Kristy and the Walking Disaster (3 page)

"Yes?" said Bart, and I realized I'd just been staring at him.

"Oh. Oh," I stammered. "Um, what I wanted to ask you is, well, I heard about your softball

team, and I wondered whether you need any more players."

Bart laughed. "You're a little old," he replied.

"Oh, it's not me!" 1 cried. "It's my younger brother, and my little stepbrother and stepsister, and, let's see, one, two, three other kids. My stepbrother, Andrew, is only four," 1 rushed on. "1 feel 1 have to tell you that. And none of them is very good. Well, Karen's not a bad hitter, but David Michael's a klutz, and Linny's - "

"Whoa!" exclaimed Bart. "Hold it. You're talking about six kids? I could take on one more, maybe two, but not six. I've already got more kids than I need."

Bart and I talked a little while longer. I decided two things. Since Bart couldn't handle any more kids, I would start my own team. I would take on any kid who really wanted to play on a team, no matter how young or klutzy or uncoordinated he or she was. I would call the other girls in the club and tell them to keep their ears open for kids who'd want to join. Maybe Jamie Newton, or some of the Pikes or Barretts would be interested. I could talk to Watson about the team. Watson loves baseball. In all honesty, he's not the most athletic person I can think of, but he's a huge baseball fan,

and he's good at organizing and running things - even better than I am, and I don't mind admitting it. If I wanted to start a softball team, Watson was the person to go to.

The other thing I decided was that I had a Gigantic Crush on Bart Taylor.

Chapter 4.

"Rowf! Rowf! Rowf!" "Hey, is that you, Mary Anne?" "Toshe me up, Mary Anne Spier!" The door to the Perkinses' house hadn't even opened and already there was happy noise and commotion as the girls and Chewy clamored for Mary Anne. The Perkins girls are Myriah, who's five and a half, Gabbie, who's two and a half, and Laura, the new baby. Chewy (short for Chewbacca) is the Perkinses' big, friendly, black Labrador, a great dog, even if he is sort of, well, high-spirited.

Myriah was the one calling, "Is that you?" She knows she's supposed to find out who's at the door before she opens it, even if her mother or father is home. Gabbie was the one calling, "Toshe me up." That's her way of saying, "Pick me up and give me a hug, please." No one knows where that phrase came from. She just invented it. And she almost always calls people (except her sisters and parents) by their full names.

"Yes, it's me! It's Mary Anne!" Mary Anne replied.

The door was flung open. There were Chewy, Myriah, and Gabbie in an excited bunch on the other side of the screen door. Mary Anne let herself in, and Myriah threw her arms around Mary Anne's legs in a happy hug. She and Mary Anne have been special friends ever since Mary Anne showed her how they could look out their bedroom windows and see each other, just like she and I used to do. (Myriah's room is my old room.)

Even with Chewy barking and leaping around, and Myriah gripping her legs, Mary Anne leaned over to toshe Gabbie up.

"Look, Mary Anne Spier," said Gabbie, holding out her finger. On the finger was a Band-Aid with pictures of Baby Kermit printed all over it. "I have an owie," she informed her sitter.

"An owie!" exclaimed Mary Anne. "Oh, no. How did that happen?"

"I was playing, and by accident, my finger went WHAM on the side of the TV. 1 was running, and it just went WHAM/"

"It's only a little owie," added Myriah, looking up at Mary Anne and Gabbie.

"No, if s a big one."

"No, little. How could - "

"Girls!" called Mrs. Perkins. "Let me talk to Mary Anne for a moment."

Mrs. Perkins came down the stairs with Laura bundled up in a baby blanket. Us sitters would love to take care of Laura sometimes, but she's just too little. Mrs. Perkins usually takes her wherever she goes. I guess one baby is a lot easier than one baby plus two kids.

Mrs. Perkins made sure that Mary Anne knew where the emergency numbers were, where she was going, and when she'd be back. Then she left. She hadn't been gone long when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," said Mary Anne. "You guys hold Chewy."

Chewy just loves to gallumph up to visitors. All he wants to do is greet them, but sometimes people don't know that. The sight of a huge dog running straight at you can be scary, especially if you're only four or five years old and not much taller than Chewy.

Mary Anne opened the door. There were Jamie Newton and Nina Marshall. They're both kids in the neighborhood and they're both four years old. Jamie was no surprise, but Nina sort of was. Our club sits for Jamie all the time, and for Nina and her little sister Eleanor sometimes, too, but while Nina hardly ever goes to the Perkinses', Jamie often does.

Mary Anne was glad to see both of them, though.

"Hi, you guys!" she said. "Did you come over to play?"

"Yup," said Jamie and Nina at the same time.

Mary Anne had just let them in and closed the front door when she heard a rowf! Chewy had struggled out of Myriah and Gabbie's grasp. He made a skidding dash through the hallway. Mary Anne caught him and led him out into the fenced-in backyard. Chewy is a handful - a happy handful with a doggie grin.

When Mary Anne went back in the house, she found things a little out of hand. Nina was running after Myriah with a giant foam-rubber banana. "Zonk! Zonk! Zonk!" she kept crying as she hit Myriah over the head with it.

Gabbie had found a plastic pitcher from her tea set. She had filled it with water and was carrying it through the house, crying, "Drinks for sale! Drinks for sale! Who wants to buy special water?"

"I do!" Jamie replied. "How much does it cost?"

"Four hundred dollars."

"Okay." Jamie reached into his pocket. He pretended to give Gabbie some money.

"Thank you," she said. Then she handed

Jamie the water and he drank it right out of the pitcher.

"Mmm, yummy. May I have - "

"Zonk! Zonk!" cried Nina. She and Myriah were tearing toward Gabbie and Jamie and the pitcher. Every time Nina zonked Myriah, Myriah replied, "Boi-oi-oi-oing!"

"You guys!" Mary Anne said desperately. "Look out!"

Too late.

Myriah and Nina crashed into Jamie and Gabbie. Water splashed everywhere.

"I think," said Mary Anne, "that it's time to play outside. May I have the pitcher and the banana, please? And would the four of you clean up the water before you put your jackets on?"

Mary Anne had never seen so many paper towels used to clean up such a small puddle, but at least the mess got mopped up. Then she took the kids into the Perkinses' backyard.

"How about some catch?" she suggested, remembering my phone call about starting a softball team.

"With Chewy around?" replied Myriah. "We better put him inside."

"Oh, poor Chewy," said Mary Anne. "He'll miss out on the fun. Let's leave him outside for just a little while."

"Okay-ay," said Myriah in a singsong voice that clearly meant she thought Mary Anne's idea was not a very wise one.

The kids found two bats - a wiffle bat and a regular one; three balls - a wiffle ball, a softball, and a tennis ball; and a couple of mitts.

"I'll be the pitcher," Myriah announced. "Nina, you be in the outfield. Gabbie and Jamie, you're the batters. You're on the other team."

Mary Anne was impressed. Myriah seemed to know a lot about playing ball.

"Okay, here comes the ball!" Myriah announced to Jamie, who was ready with the bat.

Jamie took one look at the softball flying toward him, dropped the bat, put his hands over his head, and ducked.

Guess who caught the ball? Chewy. Everyone ran after him. Chewy had the time of his life. He loves games. But when the kids couldn't catch him, they gave up. Besides, it was Gabbie's turn at bat, and since she's so little, Mary Anne told Myriah she'd have to pitch the wiffle ball. Then she gave Chewy a rawhide bone to keep him busy while the kids played.

Myriah tossed the wiffle ball.

Whack! Gabbie hit it. She looked extremely

pleased with herself. But she just stood by home plate, holding the bat. "Now, what do 1 do?" she asked.

"Run, you dope!" exclaimed Nina.

"Nina, no name-calling," Mary Anne admonished her.

The kids barely heard Mary Anne. Myriah went after the ball, caught it, ran to home plate, where Gabbie was still standing, and tagged her sister. "You're out!" she cried.

Mary Anne told me later that the game went on in pretty much the same way the game at my house had gone. Jamie ducked all balls, whether he was supposed to be hitting them or catching them. Gabbie wasn't too bad at hitting and catching - but she didn't understand much concerning the game of softball. (What can you expect from a two-and-a-half-year-old?) Nina, lice Hannie Papadakis, tried hard, but wasn't particularly coordinated. Then there was Myriah. She was actually a pretty good player.

"Why don't you try out for Little League?" Mary Anne wanted to know.

"Can't. I'm old enough for T-ball, but not Little League."

"Would you like to play on a real team?" Mary Anne asked.

"Sure!" replied Myriah, and Mary Anne was

surprised when the rest of the kids said, "Sure!" as well.

"Really?" she asked. "You too, Gabbers?"

Gabbie nodded solemnly.

"Well," said Mary Anne, and she told them about my softball team.

The kids were enthusiastic, especially Myriah. They spent the rest of the afternoon hitting balls (or ducking them) - and then rescuing them from the jaws of Chewbacca, who had long ago given up on the rawhide.

Chapter 5.

I always step onto the Rodowskys' front porch with a feeling of trepidation. (I like the word trepidation. It means alarm or dread, but somehow it seems less awful than those words.) The reason for the trepidation is, well, you know - Jackie, our very own walking disaster. Things happen to him. Sometimes things just happen because he's around. Imagine Paddington Bear. Imagine the little girl Eloise from the book called Eloise. Then put all that energy and mischief inside a character as nice as Charlie Bucket from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. That's Jackie Rodowsky.

Because Jackie is basically a nice kid, I like to sit for him. But because I never know what's going to happen, I feel that trepidation. I feel it the whole time I'm at the Rodowskys'. It comes over me as soon as I reach their house, and it leaves the moment my sitting job is over.

I rang the Rodowskys' bell.

Mrs. Rodowsky answered the door, gave me the usual instructions, and began to put her coat on.

"Where are the boys?" I asked.

Mrs. Rodowsky smiled. "They're in the rec room," she said, lowering her voice. "Peek down there."

I peeked. The room looked ready for a party. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, and bunches of balloons hung here and there. The boys were busy blowing up more balloons and opening packages of paper plates and cups and party favors.

"Aww," I said, smiling. "Whose birthday is it?"

"Bo's." Mrs. Rodowsky looked at me meaningfully.

"Bo's? ... Oh, the dog's!" I giggled.

"He's two today, and the boys decided they wanted to give him a party. They've even wrapped up presents for him, and on my way home this afternoon, I'm supposed to pick up a birthday cake - a small one - with Bo's name on it. Can you believe it?"

"I think it's great!" I said. "We never did anything like that for our collie Louie, even though we loved him a lot. But maybe when our new puppy turns one, we'll have a party

for her. We'll even invite Bo, since he'll know how to behave at a dog party."

Mrs. Rodowsky laughed. "Well, I better get going. Let the boys do whatever they want for the party - within reason. Then take them outside for awhile."

"Okay," I said. I walked Mrs. Rodowsky down the stairs to the rec room.

'"Bye, boys!" she called as she left through the back door.

They barely heard her.

"So, you guys," I said, "what did you get Bo for his birthday?"

All three boys looked at me in surprise.

"Where'd you come from?" asked Shea, the nine-year-old.

"I've been here for about five minutes," I told him. "Your mom just left. I know all about Bo's party. You look like you're doing a great job."

"There's not much left to do," said Shea.

"Nope," agreed Jackie, who's seven. "Just make the lemonade and find the birthday candles. And finish setting the table." Jackie glanced at a folding table that had been covered with a paper cloth. It looked like a table for a kid's birthday party.

"I'll find the candles!" volunteered Archie, the four-year-old.

"I'll finish the table," said Shea.

"Then I guess I better make the lemonade," Jackie said, and added, "I'm making pink lemonade. It's more special."

'I'll help you!" I said quickly.

"No! I can do it myself. I'm not a baby."

"Okay, okay. Sorry."

This is what I mean by trepidation. I didn't want to hurt Jackie's feelings, but I knew (well, I was pretty sure) that letting Jackie make lemonade would lead to a disaster.

I let him do it anyway.

"It's just a mix," he said. "All you do is add water."

That didn't sound too dangerous. The one thing I insisted on, though, was a plastic pitcher. Letting him fill up something glass was plain foolish.

"Kristy? Can you help me look for the candles?" Archie said then. "Shea told me they're in a box in the basement, and, um, I don't want to go down there by myself."

"Sure," I replied. I held out my hand. "Come on, Red."

"Red!" exclaimed Archie. "That's not my name."

"Red is a nickname for anyone with red hair," I told him, "like you guys have." The

Rodowsky boys all have flaming red hair and plenty of freckles.

Archie and I left Jackie in the kitchen with the lemonade mix, and Shea in the rec room, setting the table. Hand in hand, we descended into the basement. I had to admit, the Rodowsky's basement was a little spooky.

We had just found the candles when, from above, we heard a thunk and a whoosh. Then we heard Jackie say, "Uh-oh."

Archie and I didn't waste a second. We ran up the stairs to the rec room and then to the kitchen. Shea was already there. He and Jackie were staring at a large pink puddle on the floor, and pink drips down the sides of the cabinets, the dishwasher, and the table and chairs. Jackie was blushing as red as his hair.