The Truth About Stacey (2 page)

Kristy called Liz Lewis, just because Liz was listed first on the flyer. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It's ringing,” she whispered to us. “One … two … thr—Hello? Is Liz Lewis there, please? … Oh, hi, Liz. My name is—Candy. Candy Kane…. No, no joke…. I got your flyer for the Baby-sitters Agency. I'm supposed to sit for my little brother tomorrow and” (Kristy paused, and the rest of us watched the wheels turning) “I just got asked out on a date.”

Mary Anne started to giggle. She grabbed a pillow from Claudia's bed and buried her face in it to muffle the sounds. Kristy turned away so she wouldn't have to see.

“From three to five,” Kristy was saying. (Liz must have asked her when she was supposed to be sitting.) “He's seven years old. His name is, um, Harry…. Twenty-eight Roper Road. Will
you
be baby-sitting for him? The flyer said—Oh,
I see…. Mm-hmm…. I'll be at 555-3231. Oh, but only for about ten minutes. Then I have—I have another date…. Who with?”

By that time, Claudia was laughing, too, and I was on the verge of it. Kristy glanced at us helplessly, not sure what to do about her “date.” Then she simply pulled a name out of the air. “With Winston Churchill,” she replied, taking the chance that Liz wouldn't know who he was. Apparently she didn't. “Yeah, he goes to high school,” continued Kristy nonchalantly, getting into her story. “A sophomore. Football player … Me? I'm in seventh…. Yeah, I know.”

I had to leave the room. I couldn't stand it any longer, and I didn't want to ruin Kristy's call. I closed Claudia's door, ran to the bathroom, laughed, and returned.

Kristy was saying, “Okay, five minutes … Yeah, later.” She hung up. Then she began to laugh, too. “You guys!” she exclaimed. “Don't do that to me when I'm on the phone.”

“But
Winston Churchill?”
I cried. “The high school guy you're
dating?”

When we calmed down, Kristy said, “All right, this is how I think the agency works. People call Liz and Michelle when they need sitters. Then Liz and Michelle simply turn around and
find
the
sitters. In other words, they do all the phoning for their clients. I guess they must baby-sit, too, from time to time. But when they don't, they probably get part of the salary earned by the sitter they found for the job.”

“No wonder their sitters are so old,” said Mary Anne. “All Liz and Michelle have to do is
call
older kids.”

“Yeah,” said Kristy glumly. “We could do that ourselves, if we'd thought of it.” She paused. “Liz seemed more interested in my date than in finding a baby-sitter.”

“Figures,” said Claudia.

The phone rang. “I'll get it. It's probably Liz,” said Kristy. Mary Anne got ready with a pillow. “Hello, the B—hello?” (Kristy had almost said, “Hello, the Baby-sitters Club,” which is how we answer the phone during meetings.) “Yes, this is she…. Oh, terrific….
How
many? … Wow. How old are they? … Okay…. Patricia Clayton…. Okay…. Okay, thanks a lot. I'll see Patricia tomorrow…. Later.” She hung up.

“Later?” repeated Mary Anne.

“That's how Liz says good-bye.”

“So?” I asked.

“She actually found three available sitters,” said Kristy. “She gave me a choice. I didn't know any of
the names, but two were thirteen years old, and one was fifteen years old. One was even a
boy.
I chose the fifteen-year-old. People are going to
love
the agency. I'm not kidding. We don't offer a range of ages like they do. There are no boys in our club. And we can't stay out past ten, even on the weekends.”

We looked at each other sadly.

At last, Mary Anne stood up. “It's after six. I've got to go home.” Mr. Spier likes Mary Anne home on the dot. I was surprised she was letting herself be even a few minutes late. It just showed how upset she was.

“I might as well go, too,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Kristy.

The three of us said good-bye to Claudia and left. “See you guys!” called Mary Anne when we reached the Kishis' stoop. She was suddenly in a hurry. Across the street I could see her father standing at their front door.

“Well,” I said to Kristy.

“Well.”

“Kristy, we'll make it. We're good baby-sitters.”

“I know,” she said. But that was
all
she said. I kind of expected Kristy to be a little more positive. I mean, the club was really more hers than anybody else's. I thought she'd do anything for the club. I would.

But maybe that was because the club was more than just a project or a business to me. It was my friends. It was the only good thing that had happened to me in the last horrible year.

I ran home.

Somehow, I managed to eat dinner that night. It wasn't easy. For one thing, ever since I developed the diabetes and I've had to watch what I eat so carefully, food simply isn't much fun anymore. Often when I'm hungry, I don't care
what
I eat. I eat just to fill up. And since I was upset about the Baby-sitters Agency that night, I wasn't even hungry. But Mom watches my food intake like a hawk, particularly since I've lost a little weight recently. So I forced down what I thought was a reasonable dinner.

As soon as I could, I escaped to my room. I closed my door and sat down in my armchair to think. It had been just a year earlier that I had started to show the symptoms of diabetes. At first, we didn't think anything was wrong. I was hungry all the time—I mean,
really
hungry, nothing could fill me up—and thirsty, too. “Well, you're a growing girl,” Mom had said. “I expect this is the beginning of a growth spurt. Let's measure you.” Sure enough, I'd grown an inch and a half.
But then, even though I was eating and eating, I began to lose weight. I didn't feel well, either. I grew tired easily and sometimes I felt weak all over. Twice, I wet my bed. (The second time, I happened to be sharing a double bed with my former best friend, Laine Cummings, at a sleepover.) When that happened, Mom forgot about my growth spurt and decided I was having a psychological problem. She took me to a fancy New York psychiatrist. During my first session with him, he asked me about the bed-wetting, heard that I was losing weight, and watched me drink three sodas. He was the one who realized what was going on and told Mom to make an appointment with my pediatrician. Mom did. Two weeks later, I was learning how to give myself insulin and monitor my blood sugar level.

Diabetes is a problem with a gland in your body called the pancreas. The pancreas makes insulin, which is a hormone. What insulin does is use the sugar and starch that your body takes in when you eat to give you heat and energy and to break down other foods. When the pancreas doesn't make enough insulin to do the job, then glucose from the sugars and starches builds up in your blood and makes you sick. And not just a
little sick. If you don't treat diabetes properly, you could
die.

Well,
I
practically died when I first heard that. But then the doctor explained that you can give yourself insulin every day to keep the right amount in your body. When you take insulin and control your diet, you can lead a normal life.

It was a lot of responsibility. I would have to watch what I ate
and
make sure I was getting the right amount of insulin. As much as they wanted to, Mom or Dad couldn't always do that for me. Still, I feel weird having to check (or sometimes inject) insulin in front of my friends. I don't like the thought of them thinking I'm sick.

Before I got diabetes, I really had it pretty easy. I'm an only child. For as long as I could remember, I'd lived in a large apartment in a nice, safe building with a doorman on the Upper West Side in New York City. I had my own bedroom with windows that looked out over Central Park. I went to a private school. I didn't have any pets, and, of course, no brothers or sisters, but I wasn't lonely. I had lots of friends at school and in my building, and my parents let me invite them over whenever I wanted. Mom and Dad seemed to be pretty cool parents—a little pushy, maybe, and more involved in my life than I liked, but that
was it. They let me dress the way I wanted, go out with my friends after school, and play my stereo at top volume as long as the neighbors didn't complain.

Then, right before I began to get sick, Mom found out that she and Dad couldn't have any more children. They'd been trying for a long time, but they hadn't been able to have a brother or sister for me. It was unfortunate that they got that news just before I got the diabetes. What if I died? I'd be gone and they wouldn't be able to have another child. Suddenly, they were faced with the possibility of
no
children—no children of their own, anyway.

That was sad, but the upshot of it was that, practically overnight, Mom and Dad became the world's two most overprotective parents—and not just where food and insulin were concerned. Suddenly, they began to worry about me when I wasn't home. Mom would call me at my friends' apartments after school to make sure I was all right. She even called me at school every noon until the headmistress suggested that it wasn't very healthy for me, and reminded Mom about the nice, qualified school nurse.

Then began the business with the doctors. My parents became convinced that they could find
either a miracle cure or a better treatment for me. They never doubted that I had diabetes; they just couldn't leave it alone. They made Helping Stacey their new goal in life.

Unfortunately, they weren't helping me at all. I was losing friends fast, and being yanked out of school to see some new doctor every time I turned around didn't make things any better. Laine Cummings began to hate me the night I wet the bed we were sharing. I didn't blame her for being mad, but why did she have to be mad for so long? We'd been best friends since we were five. Laine said that the real reason she was mad was that I had spent a lot of time at the slumber party that night talking to Allison Ritz, a new girl. But I don't know. Laine acted strange after I wet the bed, stranger still the first time I had to stay in the hospital, and even stranger after I started going to all those doctors. Maybe I should have told her about the diabetes, but for some reason, my parents kept the truth a secret from their friends, so I did the same. In fact, I didn't tell anyone the truth until we left New York and started over again in Connecticut. I finally told Claudia, Kristy, and Mary Anne my secret. But Laine still doesn't know, and even though her parents are my parents' best friends, they don't
know, either. I don't see what the big deal is, but I guess it doesn't matter now.

At the beginning of my illness, hospital visits couldn't be avoided. I needed tests, I had to have my diet and insulin regulated, and once I fainted at school and went into insulin shock and the ambulance came and took me to St. Luke's. If one of my friends got that sick, I would have called her in the hospital and sent her cards and visited her when she went home. But not Laine. She seemed almost afraid of me (although she tried to cover up by acting cool and snooty). And my other friends did what Laine did, because she was the leader. Their leader. My leader. And we were her followers.

The school year grew worse and worse. I fainted twice more at school, each time causing a big scene and getting lots of attention, and every week, it seemed, I missed at least one morning while Mom and Dad took me to some doctor or clinic or other. Laine called me a baby, a liar, a hypochondriac, and a bunch of other things that indicated she thought my parents and I were making a big deal over nothing.

But if she
really
thought it was nothing, why wouldn't she come over to my apartment anymore? Why wouldn't she share sandwiches or go
to the movies with me? And why did she move her desk away from mine in school? I was confused and unhappy and sick, and I didn't have any friends left, thanks to Laine.

I hated Laine.

In May, Mom and Dad announced that we were moving to Connecticut. I didn't have any friends there, but I didn't have any left in New York, either, so what did it matter? They said they were moving because Dad wanted to transfer to a different branch of the company he worked for, but somehow I knew they were moving partly because of me—to get me out of the city, away from the sooty air and the dirt and the noise, away from all the bad times and bad memories. They were overreacting and I knew it.

But I didn't care.

I might have continued to moon away all evening, except that my thoughts (all by themselves) suddenly turned to something much more interesting: boys. All boys are pretty interesting, but I like two in particular. One is Kristy's brother Sam. He's the one who's fourteen, a freshman at Stoneybrook High. I know he liked
me
the first time we met. I was baby-sitting for Kristy's little brother, and Sam came home, and his jaw nearly fell off his face when he saw me in the kitchen. I thought he was cute, too, and my own jaw nearly fell off. We had fun together that day, but not much has happened since. I don't know why. I look exactly the same, I haven't done anything to offend him, and although I go over to Kristy's sometimes, hoping to see Sam, I never bug him. Maybe I'm just too young for him.

I don't worry about him much, though. I have a sort-of boyfriend in my own grade now. His
name is Pete Black. He and I had been sitting at the same lunch table with Claudia and the other kids in the group she introduced me to—Dori, Emily, Rick, and Howie—since almost the beginning of school, but nothing special had happened with Pete until a couple of weeks ago, when he asked me to go to the Halloween Hop with him. Of course I said yes, and we went and had a wonderful time. Now we always sit next to each other in the cafeteria, and some evenings, Pete phones me just to talk.

“Knock, knock,” called a voice from the other side of my bedroom door.

Mom.

I didn't really feel like talking to her.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Honey, are you feeling all right?” She asked the question even before she sat down on my bed.

“Yes. Fine.” I hear that question about ten times a day.

“You didn't eat much dinner tonight.”

“I wasn't hungry.”

Mom began to look panicked. “You weren't snacking over at Claudia's, were you?”

“Mother.
Of course not.” The thing is, I
am
allowed a certain amount of sweet stuff each day. In fact, I
have
to eat a certain amount of sweets in order to maintain that delicate balance between food and insulin. My diet is so exact, though, that I can't just snack whenever I feel like it. I can't, for instance, suddenly decide to eat a Twinkie or something over at Claudia's and then make up for it by giving myself extra insulin. It just doesn't work. In fact, it's a good way to make myself sick. So you can see why Mom panicked at the thought of my snacking. But for heaven's sake, doesn't she trust me?
I
don't want to get sick, either.

“Honey, I was just asking…. Are you really feeling fine?”

“Yes.”

“But you've lost three pounds.”

“I can't help it. Maybe I'm more active now that I have some friends. Maybe we need to increase my diet.”

“Are you hungry all the time?”

“Not all the time. Not like I was before we knew I had diabetes. But sometimes it seems like an awfully long time from one meal to the next.”

“You weren't hungry tonight, though.”

“No….” I didn't want to talk about the Babysitters Club.

“Well, I'll call the doctor on Monday.”

“Which one?” My main doctor, the specialist my pediatrician sent me to when the diabetes was first discovered, is in New York. Her name is Dr. Werner. But of course I have to have a doctor here in Stoneybrook, too, so Dr. Werner referred us to Dr. Frank. Both doctors are nice, but I like Dr. Werner better.

“I'll call Dr. Frank, I guess,” said Mom. “I don't think we need to bother Dr. Werner.”

I nodded.

Mom opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, hesitating. After a few more silent seconds, she said, “Just so you're prepared, dear—”

I cringed. Whatever was coming didn't sound good.

“—I want you to know that you're going to be scheduled for a series of tests with a new doctor in New York at the beginning of December.”

I groaned.

“He's someone Uncle Eric heard about on a television program.”

“We're going to a doctor because Uncle Eric saw him on TV?” I exclaimed.

“Honey, supposedly he's working miracles with diabetes. After Uncle Eric saw him, I found two articles about him in medical journals, and then
Profiles
magazine did a long interview with
him. It was very impressive. He's getting a lot of attention right now.”

“Did Dr. Werner say we should go see him?”

“No.”

“Dr. Frank?”

“No.”

“Have you even discussed this with them?”

“No.”

“But, Mom,
why?
Why do I have to see another new doctor? There's no way to treat what I've got except with the diet and the insulin, and that's just what we're doing.”

“There are always new developments, Stacey,” said Mom quietly. “Your father and I want the best for you.”

“We've
got
the best.”

“It's only for three days.”

“Three days! Three
days?
Do you know how much school I'll miss? And it'll all be for nothing. It always is. I spent sixth grade falling farther and farther behind, trying to keep up. Now I've started over in a new place, away from New York City, and you're going to keep dragging me back there and ruining my life? Mom, it's not fair.”

“Hey, hey, hey. What's going on here?” Dad poked his head in my door.

“The doctors, Dad. More doctors. I don't mind
going to New York to see Dr. Werner, but don't make me keep looking for a miracle. Miracles don't happen. If
you
want to look, fine, but don't make me search with you.”

“Young lady,” said my father. “I don't appreciate your tone of voice.”

I didn't answer him.

“We're doing this because we love you,” said Mom.

“I know.”

“We want what's best for you,” added Dad.

“I know.”

“All right.” Dad sounded tired.

“I'll tell you about the new doctor some other time,” said Mom. My parents left the room.

As soon as they closed the door, I heard the phone ring. A few seconds later, Dad called, “Stacey! For you.”

“Coming!” I shouted.

I picked up the extension in my parents' bedroom, since Mom and Dad were downstairs. “Hello?” Half of me hoped the caller was Pete. The other half hoped for Sam Thomas.

It was Kristy. “Hi,” she said glumly. “I've been thinking.”

“Oh, good! About the club, I hope.”

“What else? We didn't get nearly enough done
at our meeting this afternoon. I think we need to hold a special planning session.”

“Great idea. I'll do anything for the club.”

“Hey, thanks!” said Kristy. She sounded slightly less grim.

“Sure,” I said. “I don't want anything to happen to the club.” Oh, boy. If she only knew how
badly
I didn't want anything to happen to it.

“Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock, club headquarters,” said Kristy. (The club headquarters, of course, are in Claudia's bedroom.)

“I'll see you then,” I said. We hung up.

I thought about our club problem for a long time before I fell asleep that night.

The next day, Kristy was running in high gear. I'd never seen her so hyper. For one thing, instead of sprawling on the floor the way she usually did during a meeting, she took over Claudia's desk, sitting up very tall in the straight-backed chair. For another thing, she was wearing a visor. And she was holding a clipboard and had stuck a pencil over her ear.

Mary Anne, who was perched in a director's chair, exchanged glances with Claudia and me on the bed. I could tell that Mary Anne and Claudia wanted to laugh at Kristy's overzealousness. But for some reason, I didn't.

“All right, the meeting will come to order,” said Kristy brusquely. Mary Anne and Claudia calmed down. I gave my full attention to Kristy.

“Now,” she began, one foot tapping insistently against a chair leg, “I've drawn up a list of ways to improve ourselves as baby-sitters and make us look better to our clients.

“Number one, we will do housework at no extra charge. Our clients will get the benefits of mother's helpers at baby-sitters' prices.”

Claudia groaned. “I
hate
housework.”

“Do you want to start losing jobs to Liz and Michelle?” Kristy asked her crisply.

“No,” grumbled Claudia.

“Number two,” continued Kristy, “we will offer special deals to our best customers.”

I nodded my head vigorously.

“Number three, we will each make up a ‘Kid-Kit' to bring with us when we sit.”

“What's a ‘Kid-Kit'?” asked Claudia.

“I was just about to explain,” said Kristy.

“It's something that will not only make us look like dedicated baby-sitters to the parents but will be really fun for the kids. You know how you like to go over to your friends' houses because your
friends always seem to have better stuff than you do? Better food, better things to do, and—when you were little—better toys?”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed. “In New York I had this friend named Laine. I loved to go to her apartment because her mother would buy Milky Way bars and keep them in the freezer. Biting into one of those was like biting into a frozen chocolate milk sha—”

I broke off, realizing that Claudia, Kristy, and Mary Anne were staring at me.

“Oh, well, that was
before
I got sick,” I added. “Anyway, I know what you mean.”

“Yeah,” said Mary Anne. “I like Kristy's house because of her big family and Louie.” (Louie is the Thomases' collie.)

“When I was a kid, I liked your house, Claud, because of all those board games you used to have,” said Kristy, smiling. “Anyway, what we really like is the change of pace—new things or different things. So I thought, what better way to make a kid happy than to bring him some new things? Not
really
new, but new to the kid, and not to keep, of course, just to play with while we're there. The kids will
want us
to baby-sit because we'll be like a walking toy store. They probably
won't even want us to leave, which should look good to the parents.

“See, what each of us will do is decorate a carton and label it ‘Kid-Kit.' When we're going to sit somewhere, we'll fill it with games, toys, and books of our own, plus some things like paper and crayons that we'll have to replace from time to time. We can pay for them with our club dues. Then we'll each bring the kit along with us. The kids will love it.”

“Great idea!” I said.

“I do have two more thoughts,” Kristy went on.

She was speaking hesitantly, and I noticed Claudia glance at her sharply.

“Number four is lower rates.” (This caused another groan from Claudia.)
“Just enough
lower,” said Kristy defensively, “to undercut the Babysitters Agency.”

“But we don't know what they earn,” I protested.

“We will soon,” said Kristy. “I'll find out. And number five is … is to do what the agency does—take on late jobs or jobs we can't handle by giving them to older kids. Sam and Charlie baby-sit sometimes, and Janine cou—”

“NO!” cried Claudia. “No. Kristy, this is getting out of hand. The Kid-Kit is a good idea, but
lower rates and housework and giving away our jobs? No, no, no. If that's what this club is going to become, then I don't want to be in it.”

“Me, neither,” said Mary Anne softly.

Not be in the club?
If both of them left, there wouldn't
be
any more club. They didn't mean it. They didn't
really
mean it. What would I do without the club? Talking to Pete on the phone was nice, and sitting with the group in the cafeteria was fun, but those kids weren't true friends like Claudia and Kristy and Mary Anne.

I needed the club.

“You guys,” I said, “I don't want the Babysitters Club to fall apart. We can't let Liz and Michelle beat us. We have to prove that we can succeed, too.”

“Yes,” agreed Claudia, “but not the way Kristy said. That's—that's—what's the word?”

“Degrading?” suggested Mary Anne.

“Yes. That's it. Degrading.”

“Well, what do
you
think we should do,” snapped Kristy, “since you know so much?”

“I think,” said Claudia, “that we should use two of your ideas—the Kid-Kit and the special deals—and save the other things, especially number five, as last resorts.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” said Mary

Anne. “Anyway, we wouldn't want to use up all your ideas at once.”

“That's true,” I said.

“All right,” said Kristy with a sigh. She sent me a troubled look. I shrugged. Kristy knew I was on her side, but we both realized that we shouldn't overdo things.