Here’s the strange part of the story: One night, Dawn and Mary Anne were looking through Sharon’s old Stoneybrook High School yearbook. That’s when they discovered that Mary Anne’s dad, Richard, and Sharon had been high school sweethearts.
Ding! A little bell went off in their heads. Why not get their parents back together? And that’s what they did.
Soon Richard and Sharon were dating, and before they knew it they were married. Mary Anne and Richard moved into Sharon and Dawn’s old farmhouse on Burnt Hill Road, and Mary Anne and Dawn went from being best friends to stepsisters. It was a dream come true.
Dawn started to miss her dad and her brother, Jeff, who had already moved back to the West Coast. And as much as she loved living with Mary Anne, Dawn felt her heart was in California. Finally Dawn moved back there, but we’ve kept her on as our honorary member, and we stay in touch with letters and through Mary Anne’s phone calls to Dawn.
One more thing about Mary Anne. She’s our club secretary. That means she’s in charge of the BSC record book. It’s an extremely important book. Along with the calendar of sitting jobs, it contains the names and addresses of our clients and other essential information.
Mary Anne assigns our jobs. She has to know, in advance, every BSC member’s conflicts: doctor appointments, after-school activities, music and dance lessons, you name it. I told you I was organized, but Mary Anne is super-organized. And you know what? She has never, ever made a mistake.
Our treasurer is Stacey McGill. She’s a math whiz. On Mondays, she collects our dues. She keeps the cash in a manila envelope. The money buys supplies for projects, pays for Claudia’s phone bill (she has her own phone line), and contributes to Charlie Thomas’s gas money (he drives Kristy and Abby to our meetings).
Stacey was born and raised in New York City, and it shows. She is sophisticated, cool, gorgeous, smart — did I mention gorgeous? You don’t need to read a fashion magazine to find out the latest fashion trend. Just check out Stacey.
But life isn’t perfect for Stacey McGill. Far from it. Her parents are divorced, and she had to make a tough decision — whether to live with her mom in Stoneybrook or her dad in New York. After weighing the options, she picked Stoneybrook.
Another thing that isn’t perfect about Stacey is her health. She’s diabetic, which means her body has trouble regulating the amount of sugar in her bloodstream. She has to watch her diet very, very carefully and give herself injections of insulin every single day. She’s a real trouper about it, and you hardly ever hear her complain.
Stacey’s best friend is Claudia Kishi, another gorgeous, cool, talented person. Claudia is Japanese-American and has straight, black, shiny hair that is to die for, as well as a beautiful, spotless complexion. Which is pretty amazing considering what she eats. Claud is the junk food queen. Mallomars, chocolate stars, cheese puffs — you name it, Claudia probably has it stashed somewhere in her room.
Today she offered around a bag of pretzels, plus Cheez Whiz that had magically appeared from a shoe box at the back of her closet.
Claudia is an artist and sees the whole world as her palette. She tie-dyes her T-shirts, makes her own earrings, and puts together one-of-a-kind outfits. On that day she was wearing denim overall shorts, a short black T-shirt, red-and-white pin-striped stockings that came over the tops of her knees, red thick-soled patent leather shoes, and a black felt derby.
Claudia would rather create artwork than do anything else, and that used to show on her report card. Of course, that was when Claudia was struggling to keep up with her eighth-grade classes. Then her parents and teachers decided Claudia should be put back in seventh grade. It was a tough decision for everyone, but they felt she would be better off. And you know what? They were right. Her grades have really improved, so Claudia is happy.
Claudia is our vice-president, mainly because our meetings are held at her house and she is the only one of us to have her own phone in her room.
Abigail Stevenson is our alternate officer. That means she takes over the duties of any regular officer who’s absent. Abby’s dad died four years ago (in a car accident, but she doesn’t like to talk about that). After Mr. Stevenson died, Abby’s mom took a job at a publishing company in Manhattan and commuted from their house on Long Island to the city. But not long ago, she was promoted and was able to buy a bigger house. And the house she found was in Stoneybrook, right down the street from Kristy.
How would I describe Abby? Big! Not in body, but in personality. She’s outgoing and hilarious, and she talks fast, in a very loud voice. She explains it by saying, “I’m from Long Island. You have to talk fast to get a word in edgewise.”
Abby is allergic to just about everything and suffers from asthma, but she doesn’t let that stop her from doing anything. In fact, Abby hikes, runs, skis and plays tennis, soccer, and softball. Talk about a major athlete.
You want to know one more thing about Abby? She is an identical twin. Yes, there is another thirteen-year-old eighth-grader with thick black hair that falls into ringlets, super-dark brown eyes, and sharp, pretty features walking around the streets of Stoneybrook. Her name is Anna.
But Abby and Anna are easy to tell apart. Anna’s hair is shorter, for one thing. The girls dress differently, too. Abby, the athlete, can usually be found in bike shorts and a T-shirt, whereas Anna, the musician, would more likely wear a dress. And when it comes to personalities, they’re practically opposites.
Anna is shy and private. She plays violin in the SMS orchestra, and practices all the time. When we invited Abby to join our club, we asked Anna, too, but she declined. Her music keeps her too busy.
I’ve already told you that Jessi and I are the BSC’s junior officers. We’re the youngest (everyone else is thirteen), and we aren’t allowed to baby-sit as late as the other members. We take a lot of the after-school and weekend jobs.
That covers everybody except the associate members. Logan Bruno, as I mentioned, is one, and Shannon Kilbourne is the other. Shannon goes to Stoneybrook Day School where she’s in a million clubs and is an honor student. She’s incredibly busy, so it’s a good thing she and Logan are not required to attend meetings or pay dues. They just fill in when we’re extra busy.
Now back to the meeting.
Rrrrring!
The phone was ringing again. (I told you, some days it rings nonstop.)
“I’ll answer it,” I called, reaching for the receiver. “Baby-sitters Club. This is Mallory.”
“Mal?” a young voice said. “This is Buddy Barrett.”
“Buddy!” I repeated in surprise. Most of our calls are from adults. We rarely hear from one of our charges during a meeting. Since Kristy had just spoken to Buddy’s mom, Mrs. DeWitt, this seemed especially odd.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’m in trouble!” Buddy replied. His voice quivered a little. “Lindsey told me she was going to be in the parade. I told her I wanted to be in it, too. But they said I couldn’t —”
“Now, hold on,” I interrupted. “Are you talking about the Memorial Day parade?”
“Yes!” Buddy replied. “Lindsey’s Brownie troop is going to march in it.”
Lindsey DeWitt is Buddy’s stepsister. She’s eight, and so is Buddy.
“But why are you in trouble?” I asked Buddy.
“Because they said I couldn’t march in the parade unless I belonged to a group.” There was a long pause. Finally Buddy said in a tiny voice, “So I made one up.”
“You made up a group?” I repeated. “What kind of group?”
“I told them I was in a marching band,” Buddy said miserably. “Now what do I do? I don’t even know how to play an instrument.”
“Okay, don’t panic,” I said in my calmest voice. “There should be some way we can solve this. Let me talk to the others and I’ll call you right back.”
“Thanks, Mal,” Buddy said. “You’re the best.”
Six pairs of eyes were staring at me when I hung up the phone.
br /> Abby spoke first. “Well? Tell us what’s going on. The suspense is killing me.”
I explained Buddy’s problem.
“That makes me so mad!” Kristy replied. “The Boy and Girl Scouts, including the Cub Scouts and Brownies, always march in the parade. But what about all of those other kids who don’t belong to any groups? They should be able to be in the parade, too.”
I started to feel that tingle on the back of my neck. The one that lets me know Kristy is about to come up with another one of her Great Ideas.
“Buddy told them he had a marching band?” Now Kristy was standing. “Then we’ll give him a marching band!”
“But who will be in the band with Buddy?” Mary Anne asked logically.
“Lots of kids,” Kristy answered. “How about the members of All the Children of the World?”
All the Children of the World is the name of a musical group a bunch of our charges once formed. They played instruments and sang songs from the musical Fiddler on the Roof in a performance at the Newtons’ house.
“But they’re not exactly a band,” Stacey pointed out. “Only a few of them really play instruments.”
“Minor detail!” Kristy replied with a wave of her hand. She was now pacing back and forth across Claudia’s room. “We’ll work that out. We’ve faced tougher problems than this.”
Mary Anne, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed with the record book in her lap, flipped to the calendar again. “Well, the parade is a little over three weeks away.”
Stacey winced. “Can we organize all of those children in three weeks?”
“Three weeks?” Kristy looked up abruptly.
Mary Anne nodded. “And a couple of days.”
A confident grin spread across Kristy’s face. “That’s plenty of time.”
Kristy is amazing. During the last ten minutes of our meeting, she managed to convince us that if we put on our thinking caps, we’d be able to organize a big band of children, teach them to play instruments, and even make their costumes — all in less than twenty-five days!
“Salutations!” called out Mr. Cobb on Monday morning.
Our Short Takes teacher stood at the front of the classroom. He was dressed in a collarless white shirt, jeans, and a black vest. His sun-streaked hair looked great with his deep tan and gleaming white teeth. Was he cool? Totally. Did I luck out being picked for his class? You bet.
“Can anyone tell me what book that’s from?” Mr. Cobb asked, surveying the room with his clear blue eyes. His gaze settled on Jimmy Bouloukos in the front row.
“Jimmy? Do you know the answer?” Mr. Cobb tapped on his desk.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Jimmy replied. “Give me a second.”
In the meantime, Megan Armstrong, a Korean girl who was new to our school, raised her hand. “Isn’t that what Charlotte the spider says to Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web?”
Mr. Cobb touched the tip of his tanned nose. “Exactomundo.”
He perched on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White, is one of the great classics of children’s literature. We won’t be studying that book in this course, but it’s good that you know the field.”
I smiled to myself. When it comes to children’s books, I definitely know the field. Not only do I spend most nights reading my brothers and sisters to sleep, but plenty of my free time is filled devouring all the great children’s books I can find.
“I’m pretty new to Stoneybrook, so let me start by telling you a little bit about myself,” Mr. Cobb said, flashing his teeth at the class again. “I graduated from Princeton with a master’s degree in American literature. But I grew up in Florida. I love books, obviously, but I’m also a sports fanatic.”
“All right, Coach Cobb!” Glen Johnson called from across the room.
“If you don’t know it already, I’m assistant coach of the baseball team,” Mr. Cobb added, flipping his blond hair off his forehead. “I volunteered to teach this course because analyzing literature for all ages may rank up there as my favorite thing.” He hopped off the edge of the desk. “And that’s what we’re going to do. For the next few weeks, we’ll be engaged in an in-depth analysis of what makes a good read for young kids.”
This was going to be great. I patted my notebook as he strolled down the aisle. Over the weekend, I’d bought a brand-new, forest green ringbinder especially for this class. My pencils were sharpened, and I’d even stocked up on two new pens. I was ready to work.
Mr. Cobb paused by my desk and stared down at my notebook. Everyone in the room had turned in their seats, and they were looking at us. Mr. Cobb pointed to my notebook. “Put that away,” he said.
I blinked up at him. “Put what away?” I asked.
“That notebook.” He waved his hand over my supplies. “Those pens, that paper. You won’t need them.”
I could feel my cheeks start to heat up. I tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and said, “But I don’t understand. I thought we would be writing a lot of papers.”
“Wrong!” He spun dramatically. “We will be doing a lot of thinking. This course is a meeting of the minds.”
Mr. Cobb walked down the aisle pointing at papers and notebooks on kids’ desks. “Put away your writing materials. Put everything away. There will be no tests or papers.”
“Cool!” Benny Ott said, tossing his notebook over his shoulder.
“Every day our class will meet in this room and talk,” Mr. Cobb explained. “I’m hoping for a very active and stimulating exchange of ideas.”
“My kind of class,” Liz Cohen declared.
A lot of kids were happy about not having to take tests or write any stories or essays. But not me. I love to write. I think better with a pen in my hand.
“But Mr. Cobb, how will you grade us?” asked Elise Coates.
Our teacher leaned against his desk again, a confident smile on his face. “By your participation. By how well you express your thoughts and ideas with the rest of us. So be prepared to speak up.”
My stomach sank. This was starting to sound more like a debate class than a literature class.
Mr. Cobb waved his hands like a wizard casting a spell. “Clear your desks,” he announced, “and we’ll begin.”
I hurriedly tucked my notebook under my chair. No way was I going to have him make an example of me again.
“The first author-illustrator we will be discussing is Maurice Sendak.”
That was the best news I’d heard all day. I love Maurice Sendak. His book Where the Wild Things Are has always been a Pike family favorite.
“We will also be doing on-the-spot analyses of books in the class,” he continued. “Reading and commenting on them as we go.”
“Hey, Coach!” Chris Brooks called.
“Yes, Chris?” Mr. Cobb gave him a warm smile. Chris was on the baseball team with Mr. Cobb.
“Do you want us to bring in the books?” Chris asked. “Or will you supply them?”
Mr. Cobb jabbed the air with his finger. “Good question. I’ll bring the books for the first couple of weeks and then I’ll ask you to bring in your favorites.”
My heart started to thud a little faster. My favorites? I had so many of them. It would be hard to pick just one. What if Mr. Cobb or the rest of the class thought my choice was stupid?
I tried to push that thought out of my head.
Megan Armstrong raised her hand. “So there won’t be any written work at all?”
Mr. Cobb squeezed one eye shut. “Well, actually … you caught me. There will be one paper.”
Several students groaned and Mr. Cobb burst out laughing. “I want you all to write an essay on a subject of your choosing.”
“Any subject?” Chris called. “Like the merits of using a wooden bat versus an aluminum bat in softball?”
“You wish,” Mr. Cobb said, rapping his knuckles on Chris’s desk. “No, this paper will be about an end-of-the-class project that will further the cause of children’s
literature.” He pointed at Jimmy Bouloukos’s head. “Put that in the hopper and think about it.”
It’s funny. As I watched Mr. Cobb joke casually with some of the students he already knew, an uneasy feeling started to bubble inside me. I felt like a newcomer. Not just to this class or school, but to the subject of children’s literature.
When the bell rang, Sandra Hart, our sixth grade vice-president, sidled up beside me. “Ooh, Mr. Cobb is so cute,” she whispered. “How old do you think he is?”
“I don’t know,” I replied with a backward glance at our teacher. “Older than us.”
Sandra poked my arm lightly. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t care!”
I stared down at my notebook, which I was clutching to my chest. “Well, actually, I was thinking about something else,” I confessed. “I’m a little worried about how the class participation is going to work.”
Sandra tossed her long hair over one shoulder. “I think it’s great. No papers.”
“But I don’t mind papers,” I said.
Sandra rolled her eyes. “That’s because you’re a brain.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Sandra cut me off. “I heard all about your straight A’s. Why should you worry about anything?”
I shut my mouth. How could I explain to Sandra that the grades didn’t matter (though I certainly didn’t mind them)? It was doing my best work that counted.
That night I reread every Maurice Sendak book we had in the house. I knew we weren’t supposed to write anything down, but I couldn’t help it. I made notes about the stories, particularly the unusual plot turns. I even noted when each book was written, in case that came up in the class discussion.
I’d been at it for an hour when I heard a soft knocking on the door.
Tap, tap, tap.
It was Vanessa. “Sorry to interrupt you when you’re working,” she said. “But you have a phone call. It’s Jessi.”
I’d just seen Jessi at the BSC meeting that afternoon, but I guessed a quick break wouldn’t hurt things.
“Hi, Jessi,” I said into the phone. “What’s up?”
“I just talked to Claudia, who just talked to Stacey, who just talked to Kristy,” she said in one long breath. “And …”