Kristy's Great Idea (6 page)

“Well …” I began.

“He's your brother,” Stacey said. “You should get the job.”

“But if you took it, you'd get to know some other people in the neighborhood. You'd probably meet Sam and Charlie—they're my big brothers.”

“Brothers?” Stacey's eyes lit up. Boys! “But what are you going to do while I baby-sit? Hang around and watch?”

“Well, I
hope
I'll have another job,” I said huffily. “You take the job, Stacey. I don't want my first Baby-sitters Club client to be my own mother.”

“Okay, if you're sure,” Stacey said slowly. Then she grinned. “Thanks!”

“No problem,” I said. I took my hand off of the receiver. “Mom, Stacey will baby-sit for David Michael on Wednesday. The usual time,
right? … Okay. Hey, where are you calling from anyway? … Oh, the office.”

Claudia elbowed me. “Quit tying up the line. Someone else might be trying to get through.”

I nodded. “Mom, I have to get off. I'll see you in a little while…. Okay … Okay … Bye.” I hung up.

The phone rang again immediately. Claudia gave me a look that said, I told you so.

“Can I answer it?” Mary Anne asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Mary Anne picked up the phone. “Good afternoon. Baby-sitters Club,” she said. There was a long pause. “I think you have the wrong number. There's no Jim Bartolini here.” She hung up.

At 5:42, the phone rang for a third time. We all looked at each other. “You get it, Kristy,” Mary Anne said. “You're the president.”

“Okay … Hello. Baby-sitters Club … Yes … yes. Just a moment, please.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Do any of you know a Mrs. McKeever? She lives on Quentin Court.”

The girls shook their heads.

“What's she got?” asked Claudia.

“Two kids, Buffy and Pinky,” I replied.

“Buffy and Pinky!” cried Stacey. “
Buffy
and
Pinky?
”

“Shhh,” I warned her.

“How old are they?” Mary Anne wanted to know.

“I don't know. Hold on…. Hello, Mrs. McKeever? We need a little information, please. How old are Buffy and Pinky? …
Oh.
Okay.” I turned back to the members of my club. “She says they're three. They must be twins.”

“When does she need a sitter?” asked Mary Anne.

“Wednesday afternoon. Oh, I guess I'm the only one who's free then,” I suddenly realized. I was dying for a new client anyway. I accepted the job and took down the information I needed. Then Mrs. McKeever asked me a zillion questions about myself. She wanted to know how old I was and how much experience I had and that sort of thing.

When I hung up the phone, I said to Mary Anne, “Hey, secretary, you've got to record these jobs in the appointment book.”

“Oh, right.” I handed her the book and she got right to work.

The next two calls were for Jim Bartolini.

Claudia was growing exasperated. “Boy, this is
weird,”
she said. “I've gotten wrong numbers before, but no one's ever asked for Jim Bartolini. Certainly not three no ones.”

At 5:55, Mary Anne stood up. “I better get going,” she said. She pulled on her sweater and crunched loudly on the remaining bit of her jawbreaker.

The phone rang. Stacey answered it and handed it to me. “It's your mom again, Kristy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom?” I said. “Did Kathy back out of her other afternoon, too? … Oh …
Oh
…
Oh,
no. Not
me.
I am
not
baby-sitting for them. You know how I feel. Okay, but hold on…. Watson needs a baby-sitter for his kids again on Saturday morning. Not tomorrow, but next Saturday,” I told the others.
“I'm
not doing it.”

“I'll do it,” Mary Anne said. “I'm getting curious about them. Aren't you curious, Kristy?”

I was
dying
to see what kind of monsters Watson had. “Not really,” I said. “Sign yourself up for the job.”

As Mary Anne was about to walk out of Claudia's room, the phone rang for the seventh time since 5:30. “I'll get it,” said Mary Anne. “One last call … Hello? …
What?”
Mary Anne's braids practically stood on end. “It's some boy on the phone,” she told us. “He says his name is Jim Bartolini. He wants to know if there have been any calls for him!”

“You're kidding!” exclaimed Claudia.

“Oh,
wait
a second!” I said suddenly. I grabbed the phone from Mary Anne. “Sam, is that you?”

“No,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “It's Jim Bartolini. I was wondering if—”

“Sam, you're a rat!” I cried. “This is important business. And furthermore, I'm telling!” I slammed the receiver down.

“The nerve!” said Mary Anne.

But Claudia and Stacey began giggling. “I think that was sort of funny,” said Claudia.

“You would,” I retorted.

“Oh, come on. You have to admit that was a pretty good goof call. It's better than just ‘Is your refrigerator running?' or something.”

“I guess,” I said.

So the first Baby-sitters Club office hour (or office half hour) ended on a sour note. And the evening didn't improve much. I went home and did tell Mom what Sam had done, and Sam called me a rat, and I said, “I know you are, but what am I?” and Sam said, “I know you are, but what am I?” and I shouted, “You're driving me crazy!” and Sam shouted, “You're driving me crazy!” and Mom told Sam he couldn't use the phone for an hour and sent me to my room, which suited me fine since Watson was on his way over.

Shortly before Mom and Watson left on another date, I was allowed to leave my room to take a phone call. It was Claudia. “I just got a job!” she said. “Mrs. Newton called. She needed a sitter for tomorrow, so I took the job.”

Mrs. Newton? “That's great, Claud,” I said, but I hung up the phone feeling pretty low.
I
usually sit for Jamie. Claudia should have told the other club members when a job was offered, not just taken it herself. Just because the phone number was hers didn't mean she got first crack at every job that came along. And how come Mrs. Newton had called
that
number after six when she was probably trying to reach me? I guessed people didn't pay much attention to hours and phone numbers, which was a shame considering all the trouble we'd gone to with our flyers and the newspaper ad. I flashed the news to Mary Anne at nine o'clock, and she flashed back TOO BAD.

Well, I thought, as I went to bed that night with Louie curled at my feet, at least I've got a new client. On Wednesday I'll get to meet Pinky and Buffy McKeever. New clients are always interesting.

If only I'd had some idea just how interesting they were going to be.

On Wednesday afternoon, I was all set for my first job through the Baby-sitters Club. I couldn't wait to meet Pinky and Buffy. I'd never sat for twins before. I wondered what it would be like. Would they play tricks on me? And what could Pinky and Buffy be nicknames for? I'd find out soon enough.

I walked over to Quentin Court right after I got home from school. I left a little early, just in case I had any trouble finding the McKeevers' house. Mrs. McKeever had said the address was 52 Quentin Court. So I found the side of the street with the even-numbered addresses on it and started walking. There was 22 Quentin Court, 28 Quentin Court, 34, 40, 46, and sure enough, there was number 52.

I stood and looked at the house for a moment. It was a perfectly nice split-level, painted white with neat black shutters. But something was
wrong. What was it? After a moment it came to me.

There were no signs of children.

There were no toys in the yard or tricycles in the driveway, no sneakers on the front stoop or artwork in the windows. I hoped Pinky and Buffy weren't going to be boring children who wanted to spend the afternoon learning about butterflies or food groups or something.

My enthusiasm was beginning to wane just a little, but I took a deep breath and marched myself straight to the front door.

Ding-dong.

Silence. No running feet or shouts like I would hear when I rang the Newtons' bell.

After a few moments, the door was opened.

A plump, pleasant-looking young woman stood on the other side of the screen, smiling. Well, I thought, at least Pinky and Buffy's mother doesn't look boring.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, I'm Kristy Thomas. I'm here to baby-sit for Pinky and Buffy, the twins.”

There was a pause, and then the woman said, “Yes. Won't you come in?”

I stepped inside into a very pretty room. But again, something seemed wrong, and it took me a
moment to figure out what it was. Then I realized. Pinky and Buffy must have been not only very boring three-year-olds but very careful three-year-olds. The reason the room was so pretty was because it was full of glass and china—big Oriental vases, little glass statues, even plates that were displayed on delicate stands. Everything was breakable. In our house, what with David Michael and footballs and baseballs and friends coming over all the time, breakable stuff is practically against the law.

Then I saw that the area we were standing in—the foyer and the living room—was blocked off with baby gates. That explained the china, but it didn't seem to be very nice for Pinky and Buffy.

It also occurred to me that I couldn't hear any children's voices or giggling. Suddenly, I began to feel suspicious. What had I gotten myself into? The McKeevers were strangers to me. Maybe I'd been lured into—no, that was silly. At breakfast that morning, when I'd told my mother where I would be after school, she'd just raised an eyebrow. She hadn't said, Don't go, Kristy. We'll never see you again!

I smiled brightly at the woman. “So,” I said. “Where are Pinky and Buffy?”

“Oh, they're in the laundry room,” she replied.

The laundry room?
Were they being punished? I'd gotten angry with David Michael a few times, but I'd
never
stuck him in the laundry room.

“Let me introduce myself,” the woman went on. “I am Miss Hargreaves, Mrs. McKeever's niece. Mrs. McKeever is away for several days, which is why we need help with Pinky and Buffy. I have an important appointment this afternoon, and we find that we need someone with Pinky and Buffy at all times.”

Well, if they were only three, what was she expecting?

“They're a bit unruly,” Miss Hargreaves added.

“Ohhh,” I said knowingly, wondering where the signs of unruliness were in the quiet house. “Well, that's okay. I know all about ‘unruly.' I've got three brothers.”

“Do you?”

I nodded. “Well, let's go let them out of the laundry room. They're probably ready to play. Maybe we could all take a walk to the brook.”

“That would be lovely,” replied Miss Hargreaves, “but it might be difficult for you to manage.”

“Oh, I've had lots of experience.”

“That's fine, then.”

“Are Pinky and Buffy boys or girls?” I asked.

“Well, it doesn't much matter, of course—”

It doesn't?

“—but Buffy's a boy and Pinky's a girl.”

“Oh, that's easy to remember,” I said. I was trying to sound pleasant, but already I had a very bad case of the creeps.

“Here we are!” Miss Hargreaves announced. We were standing by a door next to the kitchen. “Now, get ready. These two monsters of my aunt's will practically break the door down,” she said affectionately.

My eyes opened wide. “They will?”

“Stand back.”

I stood back. I wished I could stand all the way back at my house.

Miss Hargreaves opened the door. Two huge, fluffy, drooling, barking Saint Bernards hurled themselves into the hall, almost knocking each other and Miss Hargreaves over.

I shrieked. “Do I have to take care of them, too?”

“Too?” repeated Miss Hargreaves. “Who else is going to help you?”

“No, I mean, do I have to watch them
plus
Pinky and Buffy?”

“Oh, my dear! Those
are
Pinky and Buffy!”

“But—but—” I sputtered. “I'm a
baby
-sitter, not a
dog
-sitter!”

Miss Hargreaves looked confused. “I don't know what arrangements my aunt made,” she said at last, “but here are the dogs, and here
you
are, and I have to leave.”

“But—but—”

“Oh, it's not
so
difficult,” she went on. “They need to be outside as much as possible. Our yard isn't fenced in, so you may either take them out on their leashes or stay with them in the backyard. If you play with them, they won't run away. Now, their footballs are in the box by the back door, their leashes are hanging on the peg above, and at four-thirty they need their chow—a can apiece—and they can each have one mailman cookie as a treat. The emergency numbers are posted by the phone in the kitchen, just in case. Do you have any questions?”