My plan worked.
But there were no fireworks. To my surprise, Jeff began talking before my mother did. And he sounded calm and rational for once. He took a deep breath. Then he bit his lip.
“Mom,” he finally began, “I’m sorry about what happened at school today. Really I am. I couldn’t help it. It’s like, all I can think about is California and Dad. And I get really mad that I’m not there with him. There’s this sort of anger bubbling up inside me all the time. And then when something happens, like Jerry making his stupid-jerk comment today, all that anger boils over. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so,” said Mom quietly.
“Do you think I need to go to a psychiatrist or something?” asked Jeff worriedly.
“Well, Ms. Besser certainly seems to. That’s what she was calling about.”
Jeff nodded. “What do you think, Mom?”
“I think I want to know what you think.”
Jeff widened his eyes. He was used to getting yelled at, not asked his opinion. “I think … I think that if I could move back home — I mean, to California — all those anger bubbles would go away.”
“Like somebody turning off the fire underneath you?” I asked.
“Yes!” Jeff said gratefully. “Like that. Couldn’t I try it, Mom?” he went on. “Just for six months. If things aren’t better after that, then I’ll come back here. I promise. But things will be better,” he added.
I looked at Mom, horror-stricken. Surely she wouldn’t let Jeff go.
“Mom —” I began.
“Not now, honey,” she replied. She turned to Jeff. “This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to say,” she told him, and her voice began to shake, “but I think you’re right. I’m not sure what to do about it — after all, I have legal custody of you. However, I do think you’ve made some good points and should be allowed to try living with your father. I’ll make a few phone calls.” I could tell that Mom didn’t feel nearly as sure of herself as she sounded. She must have been hurting — a lot — inside.
At that, Jeff’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but he kept his cool. He didn’t go leaping and prancing around the house. He didn’t even say, “I told you so.” He just sat in the chair while Mom began making phone calls.
I sat next to him. I was so mad I wanted to strangle him. I knew he needed to get out of Connecticut, but couldn’t he see what he was doing to our family? It was bad enough that Mom and Dad were divorced. Still, Mom and Jeff and I managed to seem like a little family. If Jeff left, it would be hard to think of Mom and me as a family. I love my mom, but I knew that the two of us were going to feel like the ends of a loaf of bread, with all the other slices gone. I wanted at least one more slice. And Mom was going to let it go.
My mother talked on the phone for over an hour. She called her lawyer. She called her parents (my grandparents, who live here in Stoneybrook). Then, when it was late enough, she called Dad. (California time is three hours earlier than Connecticut time, so she had to wait until it was at least 9:30 here, to be sure he had come home from work.)
Most of the conversations sounded the same. Mom would explain the situation and her thoughts. Then she’d begin saying, “Mm-hmm,” and “Yes?” and “Oh, I see.”
I couldn’t really tell what was going on and had to wait until after Mom hung up with Dad to find out. Then she turned to Jeff and me, who were still sitting right where we’d been for an hour.
“Well,” said my mother, “we’re working on it, Jeff. The lawyer thinks she can make it happen, since we’re all in agreement that this is the right decision.”
“All right!” exclaimed Jeff. “Thanks, Mom!”
“You little twerp!” I said to him hotly. “You are a rotten, spoiled baby.”
“Dawn!” cried my mother.
I ignored her. “Can’t you see what you’re doing?” I yelled at Jeff. “You’re breaking up what’s left of our family.”
“No, I’m not,” Jeff replied quietly. “I’m giving Dad some of his family back. It’s time we evened things up. Besides, I have to try this or I might end up in jail.”
Mom and Jeff and I all began to laugh. The laughing felt good, but it didn’t take away my hurt. Even if Jeff was a twerp, he was my brother and I would miss him. I already missed my father. Now I’d miss Jeff, too. And Jeff would have Dad all to himself. The lucky stiff.
Jeff got up to go to his room. When he was gone, I glanced at Mom. I knew there were tears in my eyes. They were about to overflow. Mom’s eyes looked just the same as mine.
“Honey,” she said, “you may not believe this, but Jeff is going to miss us as much as we’ll miss him. And as much as we miss your father.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said, and suddenly all those tears started to fall.
Mom held out her arms to me. “Come here,” she said.
And as if I were four years old again, I crept around the table and right into Mom’s lap. We hugged each other and cried.
After we were done, I went upstairs. I sat down on my mother’s bed, still sniffling and gasping and sighing. When I thought I had my voice under control, I called Mary Anne.
I needed to talk to someone. I needed someone my own age to say to me, “It’ll be okay. Honest. Call me anytime. We can always talk.”
Which is exactly what Mary Anne did say, because she’s the perfect friend.
(And I should add that Mom is — almost — the perfect mother.)
Ding-dong.
I rang Claudia Kishi’s bell fifteen minutes before the beginning of the next meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. Mimi, her grandmother, answered the door.
“Hi, Mimi!” I said. (We all just love Mimi.)
“Hi, Dawn. How are you?” Mimi answered carefully as she let me inside. (Mimi had a stroke last summer and it affected her speech. She talks very slowly now and sometimes forgets words or mixes them up. But she’s much better than she used to be.)
“I’m fine,” I replied. “How are you?”
“Good … good. How about a cup of tea before the meet?”
“Oh, no thanks.” It was a very nice offer, but all I wanted was to go to Claud’s room and veg out. I hoped the meeting would be a quiet one. I was still feeling rotten about Jeff.
“Okay. I see you.” Mimi waved me upstairs.
I grinned at her, then ran to Claudia’s room.
“Hey, you’re early!” Claudia greeted me.
“I know. I felt like hanging out for a while.”
“Great.”
Claudia was lying on the floor, reading the latest edition of The Stoneybrook News. Ordinarily, she does not enjoy reading, but we all like the local paper. We especially like this feature called “Crimewatch,” where they list all the robberies and other bad stuff that’s happened in town. It’s really fascinating. Claudia told me that around Halloween last year, forty-two pumpkin-smashings were reported.
“What’s in ‘Crimewatch’ today?” I asked Claud, settling down on the floor beside her.
“Not much,” she replied. Only it sounded like she said, “Mot mush,” since her mouth was full of licorice. Claudia is a junk-food nut, and she’s got stuff stashed everywhere — stuff I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
“What, though?” I wanted to know.
“Well, let’s see. A man on Dodds Lane reported a burglar in his yard, but when the police arrived, they couldn’t find anyone. And … on Birch Street a woman said she was being attacked by giant butterflies demanding Twinkies.”
“Where?” I shrieked. “Where does it say that?”
“Just making it up,” Claud replied, grinning. “Really. It was a light week, crimewise.”
Claudia flipped back to the beginning of the paper.
“Hey, what’s that?” I said. I pointed to an article on the first page. It was titled “Little Miss Stoneybrook Pageant.”
Claudia looked where I was pointing, and we read the article together. A pageant to choose Little Miss Sto
neybrook was going to be held for girls ages five to eight. The winner would go on to a county pageant. The winner of the county pageant could compete for the Little Miss Connecticut crown. From there, she could go on to try for Little Miss America and then Little Miss World. The Little Miss World crown seemed like kind of a long shot to me.
Claudia began reading aloud. “‘The contestants will be judged on poise, talent, and looks,’” she said. “‘The title “Little Miss Stoneybrook” does not signify merely beauty, but brains and talent as well.’” Claud dropped the paper and made a face.
“What?” I said.
“I don’t know. I think pageants are sexist. I don’t care what the article says. People go to pageants and they think that the only thing little girls are good at is dressing up and looking cute. That’s … that’s … it’s like … what’s that word that sounds like tape deck? Stereosomething.”
“Oh, stereotyping,” I supplied. I felt myself blushing. “I know what you mean, but guess what. When I was two, Mom entered my picture in a baby contest in Los Angeles and I won.”
“You’re kidding! Your mother doesn’t seem like that kind of mother to me. You know, the pushy stage-mother mother.”
“Well, she isn’t. She wasn’t,” I replied. “I think someone dared her to enter me. So she did and then I won. She was really embarrassed. Not because I won,” I added quickly, “but because my picture appeared everywhere, so all Mom’s friends found out what she’d done — and they didn’t all believe it was a joke.”
Claudia giggled.
“Anyway,” I went on, “you should hear her stories about the mothers and kids who enter those contests. Some of them are really serious. Winning contests is, like, their career.”
Kristy and Mary Anne showed up then and we read the article to them.
“Sexist,” said Kristy. “Who’d want to do a dumb thing like be in a pageant?”
“A little girl might,” spoke up Mary Anne. She accepted a piece of licorice from Claudia. “I can see how it might be glamorous to be up on stage in a fancy dress.”
“True,” agreed Kristy. “I guess a pageant could be sexist … but fun.”
Mallory and Jessi held a different opinion, though. They arrived at 5:30 on the dot and looked at the newspaper article.
“Oh, no! I don’t believe it!” Mallory cried. “A pageant here in Stoneybrook. What a disgrace!”
“Yeah,” agreed Jessi. “Pageants are so sexist. Do you ever see boys competing for a crown? For Little Mr. America or something? No,” she answered herself. “You do not. At least, not very often.”
“I can only hope,” said Mal, “that my sisters don’t hear about the pageant. Claire and Margo would want to enter for sure.”
“Would that really be so bad?” I asked. “I mean, I guess a pageant is sexist, but … I don’t know …”
“But it could be fun,” Kristy finished for me.
I didn’t thank her. I was still a little mad about the induction ceremony she’d made up for Jessi and Mal, but not for me.
“Well,” Jessi said, “one thing I don’t have to worry about is my sister entering the pageant. There’s no way she’d do that. She has terrible stage fright. Last year, when she was in second grade, her class put on Little Red Riding Hood in the school auditorium. Becca played a flower. Halfway through the play there was this big crash. Becca had fainted — right onstage.”
We all laughed.
“Okay,” said Kristy. “Time to begin the meeting.” She paused. Then, “Claud?” she said sweetly. “How did your special job with Charlotte Johanssen go?”
“Oh, fine,” replied Claudia. “It really wasn’t such a big deal that Dr. Johanssen wanted me instead of any of you guys.” She was looking uncomfortable again.
It was no wonder. We were all giving her the evil eye.
And I suddenly felt this incredible urge to prove to everybody, especially our new junior members, that I was as good a baby-sitter as Claudia was, if not the best sitter in the club.
The other girls must have been feeling the same way, because just as I was about to tell about saving the kids from the fire, Mary Anne said loudly, “I really did have to get Jenny Prezzioso to the hospital in an ambulance. It was quite frightening. But I kept my cool.”
If Mary Anne weren’t being such a good friend to me these days, I think I would have said something like, “I was with you, remember?”
As it was, Kristy said, “We have all heard about that particular emergency more than enough.”
(I saw Mal and Jessi exchange a worried look.)
Whew. It was a good thing I hadn’t mentioned the fire again.
Then Kristy added, “And by the way, you guys might remember that I was the one who caught Alan Gray when we thought he was the Phantom Phone Caller.”
“Excuse me,” said Claudia, “but you did not do it by yourself. I was there, too. I called the police. I —”
“Okay, okay, okay!” said Mary Anne. When Mary Anne raises her voice, we listen. She hardly ever raises her voice.
Luckily for all of us, the phone rang then. I answered it.
It was Mrs. Pike, Mallory’s mother.
“Oh, hi, Dawn,” she said. “I’m glad you picked up. I have a special job and I wanted to offer it to you.”
Oops, I thought. Another special job? “What kind of special job, Mrs. Pike?” I asked.
You will never in a million years guess what Mrs. Pike’s job was, so I’ll just tell you. Remember when Mallory said that if her sisters heard about the pageant, they’d want to enter it? Well, sure enough, Claire and Margo (who are five and seven) had heard, and they did want to enter. There was just one problem. Mrs. Pike wasn’t going to be able to help them prepare for it. She was all tied up with some big volunteer project at the public library, and she didn’t want to back out of her duties. So she wondered if I’d help the girls prepare. She was asking me because I live close by and would never need a ride over. And she was not asking Mallory, who, of course, would be the most convenient helper of all. She knew what Mallory thought about pageants. I guessed Mallory must be pretty outspoken on that subject.
“Well,” Mrs. Pike finished up, “what do you think? This job would be a little different from most. You’d have to help the girls choose outfits, rehearse for the talent competition, learn to greet the judges, that sort of thing. I’ll get all the information we need from the pageant committee.” She paused. “This is not the sort of activity I’d usually approve for the girls,” she went on, “but they’re dying to enter, and I don’t really see a good reason for them not to participate. I just hope they won’t be too disappointed if they lose…. Are you interested in the job, Dawn?”
I thought for a moment. I did want the job. It sounded like fun, and I needed some fun. I didn’t want to cause any more problems among us sitters, though. On the other hand, this might be my chance to prove just how good I was with kids. Certainly as good as Claudia. Imagine if Claire or Margo won the contest and became Little Miss Stoneybrook! Plus, I wouldn’t mind irking Kristy just a little bit to get back at her for the induction ceremony.
“I’ll do it!” I said to Mrs. Pike happily.
I got off the phone and told the others about the job. Their reactions were interesting.
Jessi rolled her eyes — at the thought of the sexist pageant, I guess.
Claudia and Mary Anne looked thoughtful.
Kristy looked cross. Very cross.
And Mallory clapped her hand to her forehead and moaned, “Oh, no. My sisters. My baby sisters. They’ll be contaminated. They’ll be brainwashed. If I become the sister of Little Miss Stoneybrook, I will absolutely die!”
Saturday
This afternoon I baby-sat for Karen, Andrew, and David Michael while Mom and Watson went to an auction to buy a birdbath. Most people go to auctions to buy paintings or statues or Oriental rugs. My parents go for a birdbath. Oh, well. I’ve gotten way off the subject. So anyway, I was sitting. The kids and I were playin
g “Let’s All Come In.” (It wasn’t easy talking David Michael into playing.) Then the boys quit the game and Karen got upset, so I just happened to mention the Little Miss Stoneybrook pageant to her, and she wanted to enter. I mean, really wanted to enter. And she’s going to, and I’m going to help her get ready for it, just like Dawn is helping Claire and Margo. Of course, the decision wasn’t made quite as easily as it sounds here, but finally Watson and his ex-wife gave Karen permission….
Us baby-sitters try not to play favorites among the kids we take care of, but it’s no secret that Kristy’s favorite charges are her brother David Michael, and her stepsister and stepbrother, Karen and Andrew. She doesn’t see Karen and Andrew all that often, since they only spend every other weekend, every other holiday, and two weeks during the summer at Watson’s house, but she sees them enough, I guess, and she really loves them.
Who wouldn’t? Karen is this funny, daring, imaginative, outspoken six-year-old. She likes to tell wild stories and make up games. And Andrew is a shy, sweet, and adoring four-year-old. Then there’s David Michael, who’s seven. Sometimes he and Karen don’t get along too well, but he’s a good kid. Kristy has been a second mother to him. Her real father left so long ago that David Michael barely remembers him, and then her mom went back to work. So Kristy has taken plenty of care of David Michael over the years.
Anyway, not long after the newspaper article about Little Miss Stoneybrook, Kristy was sitting for the three kids. It was a Saturday afternoon, and as she mentioned in her notebook entry, her mother and Watson had gone to some auction to bid on a birdbath. Why? I don’t know.
As soon as they were gone, Karen said, “Let’s play ‘Let’s All Come In.’” (“Let’s All Come In” is a game she made up. You need about four — or more — people to play, and what you do is pretend you’re guests at a fancy hotel. You get to dress up in wild outfits and be all different people.)
Ordinarily, David Michael does not like this game.
“It’s for babies,” he announced that afternoon.
“I’m going to play,” Kristy told him.