Claudia Kishi, Live From WSTO! (3 page)

Whoa, did that feel good! I started giggling.
Then I forced myself to stop. Do not NOT NOT get your hopes up, I thought. Probably dozens — hundreds — of kids would be entering. Kids who deejayed in summer camp. Whose parents were in the radio business. Who worked on school "radio stations" broadcast over P.A. systems. Who could write Pulitzer Prize-winning essays.
I had to be realistic.
One thing was sure: I did not want anyone to know about this. That way, if I won, I could surprise them all with the good news, but if I lost, I could just keep the humiliation to myself.
I took the essay out of the printer, folded it, and put it in an envelope. Before I stuck it in my shoulder bag, I gave it a little kiss.
"Tomorrow we expect a high in the low fifties, cooler by the Sound ..." It was Monday, 5:29. I was in my bedroom, along with the other members of the BSC, listening to my clock radio. Well, I was listening to the radio. Everyone else was gabbing about I don't know what.
I was a train wreck. For five days I had not stopped thinking about my essay. I rewrote it over and over in my mind. I couldn't sleep.
And now, the Big Day had arrived. Today the winner was going to be announced.
When? On which show? I had no idea. I hadn't paid attention to that part.
Which meant I had to listen to everything.
Beeeeep. "WSTO news time is five-thirty,'* said the announcer.
"Order!" barked Kristy.
I managed to zap myself back into reality.
Dawn held up the BSC's "treasury," a ma-nila envelope. "Dues day!" Everyone muttered and grunted and reached for money. (No complaining from me, though. I don't mind dues. Mainly because they help pay my phone bill.) "And now, from the sixties," the WSTO deejay was saying, "an old, moldy, good, and goldy! Here are the Beatles with — " "Claudia, could you turn that thing off?" Kristy said.
"I love the Beatles!" I blurted out. (Okay, I was exaggerating.) "Since when?" Kristy asked.
"Well, uh, okay, I'll lower it." I turned the knob (slightly) and changed the subject. "Um, anybody want Skittles?" "Me! Me!" a chorus of voices answered.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the Beatles wailed.
I dug the Skittles out of my sock drawer. No one seemed to mind the song much. Soon it was business as usual — munch, gab, gab, munch. I kept quiet, my ears tuned to the radio.
The phone must have rung, because I noticed Kristy snatching up the receiver. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," she said. "Okay. We'll call you right back." Then she hung up and announced, "We need two sitters for the Barrett/ DeWitt kids on Saturday." Mary Anne looked in the record book. "Let's see, Dawn's free, and so are you, Kristy." Kristy called Mrs. DeWitt back. "It'll be me and Dawn, Mrs. DeWitt. . . . Okay, 'bye." Kristy hung up. The radio droned on: "We have a three-mile backup on Route Ninety-Five. . . ." Kristy yawned. Jessi and Mal were playing Hangman on the floor. Mary Anne was scribbling in the notebook. Dawn and Shannon were looking at a magazine.
And I was listening to: "... allow at least a half hour leaving Stamford to the east ..." Kristy reached for the radio. "This is giving me a headache." "No, don't!" I snapped.
Rrrrrrinnnng! Saved by the phone. I leaned over the radio, blocking Kristy, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club!" I said.
"Yes, hello, dear. This is Ginger Wilder, and I was wondering if someone was free on — " "And now we have for you the winner of our Host of the Month contest . . . ontest ... on-test ..." the announcer intoned (with lots of reverb).
"Aaaagh! Mrs. Wilder, can I call you back?" I said.
"Oh, my. Is something wrong?" Mrs. Wilder asked.
"About five minutes, okay? Sorry!" "Fine. I'll be h — " Click.
I hung up. I cannot believe how rude I was. Around me were six dropped jaws and twelve bewildered eyes.
I turned up the radio. "We have read them all," the announcer said. "And they were ter-rrrrri/ic! But we believe we have a winner. The first place essay for the WSTO Ho-o-o-o-st of the Month contest was written by . . ." A drumroll began. I wanted to die. I was sitting there with my stomach inside out, and they were playing a drumrolll "Would you mind telling us what is going on here?" Kristy said testily.
"Sssshhhh!" I hissed.
"Claaaaaaaaudia Kishiiiiiiiiii!" blared the announcer.
I did not react. I did not even smile. I couldn't. My body had frozen and my heart had stopped.
No. It was a joke. He was kidding. Or he was wrong. He read the wrong name. That had to be it.
"Claudia is an eighth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School who likes art, reading mysteries, and fine dining . . ." "Fine dining?" Kristy murmured.
"Aaaaaaaaaaagh!" I shrieked. "I won! I won!" I jumped up and started falaping around the room.
Everyone else was staring at the radio as if it had suddenly grown horns.
"So, Claudia," the announcer went on, "if you're within the sound of my voice right now, please call five-five-five-WSTO. To repeat, that's — " I was already on the W.
The phone rang on the other end — once, twice, three times.
I thought I would faint.
I caught Mary Anne's glance. She was grinning at me. Tears were forming in her eyes.
Finally I heard a male voice say, "WSTO, Radio Stoneybrook." "Huck — heck — hum . . ." Lovely. I'd won the contest of my dreams, and a frog had jumped down my throat.
"Excuse me, could you speak louder?" the voice asked.
"I'm Caudia Klishi!" I stammered.
"Yes, what can I do for you?" "Claudia Kishi! I'm Claudia Kishi! I won the Host Contest!" "Oh! Hey, congratulations! That was some essay!" "Thanks." "Listen, the station manager, Mr. Bullock, would like to tell you about the job in person. Say, tomorrow after school? Four-thirty or so?" "Sure!" He gave me directions. I grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled them down on a candy wrapper.
After blabbering a good-bye, I calmly, quietly hung up.
"Ya-hoooo!" Kristy whooped.
The room exploded. Mary Anne and Dawn threw their arms around me. Jessi and Mal jumped up and down, squealing.
"You're a star!" Dawn said.
"How come you didn't tell us you entered?" Kristy asked.
"I wanted it to be a surprise!" I explained.
For the rest of the meeting we talked about nothing else. I celebrated by digging out a box of Hostess chocolate cupcakes. (We almost forgot to call Mrs. Wilder back.) I could not wait to tell my family the news.
Chapter 4.
You know who's really, really great? My sister, Janine. I mean it.
Here's what happened when I broke the news at dinner: Mom and Dad smiled. Then Mom asked if the show would interfere with my schoolwork. Dad wanted to know if I would be paid.
Janine? She immediately ran into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a bottle of ginger ale and four wine glasses.
"A toast to Claudia, the first media celebrity in the family!" she announced.
"Hear, hear!" Dad said.
Janine was the first to clink glasses with me. She was wearing this huge grin.
I almost cried.
Between dinner and bedtime, every single BSC member called. Dawn gave me a list of songs to play (ecology-oriented, of course). Kristy told me her brother, Charlie, had agreed to drive me to the radio station the next day. Then she asked about seven hundred questions about the show. Shannon, Jessi, Mal, and Mary Anne each had questions of their own. 1 must have said "I don't know" a hundred times.
This distressed me. Was I supposed to know? Was Mr. Bullock really expecting me to come to the meeting with suggestions? Of course he was! I had written in my essay that I had good ideas flying around my brain. I had exaggerated. A lot.
Now what? Should I bring tapes to the interview? A list of talk-show-type topics? A list of people to interview? Or was this supposed to be a call-in show?
What had I gotten myself into?
That night I had nightmares. The entire world was listening to WSTO. Kids riding bikes and wearing headphones. Shoppers in malls. A capacity crowd in a sports arena with enormous speakers on stage, wailing: "And now, WSTO presents what you've all been waiting for — Claudia Kishi!" And then, dead silence.
By morning I must have sweated off ten pounds.
I sleepwalked through school the next day. After last period, I walked to the front door, clutching my directions to the station.
Kristy was waiting for me there. Mary Anne and Dawn joined us soon after.
"Your barrette is crooked/' Dawn said, reaching toward my hair.
"This is exciting," Mary Anne said, squeezing my hand.
"I'll go in with you if you want," Kristy volunteered.
"Uh, I don't think so, Kristy," I said.
"Hold still!" Dawn warned.
"Guys, it's not that big a deal!" I insisted.
HONK! HONK! Saved by the Junk Bucket.
That's the name of Charlie Thomas's car, for exactly the kinds of reasons you'd expect. It is air-conditioned by two holes in the floor. You have to open the right front window with a monkey wrench. The rear floor is carpeted with crushed soda cans.
Kristy opened the back door, picked up an old T-shirt from the floor, and wiped off the seat. "Enter," she said.
"Good luck!" Mary Anne and Dawn shouted.
I climbed in back and Kristy got in front. "Thanks," I called out the window.
"I'll take good care of her," Kristy assured them. Then she yelled to a group of kids standing in front of the car: "Clear, please! Radio star coming through." Bang! Clank! Rrrrroar! The Junk Bucket's noise was enough to scatter everybody.
We were off.
"Where to?" Charlie asked.
I read him the directions, and he clanked away from the school. His radio was turned up so loud, I expected the police to pull us over. The station? WSTO, of course.
"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog," sang the voice of Elvis Presley.
"Don't they play any good stuff?" Charlie asked.
"They will on Claud's show," Kristy replied confidently. "Right, Claud?" "I guess," I said.
"Not to mention the guest appearances," Kristy barged on. "You will have kid guest appearances, right?" "Well, I don't know." "Or, like, a comedy hour," Charlie chimed in. "I memorized this Robin Williams routine and — " "Hour?" Kristy shot back. "Don't be a hog, Charlie." I sighed. Already this show was overwhelming me.
The radio station was on the outskirts of Stoneybrook, in a low, tan brick building near the highway. Two tall towers stood next to it, with blinking lights on top. The Junk Bucket chugged noisily into the parking lot.
While Charlie waited in the car, Kristy walked inside with me to a small reception area. A young man sat at a desk, wearing a telephone headset and sipping coffee. His desk was piled with memos. On the walls around him hung photographs and plaques.
"Claudia?" he said, looking up.
"Yes," Kristy answered.
"Hi. My name's Max. I spoke to you on the phone — " "I'm Kristy Thomas," Kristy said with a big grin, reaching out to shake the guy's hand.
He gave her a puzzled look. "You're the assistant?" he asked.
Kristy's eyes lit up. "Sure!" "No!" I exclaimed.
All three of us laughed. I gave Kristy a sharp nudge in the ribs.
Max pressed a button on his telephone console and said, "The first-place girl is here, Mr. Bullock." Then he said to me, "He'll be out in a second. Have a seat." Almost immediately a tall, thin, gray-haired man with glasses and a great smile walked into the room.
Kristy bounced to her feet.
"Claudia, this is Mr. Bullock," Max said.
Mr. Bullock energetically shook Kristy's hand. "Hello, there, Claudia! Congratulations!" "Uh, Mr. Bullock," I said meekly, standing up. "I'm Claudia." Mr. Bullock looked confused.
Ugh. What a great start.
1 shot Kristy a Look. "This is my friend, Kristy. She'll be waiting outside to take me back." "Great," Mr. Bullock said. He gave Kristy a friendly wink, then turned to me. "Okay, this way, Claudia." I could feel Kristy's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as Mr. Bullock led me down a hallway.
We passed three doors, marked Studio 1, Studio 2, and Studio 3. Through two of them I heard muffled sounds of music. The floors were thickly carpeted, and so were the walls (soundproofing, I guess). At the end of the hallway were two other doors, the one on the left marked Conference Room and the one on the right, Station Manager.
"My office," Mr. Bullock said, opening the door on the right. "Believe it or not, it's highly organized." I tried not to laugh. The place was a pigsty. It looked sort of like my bedroom. 1 sat on a chair that was empty (probably just cleared for the occasion).
As Mr. Bullock began to close the door, I heard Max call out, "Mr. Bullock, the other girl's here." Other girl?
"Terrific," Mr. Bullock said. "Send her in." He stood at the door, smiling. "Here's your assistant, Claudia." "Assistant?" Mr. Bullock nodded. "The second-place winner gets to assist you. Contest rules. And believe me, you'll be glad you have one. A radio show is hard work." From my seat I could not see who was approaching. "Hello, there," Mr. Bullock said into the hallway. "Welcome to WSTO, and congratulations.'' As my assistant walked through the doorway, I froze.
Ashley Wyeth was shaking hands with Mr. Bullock.
Ashley Wyeth, the Artist with a capital A. Ashley Wyeth, who moved to Stoneybrook from Chicago, where she had studied at the country's best art school. Who wore peasant dresses and combat boots and had six ear holes. Who liked my artwork and became my friend — then told me I should quit the BSC and devote my life to "my calling." Who al- most single-handedly turned all my best friends against me.
Needless to say, Ashley and 1 did not remain friends. Not that we became enemies or anything (although the BSC members couldn't stand her). 1 just realized that an artist, especially a kid artist, had to have a life.
Ashley was the last person I'd have expected to see at WSTO. Why on earth had she entered this contest? Did she want old wax records to melt for a sculpture? Was she interested in sketching a microphone?
And why was she wearing normal clothes? Her outfit was a plain, button-down shirt and khaki slacks with running shoes. (She still had six studs in her ears, but I guess you can't plug up the holes, can you?) "Claudia Kishi," Mr. Bullock said. "This is Ashley Wyeth." Ashley smiled. "Hi, Claud. How's your art?" "Great," I replied. "Yours?" "Fine." "So you know each other," Mr. Bullock said. "That's terrific." I forced the sides of my mouth upward into a smile.
Mr. Bullock cleared off another chair, and Ashley and I sat. "Now, I want you to know how thrilled we are to have you two aboard," he said, sitting behind the desk. "As you know, your show will be twice weekly, Thursday and Saturday, for a month. The first show will be a week from this Thursday. You'll be planning and broadcasting the shows. How you two divide your duties is completely up to you. We've never done anything quite like this, so we'll be counting on you for ideas." Gulp.