Kristy and the Walking Disaster (2 page)

We decided that if we were going to be serious about our business, then we had better run it professionally. First, we agreed to hold regular club meetings three times a week. We told our clients they could reach us at Claudia's number on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from five-thirty until six. (Claudia has her own phone and personal, private phone number.) One of us was certain to be free to take any job that came in.

Then we voted ourselves officers of the club.

1 was made the president . . . for obvious reasons.

Claud was made the vice-president, since we would always be meeting in her room and using her phone. Plus, people would probably be calling the club number even when we weren't meeting, and Claudia would have to deal with that extra work.

Mary Anne, who's the neatest and most organized of the four original club members, was named secretary. Boy, does she have a lot of work to do. It's her job to line up sitting appointments, to keep all our schedules straight

(such as when Claudia goes to art lessons or when Jessi has ballet classes), and to keep the club record book up to date. The record book is crucial (that's a really good word, meaning Very, very important') to the running of the club. In it, Mary Anne keeps track of all our clients and their addresses and phone numbers. And on the appointment calendar pages she schedules our sitting jobs. (The treasurer also uses the record book, but I'll get to that in a minute.) Mary Anne is a wonder. I don't think she's slipped up yet. None of us has ever been booked for two jobs at the same time or anything like that.

Last but not least, we made Stacey McGill our treasurer. It was her job to keep track of how much money each of us earns (just for our own information), to mark it down in the record book, and to collect dues for our treasury. What do we use our treasury money for? Two main things. 1. Entertainment, such as club sleepovers and pizza parties. 2. Funds for supplying our Kid-Kits.

The Kid-Kits were my idea. I thought that a good way to entertain the kids we sit for would be with a box of fun. So we each decorated a cardboard carton and filled it with our old games, books, and toys. Then we bought some stuff like coloring books, activity books, and

crayons. We take the Kid-Kits on our sitting jobs so the kids can play with them and not be bored. We use the treasury money to replace things that get used up.

How did Dawn, Jessi, and Mal join the club? Well, Dawn joined not long after she moved here from California. She and Mary Anne had become friends quickly, our business was growing, and we needed extra help. So Dawn became our alternate officer. That meant that she could take over the duties of any other member if someone had to miss a meeting. That didn't last long, though. Unfortunately, Stacey had to move back to New York City. (This was especially unfortunate since she and Claudia had become best friends, and now they really miss each other.)

Anyway, after Stacey left, two things happened. Dawn became our new treasurer - and we realized we needed lots more help. Our club was doing a ton of business. (Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. But we did have a problem.) We'd already signed up two associate members, kids who don't come to meetings, but who are good sitters we can call on in a pinch. They are Shannon Kilbourne, who lives across the street from me in my new neighborhood - and Logan Bruno, Mary Anne's boyfriend! But they weren't enough.

We needed a regular member to replace Stacey. My friends and I thought and thought. We liked Mallory Pike, whom we already knew is good with kids, even if she is younger than the rest of us, but the problem was that her parents don't allow her to sit at night, except at her own house. Finally, we took on Mal and her friend Jessi. We figured that if they could take over a lot of our afternoon jobs, the rest of us could handle the nighttime stuff. So far, it's working just fine. Jessi and Mal are our junior officers.

There's one other thing I better tell you about - our club notebook. The notebook is different from the record book. It's a sort of journal. We're all responsible for writing up every single job we go on. Then, once a week, we're supposed to read about the jobs in the notebook. It's really helpful. We can find out if the kids we sit for are having problems the rest of us should know about, or how one of us sitters handled a sticky situation, and other important things, like if any kid has food allergies or special fears. The notebook was my idea and I know it was a good one. I also know that most of the other club members think writing in it is a big bore. Well, too bad. Writing in the book is one of our few club rules.

"Okay," I said, from the director's chair, "the treasury is in good shape. Anything else?"

"Aw, look at Tigger!" Dawn said suddenly. Tigger was sitting in one of Claudia's shoes, which was pretty cute - but 1 was trying to conduct a meeting.

"Anything besides Tigger?" I said sternly.

Five heads snapped to attention. And just then the phone rang. 1 was nearest to it, so I answered it. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club. . . Hi, Mrs. Rodowsky." (I heard Dawn groan, and 1 waved my hand at her to make her quiet down.) "Tuesday?" I repeated. "Okay, I'll get back to you . . . Yes . . . Okay, good-bye."

1 hung up. Mary Anne had opened the record book to the appointment pages. "This coming Tuesday?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Let's see. You're free, Kristy, and so are you, Dawn."

"You can have the job, Kristy," said Dawn quickly.

1 grinned wickedly. "Is Jackie too much for you?" 1 asked.

"Nooo. Not exactly. You know 1 like him. His brothers, too. It's just. . , Well, you never know what's going to happen at the Rodowskys'."

That's true. And it's all because of Jackie,

the middle of the three Rodowsky boys. Shea is nine, Archie is four, and Jackie is seven - and a walking disaster. He's just totally accident-prone. And he doesn't have little accidents like skinned knees. No, he's more apt to lock himself in the bathroom and then get his hand caught down the drain of the tub. I could understand why Dawn preferred not to sit for him.

"Schedule me for Tuesday," I told Mary Anne. Then I called Mrs. Rodowsky back to tell her that I would be sitting.

I had just hung up when the phone rang again. Then four more times. For quite awhile, all we could do was schedule jobs, although Claudia did manage to pass around the Cheese Doodles and little candy bars.

The meeting was almost over when Mary Anne suddenly said in a sort of strangled voice, "Uh, where's Tigger, you guys?"

We searched Claud's room from top to bottom. We found a bag of Doritos, a box of Mallomars, some Gummi Bears, and a package of Twinkles - but no Tigger.

Mary Anne was just beginning to get tearful when we heard someone say, "Perhaps you are looking for this."

Standing in Claud's doorway was her sister Janine, cradling Tigger. "I found him sitting

on my computer," she said. She was trying to look cross, but you could tell she wanted to smile.

Mary Anne greeted Tigger as if he'd been missing for a year or so, and then the meeting ended.

Jackie Rodowsky, 1 thought as Charlie drove me home. Would my afternoon with the walking disaster be fun ... or, well, a disaster?

Chapter 3.

"Hit it! ... Hit it! . . . No, hit - Oh, never mind," said Max Delaney crossly.

"Don't yell at me!" retorted his sister.

"Anyway, you never hit the ball," Karen accused Max.

Max stuck his tongue out at Karen, and Karen stuck hers out at Max.

It was Saturday, the day after our club meeting, and it was a gorgeous afternoon. I was baby-sitting for Karen, Andrew, and David Michael. We were in the backyard and a bunch of kids had come over to play softball ... or to try to play softball. Amanda and Max Delaney were there (Amanda is eight and Max is six), and Linny and Hannie Papadakis had come over, too. Linny is David Michael's good friend, and Hannie is one of Karen's best friends. The girls are in the same class at school.

The kids had a pretty pathetic game going. Most of them were old enough to be in Little

League or to play T-ball, but I could see why they hadn't bothered to join a team. They all worked and worked and worked - and nothing happened. I'd never seen so many kids play ball so hard with so few results.

Hannie really couldn't hit. She never connected with the ball. Max dropped or missed every ball he tried to catch. David Michael was simply a klutz. He tripped over his feet, the bat, even the ball, and no matter how he concentrated, he somehow never did anything right, except pitch. Karen wasn't a bad hitter. And Andrew might have been a good catcher if he weren't so little, but he's only four, so balls went sailing over him right and left, even when he stretched for them. Amanda and Linnie were no better than the others.

"You guys," I said to the kids, "come over here for a sec, and let me help you get organized. I'll give you some pointers, too, okay?" (I happen to like sports a lot.)

Karen, Andrew, David Michael, Hannie, Linny, Max, and Amanda dropped their gloves, bats, and the ball. They gathered around me.

"First of all," I said, "Hannie, it helps to watch the ball when you're trying to hit it. Don't look away from it, even to look at your bat."

"Yeah," said David Michael knowingly, as

if I hadn't just told him the same thing the day before.

"And Max, the trick for holding onto the ball after you catch it is to close your glove around it right away. Otherwise, the ball will fall out. And keep your eye on the ball when you're trying to catch it, just like when you're trying to hit it. Don't look at your mitt or the batter. Got it?"

The kids nodded.

Then Andrew said, "What about me? I could catch those balls if I were taller."

"I know you could," I replied. "So let's work on your hitting and pitching instead. The only way to make you taller is to give you stilts. Or else hold up this game for a year or two while you grow."

Andrew giggled.

I divided the kids into teams - the four younger kids versus the three older ones. "Now!" I cried. "Let's play ball!"

David Michael pitched to Hannie. Hannie swung her bat. She missed the ball by about two feet. Three times. He pitched to Karen. Karen hit the ball. Smack! It sailed right to Amanda, who appeared to be looking at the ball - until just before it reached her glove. Then she glanced at her glove to see how things were going. The ball flew over her head.

Everyone groaned. Even Karen, who was running bases.

I gathered the kids around me again. "We're going to stop the game," I announced, "and have a softball clinic instead."

"Clinic?" repeated Amanda nervously. "You mean, like a hospital?"

"No. No, I mean when 1 work with each of you on your weak points - the stuff you need help with. I'll be your coach and trainer."

The kids looked excited. And David Michael said, "If I were in Little League, there'd be a coach to help me all the time."

"You should join," 1 told him. "The rest of you should, too. Or play T-ball."

"I can't," said Andrew. "I'm not old enough."

"I can't either," said Karen and Hannie.

"Why not?" 1 asked. "Girls can play."

"Yeah," said Karen, "but no one would want

me."

"Or me," said Hannie.

"Or me," said Linny, David Michael, and Max.

"1 don't want to join," announced Amanda. "I don't like playing ball that much."

"Well, the rest of us do," said Hannie, who does not get along with Amanda and probably never will.

"We want to be on a team," added David

Michael. "We just don't want to embarrass ourselves."

"No Little League?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Nope," he replied, and the other kids agreed with him.

Then Amanda spoke up. "Hey, Kristy, do you know Bart Taylor? He coaches his own team right here in the neighborhood. A whole bunch of kids belong. His team is called Bart's Bashers."

"Maybe we could join!" exclaimed David Michael.

"I could talk to Bart," I said slowly. "Where does he live, Amanda? And who is he, anyway?"

"He's this kid. He goes to Stoneybrook Day School. I think he's in eighth grade, just like you, Kristy." Amanda told me where he lives, which isn't too far from my house.

Well, I thought, I could go talk to him. I wouldn't like it - but I would do it. Why wouldn't I like it? A lot of reasons. For one thing, you can never tell about eighth-grade boys. Half of them are normal, the other half are jerks. And in this neighborhood, about half of both groups are also snobs. I figured my odds. I had a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain jerk, a twenty-five percent

chance of getting a snobby jerk, a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain snob, and a twenty-five percent chance of getting a regular, old nice guy.

The odds were not great, but I would risk them.

If only my brothers and 1 went to private school like the rest of the kids in this neighborhood, then the kids wouldn't have to lord their snobbishness over us. On the other hand, we might be jerks ourselves then, and besides, I wouldn't be in the same school with Claudia, Mary Anne, Dawn, Jessi, and Mal.

Mom and Watson came home at three-thirty that afternoon. At four o'clock, 1 put Shannon on her leash and walked her over to Bart's house.

A very, very, very cute guy was in the Taylors' yard, raking up dead grass and twigs and things. It couldn't be Bart. Most people around here have gardeners to take care of their lawns.

The boy saw me slow down and look curiously at him.

"Can I help you?" he called.

"I'm, um, I'm looking for Bart Taylor," I replied.

"Well, you found him." Bart grinned.

I grinned back. So far, so good. Maybe Bart was from that normal nonjerky twenty-five percent.

Bart dropped his rake and crossed the yard to the sidewalk. "That's a great-looking dog," he said, as Shannon put her front paws on his knees and wagged her tail joyfully.

"She's a Bernese mountain dog," 1 told Bart. "Oh, my name's Kristy Thomas. I came by ... I came by to ask you something."

Why did I feel so nervous? I've talked to boys before. I've been to dances with boys. I've been to parties with boys. But none of them had looked at me the way Bart was looking at me just then - as if standing on the sidewalk was a glamorous movie star instead of plain old me, Kristy Thomas. And, to be honest, none of them had been quite as cute as Bart. They didn't have his crooked smile or his deep, deep brown eyes, or his even, straight, perfect nose, or his hair that looked like it might have been styled at one of those hair places for guys - or not. I think it's a good sign if you can't tell.