Stacey's Emergency (3 page)

Just in case a call should come in that none of us can take (and that does happen every now and then), Kristy signed on two associate members of the club. These are reliable sitters who don't go to meetings, but whom we can call on in a pinch so that we won't have to disappoint our clients. Our associate members are Shannon Kilbourne, a friend of Kristy's in her new neighborhood, and Logan Bruno. He's the guy Mary Anne used to go steady with!

Finally, another of Kristy's ideas was to keep a club notebook. The notebook is more like a diary. In it, each member is responsible for writing up every job she goes on. Then we're supposed to read the notebook once a week to catch up on what's happening with our clients, and also to see how our friends have handled sticky sitting situations. No one likes writing in the notebook much (except Mal-lory), but we have to agree that it's pretty helpful.

"Ahem!"

It was later in the afternoon. Claud and I had finished our talk, and now all of my friends and I had gathered together. Kristy was sitting straight and tall (well, as tall as she could make herself) in Claudia's director's chair. She was wearing her presidential visor and, as usual, a pencil was stuck over one ear.

"Ahem!" Kristy cleared her throat again loudly. She did not have a cold. She was signaling to the rest of us that it was 5:31 according to Claud's digital alarm clock, the official BSC timepiece, and reminding us that she'd called the day's meeting to order a full minute earlier.

What were the rest of us doing? Jessi and Mal were sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed and playing with these paper fortune-telling things they'd made (that, for some reason, they called Cootie Catchers). They kept opening and closing them and reciting, "Ee-nie, meenie, minie, moe. Catch a tiger by the toe. If he roars then let him go. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. My mother said to pick just one, and this ... is ... it!" Then they'd read a fortune written under a flap of paper. (Cootie Catchers are hard to explain.) Claudia, Mary Anne, and I were lined up on Claud's bed, leaning against the wall. And Dawn was straddling Claud's desk chair, sitting in it back-

ward, her chin resting on the top rung.

Claud had unearthed some packages of Ring-Dings and was passing them around. The smell of chocolate was driving me crazy. At least I wasn't the only one not eating them, though. Dawn wouldn't touch them. She nibbled at some crackers instead. I did, too, but the crackers didn't begin to quiet the rumbling in my very hungry stomach — too hungry for that time of day. A Ring-Ding or two might have taken care of things.

Anyway when Kristy began her throat-clearing, we sat at attention. And just in time. The phone rang. Dawn answered it.

"Hello, Baby-sitters Club ... Hi, Dr. Jo-hanssen . . . Next Tuesday? I'll have Mary Anne check. I'll get right back to you. . . . Okay. 'Bye." Dawn hung up and faced the rest of us. "Sitter for Charlotte next Tuesday night from seven till ten."

While Mary Anne looked at the appointment pages in the record book, Jessi and Mal let out groans. A nighttime sitting job. Neither of them could take it. They were disappointed.

"Okay," said Mary Anne, glancing up. "Sta-cey, Kristy, and Dawn are free."

"I've got a history test the next day," said Dawn. "I better stay at home where I can really concentrate while I'm studying."

"You take the job then, Stace," said Kristy.

"You live much closer to Char."

So I got the job. Mary Anne penciled it into the record book, and Dawn phoned Dr. Jo-hanssen to tell her who the sitter would be. That's how we always schedule jobs. Diplomatically. (Okay, usually. But we hardly ever have fights at meetings.)

The rest of the half hour passed busily. The phone rang a lot. (Twice, though, the calls were from Sam Thomas, goofing on us.) At six o'clock, Kristy jumped to her feet, announcing, "Meeting adjourned!"

We all stood up. Mal and Jessi took out their Cootie Catchers again. Kristy looked out the window to see if Charlie had arrived to pick her up. Dawn and Mary Anne hurried toward the door, and Claudia followed them. It was her turn to help with dinner that night.

Since no one was watching, I stuck my hand in the dresser drawer where I'd seen Claudia rehide the Ring-Dings.

I pulled out a package and snuck it into my purse.

Chapter 4.

Ring, ring.

I could hear the telephone in my mother's room. Why doesn't she answer it? I wondered, feeling cranky. Then I remembered that Mom had run over to the Pikes'. (Mallory's house is behind ours. Her back windows face our back windows.) Mom had said she'd be home in fifteen or twenty minutes.

So I would have to get the phone.

"Yuck," I said as I sat up. It was a Wednesday evening. I was lying on my bed, trying to find the energy to start my homework. I hadn't found it yet.

Ring, ring!

The telephone actually sounded impatient. I struggled to my feet and hurried into Mom's room.

"Hello?" I said, placing the receiver to my ear.

"Hi, Boontsie." It was Dad, using his awful baby name for me.

"Hi, Dad!" I tried to sound perky rather than dead tired.

"How are you doing? Are you ready for the weekend?"

"Sure," I replied. The upcoming weekend was a Dad Weekend. (I had conveniently forgotten to call my doctor.) I would leave for New York on Friday afternoon, missing a BSC meeting. (Dawn would get to be the treasurer that day.)

"What train are you taking?" asked Dad.

"The one that gets in at six-oh-four," I replied.

"Great. I'll meet you at the Information Booth at Grand Central then."

"Oh, Dad. You don't have to meet me," I said. (We have this discussion practically every time I go to New York.) "I can get a cab to your apartment."

"You won't have time. I made six-thirty dinner reservations."

"But I'll have all my stuff with me," I pointed out, trying not to whine. "I don't want to lug it around some restaurant."

"Don't worry. You can check your things with our coats. Then we'll have a nice leisurely dinner before we go home."

"Okay." Inwardly I sighed. I had a feeling

that Dad had made lots of plans for the weekend. Sometimes that's okay. But not when I'm so tired. And not when I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. I'd been planning to do some of it in New York. Oh, well. I could work on the train. (I'd be spending three and a half or four hours on the train that weekend.)

Dad did have a lot of plans. It turned out that he'd bought tickets to a Broadway musical for Saturday night. He knew about special exhibits at practically every museum in New York. And he'd made reservations for about sixteen hundred meals. (I don't think my father ever cooks for himself. His refrigerator looks like a hole: empty.)

"Will I get to see Laine sometime?" I asked.

"Sure. She can come to the MOMA with us." (The MOMA is the Museum of Modern Art. It is not Laine's favorite place.)

"Dad? Maybe we could skip the MOMA on Saturday afternoon? Then Laine could come over and we could just hang out and talk."

"Is that really how you want to spend Saturday?" asked Dad.

"Just the afternoon." I yawned.

"You sound awfully tired, honey."

"I guess I am, a little. I've got a lot of school-work." I almost said to Dad then, "Couldn't we cancel this weekend so I could stay at home

and rest and catch up on things?" But I knew I'd hurt his feelings if I did that.

"Well, try to get some extra sleep/' said Dad matter-of-factly. "We've got a big weekend ahead of us."

Tell me about it, I thought. "Okay," I said.

"So I'll meet you at Grand Central at a little after six."

"Right." I stifled another yawn.

There was a pause. Then Dad said, "Is your mother there?"

"No." I didn't mean to sound evasive. I was thinking about the weekend that lay ahead, mentally trying to conjure up some energy.

"Where is she?" asked Dad suspiciously.

Uh-oh. He was going to do it again.

"She's at the Pikes'."

"At this hour?"

"Dad, it's eight-thirty."

"Well, what's she doing over there? And why are you at home alone?"

Oh, brother. I tried to sidestep what was coming by saying, "I've been able to stay at home alone for several years now. Sometimes I even baby-sit."

"Anastasia," said Dad. (Yikes, my full name.) "You know what I mean. Why is your mother at the Pikes' on a weeknight without you?"

"Because she and Mrs. Pike are friends."

Why did I always end up defending my parents to each other? And what if Mom were out on a date? She's allowed to date. She and my father are divorced, for heaven's sake.

"What does that mean?" asked Dad.

"It means that Mrs. Pike got a new dress and she wants Mom's opinion."

"Why?"

"Because she wants to get a hat to go with it or something. 7 don't know." I felt extremely exasperated.

"You're sure she's at the Pikes'?"

"Da-ad."

"Okay. Just wondering."

And I was wondering what would happen if one day I said to my father, "Mom's out with someone. A man. He's taking her to dinner. He's really handsome, he has a very important job, and he's never been married. He's saving himself for the perfect woman, and that perfect woman is Mom." Or what would happen if I said to my mother some Sunday night when she was grilling me about my weekend in New York with Dad, "Mom, you should see who Dad's dating. She's this sophisticated, beautiful, younger woman. She's terribly wealthy, she has a penthouse apartment in the city and a horse farm in the country. And she can cook and handle a jigsaw."

If I ever said anything like that, would my

parents be mad at me? I didn't want to find out.

"Stacey?" Dad was saying.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't answer me. I asked how school was going."

"Oh, it's fine."

"And the Baby-sitters Club?"

"Fine." I heard a door downstairs open and close. "Hey, Mom's home!" I exclaimed. Now I could show Dad that I'd been telling the truth.

"Can you put her on for a minute?" he asked.

"Sure. Oh, and I'll see you on Friday. 'Bye, Dad. Hold on for Mom." I went to the head of the staircase and yelled, "Hey, Mom! Dad's on the phone. He wants to talk to you!" Then I dashed back to her bedroom. I didn't give my mother a chance to whisper frantically to me that she didn't want to talk to my father. If I had to get back on the phone and make an excuse for her, Dad would be sure something was going on.

In Mom's bedroom, I did the first of two things that I really should not have done that night. I listened to my parents' conversation.

When Mom picked up the phone in the kitchen, Dad greeted her with, "Did you decide on a hat?" He thought he was being

cagey. If Mom didn't know what he was talking about, then Dad could assukne she'd been out somewhere with Wonder Date.

"A hat?" Mom repeated. "For Mrs. Pike? Yes. Why?"

"Oh, never mind." Dad didn't really have anything to say after that, so'he and Mom just went over the plans for my weekend in the city. I waited until they'd said good-bye. After each of them had hung up the phone, I hung up the extension I'd been listening in on. Then I crept back to my room.

I lay down on my bed. My stomach was growling, and I desperately wanted, something to drink — even though Mom anq I had finished our dinner not too much earlier. I didn't want to go to the kitchen, though. I had a feeling Mom would be mad at me for having called her to the phone. Plus, did she know, somehow, that I'd eavesdropped?

I had to give her time to cool off.

I also had to eat something . . . anything. So I tiptoed across the room, gently closed the door, and then tiptoed to my desk. Feeling like Claudia, I pulled out a drawer, lifted up a pile of papers, opened an old pencil box, and removed — a large chocolate bar.

Ah, sugar, I thought.

I peeled back the top of the paper and, for

a second, just breathed in the incredible smell of chocolate.

I was tired. Sick and tired, I reminded myself. And I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Nobody else I knew had to stick to a diet like mine. Dawn didn't touch junk food, but that was her decision. My diet was not my decision.

Oh, I had longed for the taste of chocolate again. I had not had any since the doctors first discovered that I was diabetic. Claudia's Ring-Dings had tasted out of this world. When I'd eaten them, I'd felt as if I were tasting chocolate for the first time.

So I ate the entire candy bar.

Then I felt guilty.

I just couldn't win.

Chapter 5.

The next day, after school, I sat for Charlotte again. Charlotte wasn't her usual quiet self. She wanted to do something, to create something.

"Like what?" I asked, thinking of arts and crafts and wishing I'd brought along my Kid-Kit that afternoon. "A painting?"

"No. Something more complicated."

Char and I were sitting opposite each other at the Johanssens' kitchen table. Charlotte grew thoughtful.

"More complicated? How about a paper sculpture?" I suggested.

Charlotte considered. Finally, she shook her head slowly and said, "I think I want to make fudge."

Fudge? Really? Of all things, why did Charlotte want to make fudge? I didn't think I could stand being within a mile of something choc-

olate and not eating it. Fudge making would be torture.

"Not paper sculpture?" I asked lamely.

"No, fudge. Please, Stacey? Puh-lease? We've got all the ingredients. And Becca could come over and help me. We would have so much fun. We could pretend we were chefs in a famous restaurant and that people came from miles around for our special dessert — fudge."

How could I ignore that? "Okay. Call Becca," I said, hiding my disappointment.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Charlotte cried. She was on the phone in an instant. "Hi, Becca, it's me," she said. (I smiled, thinking that only really good friends can do that.) "Stacey's here. She's baby-sitting me. She said I could make fudge. Do you want to come over and help? . . . Okay, I'll see you in a few minutes."

By the time Becca arrived, Charlotte was already assembling ingredients on the kitchen table. Sugar, chocolate . . . Ohhh.