The Truth About Stacey (8 page)

With that, the bell rang, and the Baby-sitters Club silently left the girls' room.

The agency had lit a fire under Kristy. She did call the Kellys and the Jaydells to explain what had happened. They were interested and seemed somewhat friendlier, but Kristy still wasn't sure whether they'd call on the club again. At least the truth had been told.

Then Kristy made plans for us to advertise our club out at Washington Mall. She was already at work on new sandwich boards. Each one would carry a different slogan. We helped Kristy make them up. They were:

YOUNGER IS BETTER!

RESPONSIBILITY + PUNCTUALITY =

THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB

THE FIRST AND FINEST BABY-SITTING SERVICE

QUALITY CARE FOR KIDS

The first trip to the mall was scheduled for the weekend, but I wouldn't be able to go. I'd be suffering torture at the hands of Dr. Barnes.

On Wednesday afternoon, I baby-sat for Jamie. Something was bothering him. He moped around as if he'd lost his best friend. He had greeted me cheerfully enough when I'd arrived, but as soon as Mrs. Newton carried a bundled-up Lucy out the back door, his face fell. He wandered into the rec room, flipped on the TV, and flung himself onto the couch. He didn't even check to see what was on the channel the television was tuned to. Usually, he wouldn't watch anything except
Sesame Street
or
Mister Rogers' Neighborhood

I thought I knew what was wrong. “It must be kind of tough having a new baby at your house,” I suggested.

Jamie shrugged. “It's okay.”

“I bet she cries a lot.”

“Not too much. If Mommy rocks her, she stops.”

I thought for a moment. “I remember when my friend Allison's baby sister was born. Allison hated her.”

Jamie looked surprised. “I don't hate Lucy,” he said.

“Everything is A-OK with the baby?”

Jamie nodded.

“You seem kind of sad,” I said after a while.

Jamie let out a sigh that indicated he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. “Baby-sitters used to be fun,” he said.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Baby-sitters used to play games with me and push me on the swings and color monster pictures and read me stories.”

I couldn't get away from the Lucy angle. “And now they're too busy taking care of the baby?”

“No. Too busy watching TV…. What are
you
going to watch this afternoon?”

“Me? I'm not going to watch TV. I was going to ask you if you wanted to read
Where the Wild Things Are
and draw pictures of Max's monsters.”

Jamie perked up.

“Plus, I brought the Kid-Kit with me.”

“You
did
?! I didn't see. Where is it?”

“It's in the living room. But wait a second, Jamie. Tell me more about your baby-sitters. Are you saying that all they do is watch TV?”

“And they” (he leaned over and began to whisper) “they have accidents.”

“Accidents?” I whispered back.

“Yeah.”

“What kinds of accidents?”

He got up and led me across the room to a chair. “Like this,” he whispered. He poked at something on the cushion.

I looked at it closely. It was a burn mark. In fact, it was a hole. My eyes widened. “One of your sitters did that?” I asked.

Jamie nodded. “With a—a cigarette.” He said “cigarette” as if it were a dirty word. Neither of his parents is a smoker.

“Gosh,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Sometimes they talk on the phone. They talk longer than Mommy and Daddy do…. Stacey?”

“Yeah?”

“What's a boyfriend?”

I gulped. I hadn't been prepared for that question. “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “it's, um, it's a friend who's a boy.”

“Am I your boyfriend?” asked Jamie.

“Not exactly. Listen, Jamie. Who baby-sits for you now? Do you know their names?”

Jamie scrunched up his face. “Tammy,” he said. “And Barbara. And a boy.”

I didn't know Tammy and Barbara or any boy sitters. Maybe they were in high school.

“Well, you know what?” I said. “If you don't like your sitters, you should tell your mommy.
Tell her what you told me, that all they do is watch TV and talk on the phone. And show her the chair. Okay? Can you do that?” I wanted to help the Baby-sitters Club, but I also truly hated to see Jamie so sad.

“Yup.”

“Good boy. Now—you don't
really
want to watch the news, do you?” I said, looking at the blaring television set.

“Yuck.” Jamie jumped up and switched it off.

“What'll it be?” I asked.
“Wild Things
or the Kid-Kit?”

“Kid-Kit!”

“You got it.” I retrieved the Kid-Kit and pulled out the things that would interest an almost-four-year-old. Jamie played happily until Mrs. Newton and Lucy returned.

When I got home that afternoon, I heard the phone ringing. Apparently, Mom was out. I dashed into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, Stacey?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, hi, hon. It's Dr. Johanssen. I was about to hang up.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just got home.”

“Well, listen, I know your Baby-sitters Club
meets in a little while, but I thought I'd try to catch you now. I need a sitter tonight. It's last minute, but it won't be too late, and Charlotte's been asking for you.”

“She has?” I said, feeling very pleased.

“Endlessly,” said Dr. Johanssen cheerfully. “Can you come over at seven?”

“Sure!” I replied. (Ordinarily, I'm not allowed to sit both the afternoon and the evening of a school day, but I didn't have much homework, so I knew it would be all right.)

“Terrific. We'll see you then,” said Dr. Johanssen.

“Bye.” We hung up.

I was pleased for two reasons. Not only was I delighted to have a night job at the Johanssens' (I hadn't had one in quite a while), but I was working on a plan regarding the New York trip, and I needed to discuss something with Dr. Johanssen. I also needed her to answer some questions.

My plan was this: I'd let Mom and Dad take me to their “doctor” on Saturday. I knew what that visit would be like: a lot of questions, especially about my diet and insulin and my medical history, and then maybe a few quick tests, followed by plans for the workup in his clinic on Monday and Tuesday. Just preliminary stuff.
I'd been through it all before. Then I would tell my parents I'd been researching diabetes on my own and that I knew of a doctor
I
wanted to see. That was where Dr. Johanssen came in. I needed her to recommend someone
sensible
to me. Someone who would think that we were handling my disease just fine. Someone like Dr. Werner. Furthermore, the someone needed a fancy office and
lots
of diplomas.

After supper that night, I got the Kid-Kit and a flashlight and took the shortcut through our neighbors' backyards to the Johanssens'. Dr. Johanssen met me at the front door.

“Hi, Stacey,” she said. “I'm glad you could come.” She closed the door behind me and took my coat. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Charlotte, who was doing her homework at the kitchen table. Dr. Johanssen lowered her voice. “Charlotte has been in a funny mood lately,” she told me. “Very quiet, and slightly listless. She says she feels fine, so something's going on that she's not talking about. I have a feeling it's school related, and I've arranged a conference with her teacher. I just wanted you to know so that you won't worry if she seems out of sorts tonight.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“Mr. Johanssen is working late tonight,” Charlotte's mother continued, “and I have a PTA meeting. We'll both be back before nine.”

“All right…. Dr. Johanssen, when you come home, could I talk to you? We're leaving for New York on Saturday, and I have an idea.”

“Certainly, hon. There's something I wanted to tell you anyway.” Dr. Johanssen headed into the kitchen. “Well, sweetie,” she said to Charlotte, “I won't be late. Finish your homework, and then you can have fun with Stacey until Daddy and I get home…. Okay?”

Charlotte nodded.

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye.” Charlotte barely looked up.

I sat down next to her as her mother left the house. “Gosh, homework in second grade. That's pretty important.
I
didn't have homework in second grade.”

“It's just two dumb work sheets,” said Charlotte.

“Do you need any help with them?”

She shook her head. “They're easy. It's dumb, dumb homework.”

“Well, if it's easy, it won't take you long to finish, right?”

“What do you care?”

“Charlotte!” I exclaimed. “Why are you talking to me like that? If you're mad, you better tell me what I did wrong, because I'm not a mind reader.”

Charlotte slouched over her work sheets. “I'm not mad.”

“Well, you sound mad.” I felt as if I were having a fight with Laine Cummings. “I only wanted to know, because when you finish, we can read some of
The Cricket in Times Square.”

“Oh,
sure,”
she said sarcastically.

“Charlotte, what is the matter with you? Your mother said you wanted me to sit for you.”

“I wanted you to come over. I didn't want you to baby-sit.”

“I don't think I understand.”

“Stacey, how come you baby-sit for me?”

“Because I like to,” I replied. “You're one of my favorite kids.”

Charlotte smiled vaguely. Then she asked, “Why do you
really
sit?”

“Because I like kids. And when I moved here, I wanted to meet people.”

“What about the money?”

Money? What had made Charlotte think about
that?
“Well, of course the money's nice. I like to earn money.”

“I thought so.”

“But I like you, too. I wouldn't baby-sit for just anybody. And I'll tell you something. If your mom and dad called me and said, ‘We need you to sit for Charlotte tonight, but we're broke and we can't pay you,' I'd come anyway.”

“You would?”

“Yes. I
told
you I like you.”

“Some baby-sitters only sit because they want money. They don't care about the kids.”

“Which
baby-sitters?” I asked.

“Mmnns,” mumbled Charlotte.

“What?”

“My new ones,” she said quietly.

“Who are your new ones?”

“Michelle Patterson, Leslie somebody, and Cathy Morris.”

“They all told you that?”

“No. Ellie Morris told me.”

“Who's Ellie Morris?”

“Cathy's sister. She's in my class. She hates me.”

Aha, I thought.

Charlotte looked at me sadly. “Ellie said, ‘Oh, Charlotte, you are the teacher's pet, teacher's pet,' and I said, ‘I am not,' and she said, ‘Are, too, and you don't have any friends.' And I said, ‘I have
baby-sitters. They're my friends.' And she said, ‘They are not. My sister Cathy doesn't like you.' And I said, ‘Then how come she sits for me?' And she said, ‘Because your parents pay her a lot of money, stupid.'”

I was beginning to put the pieces together. Charlotte didn't have friends her own age; that much I knew. Apparently, she thought her babysitters were her friends, though. Then Ellie had burst her bubble. Yet Charlotte had been asking for me. If I had come over just to visit (not to babysit), it would have proved I truly was a friend. No wonder she was upset.

“Hey, Char,” I said, “remember when we gave Jamie Newton the Big Brother Party? I invited you. I wasn't baby-sitting for you then.”

“Yeah …” said Charlotte slowly.

“Also, what do Michelle and Leslie and Cathy do when they baby-sit for you?”

“Watch TV. Talk on the phone. Once Leslie brought her boyfriend over.” I raised my eyebrows. “Cathy always does her homework, but she won't help me with mine. She says, ‘I'm busy now.' “

“What do
I
do when I baby-sit?”

“Well, you bring the Kid-Kit. We read stories and take walks and play games.”

“That's being a friend, isn't it?” I asked.

Suddenly, Charlotte gave me a fierce hug.

“Yes,”
she said, “I'm sorry I was mad.”

“That's all right.” I made a mental note to help Charlotte make some friends—some seven-year-old friends—in the neighborhood. One of the Pikes was seven, I thought. Then I told her what I had told Jamie that afternoon—that if she didn't like her new sitters, she should talk to her parents. In particular, she should mention that Leslie had invited her boyfriend over.

By the time Dr. Johanssen returned, Charlotte seemed like her old self.

And Charlotte's mother was very helpful. “It's funny,” she said when I asked about a doctor. “You know what I was going to tell you? I was going to tell you about this very sensible doctor in New York. I guess we were thinking along the same lines.”