Mary Anne Saves the Day (6 page)

Saturday, January 31

Yesterday, Mary Anne and I baby-sat for the Pikes. I'm really surprised that we were able to pull it off. Hereby let it be known that it is possible: 1) for two people to baby-sit for eight kids without losing their sanity (the sitters' or the kids'), and 2) for the baby-sitters to accomplish this without ever speaking to each other. There should be a Babysitters' Hall of Fame where experiences like ours could be recorded and preserved for all to read about. To do what we did takes a lot of imagination.

Kristy's wrong. Imagination isn't all it takes. It takes a good fight, too. You have to be pretty mad at a person in order even to think about doing what we did at the Pikes' that evening.

Before I go into what happened, though, let me say a little about the Pike kids. The most interesting thing is that three of the kids are triplets — Byron, Adam, and Jordan — identical boys. (Kristy and I can tell them apart, though.) They're nine. The oldest Pike is Mallory, who's ten, and is usually a big help to baby-sitters. After the triplets come Vanessa, who's eight; Nicholas (Nicky), who's seven; and Margo and Claire, who are six and four. They're quite a brood. Actually, they're really good kids, but their parents have raised them liberally (according to my father), and without batting an eye, they do things I'd never
dream
of. For instance, Claire sometimes takes off her clothes and runs around the house naked. No one pays a bit of attention. After a while, she just puts her clothes back on. Also, although each of the kids has to be in bed at a specific time, none of them has to turn out the light and go to sleep until he or she feels like it. As long as they're in bed, they can stay up as late as they want. And they don't have to eat any food they don't like.

Kristy and I showed up at the Pikes' at five o'clock on Friday afternoon. We showed up separately, of course. Actually, I have to admit that I'd sort of been tailing Kristy all the way to the house. Since the Pikes don't live too far from Bradford Court, we were walking to their house, and I wasn't far behind Kristy. I had to go very quietly so she wouldn't know I was there. Once she turned around suddenly, and I had to duck behind a bush so she wouldn't see me. When we reached the Pikes', I hovered around the end of their driveway while Kristy went inside. I waited until the door had closed behind her. Then I rang the bell.

Mr. and Mrs. Pike were in a rush. Mrs. Pike let me in hurriedly and she and her husband started giving Kristy and me instructions. They were gone almost before I knew it. As soon as they left, the kids surrounded Kristy and me. They like baby-sitters.

“What's for dinner?” asked Byron, whose hobby is eating.

“Cold fried chicken or tuna sandwiches,” Kristy replied.

“Can I have both?”

“No,” Kristy said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don't like chicken
or
tuna fish,” Margo complained.

“Then make yourself a peanut butter sandwich,” suggested Mallory.

“Okay,” agreed Margo.

“When do we eat?” asked Byron.

“Six o'clock,” I answered.

“Six-thirty,” said Kristy.

“Can I watch cartoons?” asked Claire.

“Can we make an obstacle course in the living room?” asked Jordan, speaking for the triplets.

“Can I just read?” asked Vanessa, who's quiet. “I'm in the middle of
The Phantom Tollbooth
. ”

“Can I color?” asked Margo.

“Can we start a baseball game?” asked Nicky.

“Can I help make dinner?” asked Mallory.

“Yes, no, yes, yes, no, and yes,” I replied.

The kids laughed. Kristy scowled.

“Let's do something together,” said Adam. “There are ten people. We could do something with teams, five on a team.”

“Hey, Kristy,” I said, suddenly inspired. “How about putting on a play?”

Kristy pretended not to hear me.

It was my turn to scowl.

“Mallory,” I said, “tell Kristy it would be fun to put on a play.”

“Kristy,” Mallory began, “Mary Anne says — Hey, how come she didn't hear you, Mary Anne? She's not deaf.”

“I know.” I tried to think of a way to explain what was going on. “We're … we're playing Telephone.”

“We are? Then wait. Okay, everybody,” Mallory said to her brothers and sisters. “Let's sit down in a line, right here in the living room. And Kristy, you sit at that end, and Mary Anne, you sit at the other end. Now, start the game, Mary Anne.”

Just for fun, I leaned over to Adam, who was next to me, and whispered, “Kristy Thomas is a nosy, bossy busybody.”

Adam giggled. Then he whispered to Jordan, Jordan whispered to Claire, and the game was under way.

By the time the message reached Kristy, she looked puzzled.

“What?” said Mallory. “What did you hear?”

“I heard, ‘Cranky Tommy's nose is a bossy, busy boy.' ”

The Pike kids laughed hysterically.

“Okay, Mary Anne, now tell us what you really said,” cried Mallory.

What I
really
said? I'd forgotten I'd have to do that. There was no way I could tell what I'd really
said. I thought for a moment. “I said, ‘Crystal tambourines —' ”

“No, you didn't,” interrupted Adam. “You said ‘Critical' — I mean ‘Christopher' — I mean … Oh, I don't know what you said!”

Everyone was laughing again. “Kristy, you start one this time,” I suggested.

Kristy ignored me.

Oh, brother.

I whispered to Adam, “Tell Kristy to start the game.”

By the time the message reached Kristy, she said, “Tired carrots take the blame?”

“No,
start
the
game
!” shouted Adam.

We played a while longer, letting different kids take turns being on the ends. Luckily, Kristy and I never had to sit next to each other.

Promptly at six o'clock, Byron looked at his watch and announced, “It's time for dinner! Let's eat!”

“Okay,” replied Kristy. “Into the kitchen, everybody!” She seemed to have forgotten that she'd said dinner was at 6:30.

I could see that she planned to take charge.

“Wash your hands,” I told the kids.

“No, we don't have to,” said Nicky.

“Not unless we want to,” added Margo.

Kristy smirked at me.

In the kitchen, pandemonium broke out. Ten people were scrambling around, getting out plates, forks, spoons, and glasses, and pulling food out of the refrigerator.

Kristy stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly.

Silence.

“Now hold it!” said Kristy.

“We need some order,” I added.

“What?” said Kristy. “Did somebody say something?”

“She said we need order,” replied Mallory.

“We need order,” Adam told Byron.

“We need order,” Byron told Jordan.

“We need order,” Jordan told Vanessa.

“We need order,” Vanessa told Nicky.

“We need order,” Nicky told Margo.

“We need order,” Margo told Claire.

Claire hugged Kristy around the knees and grinned up at her. “We need order, Kristy,” she said. “Whatever that is.”

Kristy actually smiled. “Tell Margo to sit down.”

“Sit down,” said Claire, finding her place at the long table in the kitchen.

Margo sat. “Sit down,” she told Nicky.

Nicky sat. “Sit down,” he told Vanessa.

Vanessa sat. “Sit down,” she told Jordan.

Jordan sat. “Sit down,” he told Byron.

Byron was already sitting down, waiting for food to appear in front of him. “I am sitting,” he said. “Sit down,” he told Adam.

Adam sat. “Sit down,” he told Mallory.

Mallory sat. “Sit down,” she told me.

“No,” I said, smiling. “
I
am going to serve you guys.”

And that's how the rest of dinner went. Not once did Kristy and I have to speak to each other, and the Pike kids never realized anything was wrong. They thought we were playing a great game, and I could tell they were probably going to play it themselves for a long time. I felt slightly sorry for their parents.

By the time we finished dinner, it was after seven o'clock. The meal had taken an unusually long time because every word of conversation had to be repeated nine times and go all the way around the table, with much giggling. I finally put an end to the meal when Nicky, who was sitting between Claire and Jordan, turned to Jordan and said, “Tell Claire she's a hot-dog-head.”

“Claire, you're a hot-dog-head,” Jordan told Vanessa.

“Claire, you're a hot-dog-head,” Vanessa told Adam.

By the time the sentence reached Claire and she said to herself, “Claire, you're a hot-dog-head,” Nicky laughed so hard he spit his milk across the table.

“Okay, guys,” I said. “Dinner's over. Help us clean up and put the dishes in the washer, and then we'll go do something.”

“Do what?” asked Mallory.

“Put on a play,” I said firmly, not bothering to look at Kristy. I didn't care whether she wanted to or not, and I didn't want the question asked ten times before I found out.

When the kitchen was clean (part of being a good baby-sitter is leaving a tidy house behind you), I gathered the kids and a reluctant Kristy downstairs in the rec room. “Now,” I began, “we're going to put on —”

“— whatever you want,” Kristy supplied.

I tried not to look as angry as I felt. I'd been planning on suggesting a Winnie-the-Pooh story because there were so many Pooh characters and I thought that even Claire and Margo would know some of the tales.

But at Kristy's words, everybody started shouting.

“
The Phantom Tollbooth!
” cried Vanessa.

“Spider-Man!” yelled Adam and Jordan.

“
Peter Rabbit,
” suggested Claire.

After about ten minutes of arguing, we decided to put on two plays. Under Kristy's direction, the triplets and Mallory were going to put on a play called
Super-Girl Meets the Super-Nerds
. (A sound effects record was going to be involved.) Under my direction, Nicky, Vanessa, Claire, and Margo were going to put on
Peter Rabbit
. I took them upstairs to rehearse in the living room.

The Pike kids had lots of fun with their plays, and by the time I looked at my watch again, it was 8:30. Yikes! It was time for Margo and Claire to be in bed, and time for Nicky and Vanessa to start getting ready for bed. Furthermore, if Mr. and Mrs. Pike weren't home in about twenty minutes, I wouldn't be home by nine. But they had promised, and they usually kept their promises.

I took Margo and Claire upstairs and put them to bed, while Nicky and Vanessa changed into their pajamas. Kristy stayed downstairs with Mallory and the triplets. When the littlest ones were settled, I closed the door to their room gently.

“You guys want a story?” I asked Nicky and Vanessa.

“Yes! Yes! We're in the middle of
Pippi Longstocking
!”

So we read a few pages. I looked at my watch. Five minutes to nine! What was I going to do? If I left early, the Pikes would be upset. After all, they were paying for two sitters. If I got home late, Dad would be upset.

Luckily, just as I was starting to panic, I heard the Pikes arrive. I shooed Nicky and Vanessa into their bedrooms. “Your mom and dad will say good night to you in a few minutes,” I assured them.

Then I dashed downstairs. There was no time for dignity. “Mrs. Pike,” I said breathlessly, not daring to look at Kristy, “I've got to be home
right now
! It's almost nine.”

“I know, Mary Anne. I'm sorry we're late. We got caught in a traffic jam on the way back. Hop in the car with Mr. Pike, you two,” she told Kristy and me. “He'll give you a lift home. Oh, and he'll pay you when he drops you off.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Bye!”

When Mr. Pike let us off in front of our houses, it was five minutes after nine. He paid us a little extra, since they'd been on the late side, which
was nice of him. Then he drove off. I sprinted for my front door. Just as I reached it, I heard Kristy call from the darkness, “Baby, baby, baby!”

Humiliated, I let myself inside.

My father was waiting for me.

“Hi, Dad,” I greeted him apprehensively.

“Mary Anne, I was just starting to worry.”

“I'm sorry I'm late. The Pikes got stuck in a traffic jam. They couldn't help it…. I couldn't help it.”

“That's all right. It's only five minutes after nine. I know things come up.”

I was so relieved he wasn't upset that I decided to bring up a touchy subject again. “You know, Dad,” I began, “it would be a lot easier on my clients if I could baby-sit just a little later — say until ten. Or even nine-thirty. That would do.”

“Mary Anne,” Dad said gently, “we've been through that. If your clients need someone who can stay out late, then they should look for an older sitter.”

“But Kristy and Claudia and Stacey —”

“I know. They're all allowed to stay out later, and they're the same age as you.”

“Right.”

“But they're not you. And their parents aren't me. I have to do what I think is best for you.”

I nodded.

“And the next time it looks as though you're going to be late — for whatever reason — give me a call to let me know, all right?”

“Okay.”

Was Dad trying to tell me something? Was he saying that I hadn't been responsible? Maybe if I was more responsible, he'd let me stay out later. Maybe he made decisions based on responsibility, not age. It was something to think about.

I began thinking right away, on my way upstairs to bed. I felt that I was already fairly responsible. I always did my homework and I got good grades in school. I was usually on time for things. I usually started dinner for Dad and me. I did almost everything my father told me to do. Still … I supposed there was always room for more responsibility. I
could
have called Dad from the Pikes' instead of panicking. I could start facing up to things I was afraid of.

One of my biggest fears is confronting people and dealing with people I don't know — like picking up the phone to get information, or talking to sales clerks, or asking for directions. Dad knew
all that. Maybe when I stopped avoiding things, he would notice.

Even though my father didn't know about the fight everyone in the Baby-sitters Club had had, I decided that it was really time to do something about it. Whether the fault was mine or somebody else's (or everybody's), I was going to fix things. Now
that
was taking on responsibility.

I realized that the evening at the Pikes' could have been a disaster. If the kids had noticed that Kristy and I were fighting, it would have looked bad for our club. Luckily for us, the Pike kids are easygoing and have a sense of humor.

Luckily.

What if one of the kids had gotten hurt, and Kristy and I hadn't been able to agree on what to do about it? What if the kids had realized what was going on? They might have blabbed to their parents, and our club might have lost some of its best clients.

Besides, trying to run a club without meetings was stupid.

It was time to put the club back together before it fell apart completely. Since Kristy is the club president, I thought that the best way to do it was to make up with her. That was going to be a real challenge. It would take plenty of responsibility.

How to make up with Kristy? Long after I'd turned out my light, I lay in bed thinking. I could try to write her a note — one I could actually send her:

That was good. Short but sweet.

And it was truthful. I really was sorry about our fight, no matter who had started it or whose fault it was. And I really did want to be friends again.

The next morning was Saturday, but I woke up early anyway. I ate breakfast with my father. Then I went back to my room and wrote the note to Kristy.

And
then
— how was I going to get the note to her? If I took it over personally, she'd close the door in my face. Maybe I could leave it in the mailbox, or give it to David Michael to give to her.

No. How could I be sure she'd read it? Maybe
a note wasn't a good idea. But I couldn't think of another way to make up with Kristy.

I was still stewing about it when I heard the phone ring. A few moments later, my father called up the stairs, “Mary Anne! It's for you!”

“Okay!”

As I ran to the phone, one teensy little part of me thought it might be Kristy, calling to apologize to
me
.

No such luck. It was Dawn. But I was glad to hear from her.

“Hi!” I said.

“Hi! What are you doing today?”

“Nothing. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Want to come over?”

“Sure! Right now?”

“Yeah. I don't know what we'll do, but we'll think of something.”

“Okay. I'll be right there.”

“Good,” I said. We hung up.

Dawn rode over on her bicycle, and she reached my house in record time.

I met her at the door and we ran up to my room. The first thing Dawn said was, “Mary Anne, I was thinking as I rode over here, and you know what we forgot to do?”

“What?” I asked.

“Find out if your father and my mother knew each other when they were young.”

“Oh, that's right!” I exclaimed. “Did your mom go to Stoneybrook High?”

“Yup,” replied Dawn. “Did your dad?”

“Yup! Oh, this is exciting!”

“What year did your father graduate?” Dawn asked.

“Gee,” I said slowly, “I don't know.”

“Well, how old is he?”

“Let's see. He's forty-one…. No, he's forty-two. Forty-two. That's right.”

“Really? So's my mom!”

“You're kidding! I bet they did know each other. Let's go ask my father.”

We were racing down the hall and had just reached the head of the stairs when Dad appeared at the bottom. “Mary Anne,” he said, “I've got to go into the office for several hours. I'll be back this afternoon. You may heat up that casserole for lunch. Dawn is welcome to stay, all right?”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad. See you later.”

Dawn nudged me with her elbow. I knew she wanted me to ask Dad about Mrs. Schafer, but it wasn't the right time. Dad was in a hurry, and he doesn't like to be bothered with questions when
he's rushing off somewhere. As soon as he left, Dawn said, slightly accusingly, “Why didn't you ask him?”

“It wasn't a good time. Believe me. Besides, I have another idea. His yearbooks are in the den. Let's go look at them. I used to go through them all the time when I was little, but I bet I haven't opened one since I was nine.”

“Oh goody, yearbooks!” said Dawn.

In the den, we stood before a bookcase with a row of heavy old yearbooks in it. “Why are there so many?” asked Dawn.

“They're my mother's
and
my father's — high school and college. So there are sixteen in all. Now let's see. Here are the Stoneybrook High yearbooks. These are Dad's, since my mother grew up in Maryland. Which one should we look at first?”

“His senior yearbook,” Dawn answered immediately. “It'll have the biggest pictures. What year is this? Oh, this is the year my mom graduated, too! So they were in the same class. I bet they did know each other.”

Dawn pulled the book off the shelf, and I blew the dust from the cover. “Yuck,” I said. We stopped for a moment to look at the book. The year Dad had graduated was printed
across the cover in large, white raised numbers.

We opened it gingerly, as if it would fall apart.

“Here are the seniors,” said Dawn, turning to the front of the book. We peered at row after row of black-and-white photos, the students looking funny and old-fashioned. Under each picture was a little paragraph, words that meant nothing to Dawn and me. Inside jokes, I guessed. I wondered if the people who had composed them would know what they meant twenty-five years later. Under one boy's photo was written: “Thumpers … Apple Corps … Arnie and Gertrude … S.A.B.” Under a girl's was written: “White Phantom Chevy … ‘Broc' junior homeroom … ‘Rebel Rousers' & George.” And one boy had written something that Dawn and I decided must be a code: E.S.R., A.T., DUDE, FIBES, G.F.R…. ALRIGHT.

“He spelled ‘all right' all wrong,” Dawn remarked.

Then we started laughing. “Look at that girl's hair!” I shrieked. “It looks like she blew it up with a bicycle pump!”

Dawn rolled over on the floor, giggling. “Now let's find your dad,” she said. The seniors were in alphabetical order. We flipped through until we reached the
S
's.

“There he is!” I cried, jabbing at the picture in the upper left-hand corner of a page. “There he is! Oh, wow, I forgot how weird he looks! He doesn't look like my father at all. He looks … like an alien!”

“He was only seventeen, I guess, but somehow he looks a lot older,” Dawn pointed out.

“He had a crew cut! Let's see what's under his picture…. This is weird. It says: “To S.E.P.: Don't walk in front of me — I may not follow. Don't walk behind me — I may not lead. Walk beside me — and just be my friend. — Camus.' Who's Camus?” I asked.

“Beats me,” Dawn replied, “but S.E.P. — those were my mother's initials before she got married.”

Dawn and I looked at each other with wide eyes.

“Quick!” exclaimed Dawn. “Turn to the
P
's! We're looking for Sharon Porter.”

Frantically, we flipped the pages back.

“Stop! We're in the
M
's! ”

We went forward a few pages.

“There she is!” shouted Dawn. “Sharon Emerson Porter. That's all it says under her picture. Just her name. No quotes or silly stuff.”

“But she signed Dad's yearbook,” I said, looking at the scrawly message in blue ink that covered Sharon Porter's face.

We leaned over.

“ ‘Dearest Richie,' ” Dawn read.

“Richie!” I cried. “No one calls him
Richie
.”

Mystified, Dawn read on. “ ‘Four years weren't enough. Let's start over. How can we part? We have one more summer. Hold on to it, Richie. (Love is blind.) Always and forever, Sharon.' ”

“I guess they did know each other,” said Dawn at last.

“I'll say,” I said. “I'll say.”