and Jeff. Dawn and Mary Anne met and became instant best friends. Kristy was jealous at first but soon accepted the fact that Mary Anne could have two best friends.