Dawn and the Impossible Three (6 page)

I planned to talk to Mrs. Barrett about every single one of my grievances, but when she blew through the front door late that afternoon, her perfume trailing behind her, she started praising me right away. She looked around at the tidy house, the tidy children, and the plate of leftover brownies, and said, “Dawn, I swear, you're a
wonder. I don't know how you do it. Thank you so much. Mrs. Pike said you were a real find, and she was right.”

What could I say? All my complaints flew out of my head. So I kissed the kids good-bye and left.

And I listened to Claudia as a friend. I knew she wasn't jealous because I had so many sitting jobs. The truth was that I was practically living at the Barretts'. Mrs. Barrett constantly needed someone to watch the kids, and she constantly called me. A couple of times I hadn't been available, so Kristy or Mary Anne had gone, but Mrs. Barrett said the children, especially Buddy, liked me best.

It was flattering — but I was so busy! Once I had even missed a meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. Mrs. Barrett had promised me she would be home by 5:30, and she didn't get back until 6:05. If she'd been somewhere important, say at a job interview, I wouldn't have minded so much. But she'd just been out shopping with a friend.

On the Monday after the picnic at the Pikes', I finally asked Mrs. Barrett about Marnie's chocolate allergy. I waited until she'd returned for the evening, so she couldn't rush off.

After she'd paid me, I said, “Mrs. Barrett, could I talk to you for a sec?”

Something passed over her eyes then. It was a look — just the briefest look — of fear? Annoyance? I couldn't tell.

Anyway, we sat down in the living room and before I could lose my nerve, I said, “How come
you didn't tell me Marnie's allergic to chocolate?”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Barrett. Sitting cross-legged on the couch in her beautifully tailored suit, she looked chic and fashionable and oh-so-put-together — from the neck down. From the neck up, she looked weary and worried. There were lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, and I caught sight of a few gray hairs. But I knew that she was only thirty-three years old.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “I didn't tell you about Marnie's allergy?”

“No,” I replied. “And I almost gave her a piece of brownie the other day. Mallory Pike stopped me just in time.”

“Thank goodness,” said Mrs. Barrett. And then she added, “Poor baby” as Marnie toddled into the living room and held her arms out to be picked up. Mrs. Barrett pulled her into her lap and rocked her back and forth.

“Does she have any other allergies?” I asked.

“Not that we know of.” Mrs. Barrett kissed the top of Marnie's head.

“What about Buddy and Suzi? I mean, is there anything else I should know?”

Mrs. Barrett's face softened and I thought I was going to hear all about nightmares and
childish fears and favorite foods. Then it hardened again, and she said crisply, “Just one thing. If my ex-husband ever calls, don't let him talk to the children, don't tell him he can see the children, and don't tell him I'm out. Say you're a mother's helper and I'm busy.”

Mrs. Barrett looked as if she was going to say more, but a crash sounded in the playroom, followed by a shriek from Suzi.

“Uh-oh,” said Mrs. Barrett. She hoisted Marnie onto her hip and hurried into the playroom. I followed.

A horrible sight met our eyes. When we had left Buddy and Suzi, they'd been watching a rerun of
The Brady Bunch
on TV. But while Mrs. Barrett and I had been in the living room, they had transformed the playroom into a disaster area. A bowl of water sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by half-full paper cups and jars — and bottles of food coloring. They had been experimenting with the colors, but it had gotten out of hand. Little puddles of pink and blue and yellow water were everywhere. The kids' clothes were streaked, and several stuffed animals now had greenish fur. The shriek had occurred when Buddy had spilled pink water over Suzi's head.

He said it was an accident.

Suzi disagreed.

Mrs. Barrett looked ready to fall apart. She hugged Marnie to her and closed her eyes. I thought she might even cry. Since my mother is a big crier, I know the signs well.

“I'll take care of it,” I told Mrs. Barrett. “Why don't you dry Suzi off? Buddy, go get the paper towels. We'll clean up.”

“How come Suzi doesn't have to clean up?” whined Buddy. “She made a mess, too.”

“I know, but she's all wet. Besides, if you get the towels, I'll show you a trick.”

Buddy hesitated for just a second. “Okay!” he agreed.

Mrs. Barrett took the girls upstairs, and Buddy returned with the towels. I placed one square over a puddle, soaked it up, and then held the towel out for Buddy to see.

“It's pink!” he exclaimed. “Let me try!” So Buddy went around wiping up puddles, and I emptied the jars and cups into the bowl and returned everything to the sink in the kitchen. Then I scrubbed at the stuffed animals, but even after several minutes they still had a greenish cast to them.

Buddy finished with the puddles and we hung several of the colorful paper towels up as artwork.

Then Mrs. Barrett returned with Marnie and a smiling Suzi, and peeped into the playroom.

“Oh, thank goodness, Dawn,” she said. “It looks wonderful in there. I don't know what I'd do without you.” She began to usher me toward the front door. As I put my sweatshirt on, she handed me an extra tip. “For averting a crisis,” she explained. “You're a lifesaver. Each time you sit, the house looks better when you leave than it did when you arrived. I used to be such an organized person, but since the divorce, everything seems overwhelming. Money is a little tight, too. If the children's father would — Oh, well. Anyway, I hope you know how much I appreciate you. I think you're the glue that's holding us together.”

The glue that was holding them together? That was a little scary. It sounded like an awfully big responsibility.

At that moment, the phone rang. “I'll get it!” Mrs. Barrett yelled, but she was too late. We could already hear Buddy on the extension in the kitchen saying, “Hello?”

“Buddy, I told you, you are not to answer the phone!” Mrs. Barrett shouted.

“It's Dad, Mom,” Buddy shouted back.

Mrs. Barrett clenched her teeth.

“He says where are we? He says you were supposed to drop Suzi and me off at his apartment by five-thirty, and he's been waiting for half an hour.”

“Oh-my-goodness-I-completely-forgot!” Mrs. Barrett exclaimed. “Dawn, I'll see you on Wednesday afternoon, right?”

“Right,” I replied. “At three o'clock.” But Mrs. Barrett didn't even hear my last words. She was already rushing for the phone.

Over the next couple of weeks, I baby-sat for the Barretts an awful lot. This did not escape any member of the club. They didn't mind, of course, except when it cut into meetings.

But I minded a few things. Mrs. Barrett's disorganization caused a number of problems. One afternoon when I was sitting, Suzi said she didn't feel well — and immediately threw up all over the kitchen floor. I cleaned up the mess, then held my hand to her forehead and realized she had a fever.

I dialed the number Mrs. Barrett had left by the phone. It was for an employment agency where she had gotten a temporary afternoon job.

The gruff voice that answered the phone said, “Hurley's Garage.”

Hurley's Garage? “I guess you don't have a Mrs. Barrett working there, do you?” I asked.

“Sorry, kid,” replied the man.

“Great,” I said to no one in particular as I hung up the phone. “Mrs. Barrett left the wrong number.”

At that moment, Suzi threw up again.

As I cleaned up the second mess, I racked my brain trying to remember whether Mrs. Barrett had mentioned the name of the agency where she was working. I didn't think she had.

Just in case, I opened the yellow pages of the phone book and scanned the firms listed under
EMPLOYMENT AGENCIES
, but nothing sounded familiar. Then Suzi began to gag again. That time I managed to rush her to the kitchen sink before she got sick.

I put Marnie in her playpen, sent Buddy over to the Pikes', rolled up the rug in the bathroom, and spent the rest of the afternoon there with Suzi, reading to her, and holding her head over the toilet every time she had to throw up.

She was miserable. I was angry at her mother.

When Mrs. Barrett came home, I told her, rather crossly, about the mixed-up phone number. She apologized, but it was a little late for that.

If Suzi hadn't needed her so badly, I might have said more to her.

Two days later, I came down with Suzi's bug and spent hours in the bathroom. Mom and Jeff caught the bug from me, and the Pike kids caught it from Buddy, who had been spreading it around the afternoon I sent him to their house while I was taking care of Suzi.

Another day, as Mrs. Barrett rushed out the door, Buddy called plaintively after her, “Hey, Mom, my homework …”

“I'll look at it tonight,” she called to him, and continued down the walk.

Buddy burst into tears and ran to his room.

I ran after him, pausing in his doorway. “Hey, old Buddy. What's the matter? Can I come in?”

He was lying facedown on his bed, but I saw him nod his head.

I sat next to him and patted his back. “Can you tell me what's wrong?” I asked.

He hiccupped. “My homework.”

“Do you need help with it?”

“I need
Mom's
help.” He rolled over and looked at me mournfully.

“Are you sure I won't do? I'm pretty smart,” I told him. “I'm in seventh grade.”

Buddy managed a smile. “It's not that. We're
studying families. We're supposed to make a family tree tonight, starting with our grandparents. You won't know their names.
I
don't know them. They're just Gram and Gramps and Gee-ma and Gee-pa. And I have to bring it to school
tomorrow
and it's our first homework ever and I want it to be good.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And Mom said she'd help,” Buddy moaned, “but she won't. Not really. She's always too tired at night to do anything.”

“Well, let's make it easy on her,” I suggested. “Why don't we make the tree part, and then she can tell you the names to fill in. Do you know how many aunts and uncles you have?”

Buddy nodded uncertainly.

So I busied the girls with some toys, and then Buddy and I set to work. It took a lot of questioning and two phone calls to Mrs. Pike, but we finally figured out where the Barrett relatives belonged on the tree. Then I showed Buddy how to make boxes and lines and spaces. When he was finished, he had a beautiful blank tree. I just hoped it was accurate. If it wasn't, he'd have a lot of erasing to do.

A week later, Buddy showed up at my house after school. He'd never done that before. When
I opened the door, he didn't say a word — just held out a large piece of paper. It was his completed family tree. A gold star was glued to the top.

“My teacher loved it,” he told me. “Thanks for helping me, Dawn.”

“You're welcome, Buddy,” I replied, and gave him a hug. But all the while, I was thinking that Mrs. Barrett should be hugging Buddy for his good work.

Apparently, David Michael was more interested in talking than in snacking. Stacey fixed him a plate of crackers and peanut butter and poured him a glass of juice, but he hardly looked at the food.

“Stacey,” he said, “when you moved, did the men pack up
every
thing in the van?”

“Oh, yes,” she said reassuringly. “Every last thing. Nothing was left behind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

David Michael began to look tearful. “Do you have any pets?” he asked.

“No,” Stacey replied, puzzled. Then suddenly she caught on. “Oh, David Michael,” she cried.

“They won't put
Louie
in the van. Dogs don't go in vans.”

“I hope not. Louie doesn't like dark places.” “Anyway, you're only moving across town. Your mom will drive Louie to Watson's house in the car. Louie likes car rides, doesn't he?”

David Michael brightened. “He loves them!” “Has he ever been to Watson's house?” David Michael nodded. “A few times.” “See? He'll even know where he's going. No big deal.”

A pause. Then, “Stacey, moving vans sometimes have accidents.”

“They do?” Stacey said, wondering what David Michael was getting at now.

“Yesterday I saw a TV show where this van was driving along a mountain road and suddenly it had an accident and it skidded and went
shwooo
” (David Michael demonstrated the van sailing over a cliff.) “down the mountain and the doors flew open and things fell out and a man found the accident and saw a teddy bear on the ground all squashed and ripped. Also a tricycle with the wheels bent.”

“But, David Michael, there are no mountains here in Stoneybrook. It'll only take a few minutes to drive from Bradford Court to Watson's house.

Anyway, our moving van traveled from New York City to Stoneybrook with no problems at all —”

“The lamp broke.”

“— and Dawn Schafer's moving van traveled from California to Connecticut without any trouble. That's three thousand miles…. I
know
our lamp got broken. So did a vase. But moving men aren't perfect.”

“Well, I don't want them moving my space station.”

“I bet if you tell your mom that, she'll take it to Watson's in the car sometime. Or Charlie will. He'll be able to drive by then.”

David Michael nodded. He bit an infinitesimally small corner off of one of the crackers. Stacey had the feeling that the moving van wasn't
really
what was worrying him. She waited patiently.

David Michael returned the rest of the cracker to the plate, then let loose with a barrage of nervous questions. “When we move to Watson's, who will be my friends? Where will I go to school? Will I still see Patrick and Frankie?” (Current friends.) “Where will I sleep? Where will my mom sleep? Where will Louie sleep? What if Louie tries to come back to his old house?” The questions went on and on.

Stacey did her best to answer them, but she didn't think David Michael would stop worrying about the move until it was over.

She mentioned that to Kristy at the next meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. “That's a long time for a little kid to worry,” Stacey pointed out. “It'll be three or four months before you move.”

“Inobutthdobawt.” Kristy had three pieces of saltwater taffy in her mouth. Claudia, the junk food junkie, had been sent a box of it by her aunt and uncle who were visiting Atlantic City in New Jersey. She had hidden the candy in her room, along with her Ho Hos and Ding Dongs and M&M's, and had handed around pieces at the beginning of the meeting. We all had gooey mouthfuls of the stuff, except for Stacey, who's diabetic and can't eat most sweets.

Stacey giggled. “What?” she asked Kristy.

Kristy swallowed several times. “I know,” she said at last, “but there's nothing we can do about it. Mom and Watson aren't getting married until the end of September. Mom knows David Michael is scared, so they talk about the move sometimes. A little too often, in my opinion.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I don't want to hear about the move day in and day out. I'm not thrilled with the
idea, either — but for different reasons.”

Mary Anne looked solemnly out the window. “I can't believe you won't be next door to me anymore,” she told Kristy. “All my life, when I've looked out my side bedroom window, I've looked into yours.”

“Yeah,” said Kristy huskily. “Me, too.”

Before things got too sad, I said, “Well, when you look out your new bedroom window, Kristy, you'll look right into Morbidda Destiny's.”

Everyone laughed.

“You know,” said Kristy, “we've been saying that a move across town is really no big deal. I'll still go to Stoneybrook Middle School, and we'll still be friends and all that. But what are we going to do about the meetings of the Baby-sitters Club? And how am I supposed to sit for Jamie Newton and the Pikes and everyone? No one's going to want to drive all the way to Watson's to pick me up, when you guys are right here and can walk to our clients.”

We chewed in thoughtful silence. We must have looked like we were at a funeral.

After a while Claudia spoke up. “Maybe it won't be so bad. You'll get new clients, Kristy. You'll have a whole new neighborhood full of kids to yourself. When you can't handle the jobs,
we'll go. Your move will expand our club. We'll be baby-sitting all over town!”

Claudia's excitement was contagious. She and Mary Anne and Kristy and I reached for more taffy. Stacey reached for a soda cracker.

“But the meetings,” said Kristy, looking downcast again. “Who's going to drive me to Bradford Court three times a week?”

No one could answer her question. I began to have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Can't you ride your bike over?” asked Stacey. “I know it's a few miles, but you don't mind a little exercise, do you?”

“Of course not,” Kristy answered. “I love to ride my bike. But Mom won't let me ride from Watson's to Bradford Court.”

“How come?” I asked. “She lets you ride downtown and stuff.”

“Only with a friend. Safety in numbers and all that,” said Kristy.

“Oh.”

“I mean, she's not strict, but she
is
careful. Even Mom has her limits. Besides, let's say Mom gave me permission to ride across town alone. Okay. It takes about a half an hour each way when you figure in stopping at lights and running into rush-hour traffic. That means I'd have to leave
Watson's at five o'clock for a five-thirty meeting, and I wouldn't get home until six-thirty. In the winter, it would be pitch-black by then.”

The problem was looking bigger and bigger.

“Hey, you guys,” said Claudia suddenly. “We're not thinking. We're assuming we have to go on holding the meetings in my room, but who says so? Just because we've held them here since the beginning doesn't mean it's the only place for them.”

“Then our clients wouldn't know where to reach us,” I said.

“Oh, right.” Kristy, who had just started to look hopeful, dropped her hands into her lap. “Stupid, stupid Watson,” she muttered.

“Hey, Kristy, don't get down on Watson,” I said gently. “It's not his fault. It's not anybody's fault.”

“A lot
you
know.” Kristy didn't even bother to look at me.

“I may know more than you think,” I said quietly. “You're not the only one whose parents got divorced.”

“No, but I'm the only one whose mother chose to get married to a jerk who's so rich he lives three and a half miles away on Millionaire's Lane, which is what they should call that gross
street he can afford to live on. And I'm the only one who may have to drop out of the club. The club
I
started.”

“Oh, Kristy!” I exclaimed, forgetting her jab at me. “You can't drop out of the club!”

“No. We won't let you,” said Mary Anne staunchly. “We couldn't run your club without you. It wouldn't be right.”

“Yeah,” said Claudia. “No Kristy, no club.”

Then we all looked at each other with the awful realization of what Claudia's words might mean.