Mary Anne's Makeover Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “I found a flummp caterpillar!” Carolyn Arnold shouted from the basement.

  Well, at least that was what it sounded like. It was hard to tell, because her twin sister Marilyn was practicing the piano loudly in the living room.

  I was in the kitchen. I should say I’d been banished to the kitchen by my two eight-year-old baby-sitting charges. Marilyn, the musician, needed to practice. Carolyn, the science whiz, was working away on some mysterious project. Me? I’d started my math homework, but a flummp caterpillar sounded much more interesting. So I called out, “You found a what?” When I got no answer, I repeated, “You found a what?”

  Carolyn came rushing into the kitchen. “Mary Aaaanne,” she said with exasperation, “you know I can’t hear you when Marilyn’s playing.”

  I bit my lip. Normally I would have reminded her that she’d been calling me, but I didn’t. You see, I had just made a New Year’s resolution: to be the best person I could be, in all possible ways. (Okay, I admit I may have gone overboard with that resolution, but at least I could try.) And that meant being the best possible baby-sitter, along with everything else.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” I said with kindness and patience. “Now, what did you say you found?”

  “A flux capacitator!” Carolyn replied, holding up a magnifying glass with the lens missing.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “What’s that?”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. Then she leaned over and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Didn’t you see Back to the Future? The flux capacitator is the secret to … you know …” She gestured, as if I were supposed to know what she meant.

  “What, time travel?” I asked.

  “Sshhhh!” Carolyn shot back. Then she whispered, “Yes!”

  “Um, why are we whispering?” I asked.

  “Because,” Carolyn explained, “if anyone finds out about this, they’ll try to steal my idea. I want to be totally finished with it before I let people use it.”

  As she scampered across the kitchen toward the basement door, I asked, “Use what, Carolyn?”

  She pulled the door open, looked over her shoulder with a big smile, and said, “My time machine!”

  Before I could reply, she was down the stairs.

  The only sound left was Marilyn’s song. She was playing this dainty classical piece that made me think of people with powdered faces dancing around in wigs and dresses with big bustles.

  So there I was, with the ancient past in the Arnolds’ living room and the future downstairs in the Arnolds’ basement. I felt like some kind of midpoint on a time line. A big dot that says “You are here.” And “here” was the Arnolds’ kitchen on a cold, dreary Wednesday afternoon in January.

  “You,” of course, is me, Mary Anne Spier. And I don’t mean to sound like I was miserable that afternoon or anything. I really love baby-sitting. In fact, as a Baby-sitters Club member, I consider it one of the most important things in my life (more about the BSC later). What are the other important things in my life? My family, my kitten (who’s named Tigger and is furry and gray), my boyfriend (who’s named Logan Bruno and is not furry and gray), my best friends (who are all BSC members, too), and SMS (my school, Stoneybrook Middle School). Not necessarily in that order!

  What else? Oh, I’m thirteen and in eighth grade. I’m pretty shy, which makes it all the more strange that I’m the only BSC member with a steady boyfriend. My friends tease me about being “too sensitive.” I have to admit, I do tend to cry a lot, especially at movies. I once took some kids to see Beauty and the Beast. You know when the Beast dies and Belle says she loves him as the last petal falls from the rose? Well, the kids were laughing hysterically during that part — because I honked when I blew my nose from crying!

  I don’t mind the teasing, though. My friends aren’t the least bit mean. We’re all so close, we can take each other seriously and joke about our personalities. It’s funny, but my two best friends in the BSC are anything but shy. One of them also happens to be my stepsister. Her name is Dawn Schafer. We were friends even before we were family. In fact, we were the ones who got our parents together.

  It’s kind of a romantic story. Dawn used to live in California with her parents and younger brother, Jeff. But when her parents got divorced, her mom decided to move back to her hometown — namely, Stoneybrook.

  Well, my dad grew up here, too. In fact, he was in the same class as Sharon (Mrs. Schafer). In fact, he knew her. In fact … well, Dawn and I got hold of their high school yearbooks, and we read these notes they’d written to each other — love letters. Yes, they had been sweethearts! At first I couldn’t believe it. Sharon is sort of, well, absent-minded. (I’d use a stronger word, but I have to remember my resolution.) She’s really a wonderful person, but she’s been known to leave her gloves in the freezer, her keys in the bathroom soap-dish, stuff like that. My dad, on the other hand, bought a new pair of white socks last week and marked the toes with Xs so they wouldn’t get mixed up in the laundry with his older white socks. He is Mr. Neatness.

  With a little nudging from Dawn and me, Dad and Sharon started dating again, and the old romance must have come back. (It took a while, though, and I can imagine why. My dad has these habits, like bringing a calculator to restaurants to check if the waiter added correctly on the bill.) Eventually they got married, and the Schafers and Spiers became one family.

  By that time, Jeff had moved back to California. (He never did adjust to Stoneybrook, and he missed his dad terribly.) So Sharon and Dawn had been living all alone in this big old farmhouse. And I mean old. Can you believe it was built in the 1790s? It even has a secret passageway that was once used by slaves escaping north on the Underground Railroad. The passageway leads from the barn right to Dawn’s bedroom. Since my dad and I lived in a much smaller house, we moved into the farmhouse.

  I love having a big family. I know four people in one house isn’t exactly huge, but it’s twice the size of my family beforehand. I’m an only child, and my mom died when I was little. So it was just me and Dad till I was twelve. Now, he’s a caring father, but boy, was he strict. I used to have to wear my hair in pigtails and dress in conservative clothes, and I couldn’t have pierced ears. I understand now that he was just being overprotective. He felt pressure to be a mother and a father. Sure enough, when he married Sharon, he loosened up a lot. (But I still can’t have pierced ears. Sigh.)

  I used to think I’d be in college before Dad let me even look at a boy. But guess what? Dad doesn’t mind Logan. In fact, he likes him! Well, Logan is impossible not to like. First of all, he’s super cute. His hair is dark blond and curly, his eyes are a deep blue, and he has an athletic build without looking like a jock. He’s outgoing and friendly, but also thoughtful and sensitive (which he would never admit).

  It hasn’t been that easy for Logan and me, though. When we first started going out, Logan tended to make all the decisions and treat me as if I didn’t have an independent mind. We split up for awhile, but when I talked to him about it, he really understood. Ever since then, we’ve been on fairly equal foot
ing.

  Logan was definitely on my mind as I stared out the Arnolds’ kitchen window. Frost had made an oval frame on each windowpane, and icicles hung down like fangs. No, it wasn’t the fangs that made me think of Logan. I was just daydreaming … imagining a sleigh ride with him, or building a snowman, something that would make this day seem less dreary. Stoneybrook is a nice, shady, pretty place normally, but in this weather it’s like the Siberian tundra. (Not that I’ve ever actually been to the Siberian tundra, but it’s supposed to be frigid there. The name even sounds cold.)

  With a sigh, I turned away from the basement door and back to this impossible problem in my textbook. Then …

  CRASSHHH! came a noise from the basement.

  Clonk! came a note from the piano.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! came the sound of Marilyn’s heels against the living-room floor as she stomped to the kitchen and yelled, “Stop it, Carolyn!”

  I ran to the top of the basement stairs and called down, “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t come down yet!” was Carolyn’s answer. I guess that meant she was all right.

  “Will you guys please stop shouting?” Marilyn shouted. She returned to the living room.

  “Sorry!” Carolyn shouted back.

  More powder-face music began, and more tinkering noises came from downstairs.

  I once read an article about identical twins who were separated at birth. They didn’t meet until they were grown-ups — but they turned out to have the same personalities, to like the same things, weigh the same, and so on. Well, Carolyn and Marilyn have been together every day of their lives, and they couldn’t be more different. And it’s not only that one likes music and the other science. Marilyn is kind of bossy, she dresses simply and wears her hair long, and her bedroom is decorated in yellow. Carolyn wears trendy clothes and has short hair. Her bedroom is almost all blue, with a kind of “cat” motif.

  Up till a year ago, their parents used to dress them completely alike. The girls slept in the same bedroom and shared the same toys and books. And boy, did they have problems getting along! They even ran masking tape down the center of the room to divide it in two, so each could have her own half. I ended up having a long talk with Mrs. Arnold, and she agreed to let them have separate rooms — and separate personalities. Now they’re friends, more or less.

  All of a sudden the music stopped, and I heard Marilyn’s footsteps rushing toward the kitchen. “I’m done,” she said.

  “Great,” I replied. “Want to do something fun?”

  Marilyn nodded. “Yeah, let’s go downstairs.”

  “Well, Carolyn’s working on this project —”

  “The time machine,” Marilyn said casually. “I know all about it.” She ran to the top of the basement stairs, and called down, “Hey! Are you done yet?”

  “No way!” Carolyn replied.

  “Well, can me and Mary Anne come down?”

  There was a pause. “What’s the password, Marilyn?”

  Marilyn exhaled. “I forgot.”

  “Warp movement!” Carolyn whispered loudly.

  “Oh, yeah, warp movement,” Marilyn repeated.

  “Okay, come on,” Carolyn replied.

  I held back a laugh. Carolyn may have been a good scientist, but she was a terrible secret-keeper. We walked down the wooden steps to a large, unfinished basement. It had cinderblock walls and a concrete floor, with exposed pipes hanging from a low ceiling. I had to duck to avoid cobwebs.

  There was a boiler against the far wall. To one of its pipes, Carolyn had tied ropes and wires. They fanned out in a kind of network, attached on the other side to a stack of wooden crates. Scraps of metal, tinfoil, crumpled-up paper, and tools were strewn around the floor. Nailed to the crates was a cardboard sign that looked like this:

  “What a mess,” Marilyn mumbled.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Carolyn popped out from behind the crates. She was wearing a pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses, and the “flux capacitator” was strapped to her forehead with a terrycloth headband.

  “When I am finished, you will go where no girl has gone before,” Carolyn said, in a voice like a TV announcer, “to enter the final dimension, through a warp of time —”

  Marilyn was practically shrieking with laughter. “Carolyn, you’re warped!” she said.

  At that moment, the boiler clicked and made a whooshing sound. Carolyn screamed and jumped away, knocking over some more crates that were off to the side. Marilyn laughed even louder.

  Carolyn had landed on the floor, her glasses hanging from one ear, the headband over her eyes. I put my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. A little snort came out.

  That was enough. Carolyn cracked a smile, then let out a giggle. And then, in the next instant, the three of us were rolling on the floor with laughter.

  I left the Arnolds’ house at 5:19. That gave me eleven minutes. Precisely. It’s a pretty long walk to Bradford Court, so I mapped out the quickest route in my head. I had worn my Keds, because I knew I’d have to move fast. Slinging my backpack securely over my shoulders, I set off.

  Sound like I was going to a meeting of some secret society? Some spy organization where latecomers were locked out? Well, not exactly. I was on my way to Claudia Kishi’s house for a Baby-sitters Club meeting, and I hate to be late.

  By the time I got there, I felt like a walking block of ice. Usually when I reach the Kishis’, I slow down a little. I take a look at the house across the street, where my dad and I used to live. I remember all the fun times I had with Claudia and Kristy (Kristy used to live next door). All these warm feelings rush through me. Well, that afternoon I had only one cold feeling: Get inside. Luckily, Claud leaves her front door open on meeting days, so I barged right in.

  A warm, gingery smell floated out from the kitchen. I called out, “Ha, Muzz Kush!” (It was supposed to be “Hi, Mrs. Kishi,” but my jaw was frozen.)

  “Hello, Mary Anne!” came Mrs. Kishi’s voice as I ran up the stairs. As usual, I could hear Claudia’s older sister, Janine the Genius, clicking away at her computer in her bedroom. I dashed past the racket and into Claud’s room.

  “Hi,” I said, stepping around candy wrappers, cut-up pieces of cardboard, and some string. (Claudia is very creative, and very messy.) I sneaked a look at the clock, which said 5:27.

  Whew. Three minutes to spare. I had made it.

  “Hi,” everyone replied.

  I took off my pack and sat on the bed between Claudia and Dawn. Jessica Ramsey, another of our members, was sitting on the floor. She was holding a box of Milk Duds and was tossing one up and trying to catch it in her mouth.

  “Ow,” Jessi said as a Dud bonked her under the nose.

  “No, no,” said Kristy Thomas. “Watch.”

  Kristy was in her usual position, sitting on a director’s chair, next to the clock. She took a Milk Dud from a box in her hand, threw it almost up to the ceiling, and caught it cleanly in her mouth. “Think of your mouth as a catcher’s mitt,” she said.

  Ew. Can you imagine?

  So, we had a couple of minutes in which to relax (and thaw out) before starting time. Claudia and Dawn were looking at fashion magazines, and Kristy was coaching Jessi in Dud-catching, so I decided to pick up our record book from the floor and prepare myself in case a client called right away. (As BSC secretary, I’m in charge of the records.)

  The club is a real business. Meetings begin at five-thirty sharp every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and they last till six. We take phone calls from parents who need sitters. Then we schedule the jobs among ourselves (there are seven regular members, and two associates). We also talk and eat and laugh and hang out. (That’s why we call the BSC a “club” and not a “company” or something.)

  Each of us is an officer with special duties. In the record book, I keep a calendar of all our jobs, a list of clients’ addresses and phone numbers, a record of how much we’ve been paid, and special information about our charges (problems, interests, fa
vorite activities). It’s a lot of work, but I like making lists and organizing things (I guess I get that from my dad).

  By the way, there’s also a BSC notebook, where we write descriptions of our jobs — funny stories, words of advice, anything that might help in the future.

  When the BSC first started, we put fliers in supermarkets and other public places. But, as Kristy says, “Word of mouth is the best advertising,” and she’s right. By now, lots of Stoneybrook parents know about us. We’re reliable and very convenient. Imagine if you were a parent. Would you rather call a bunch of sitters, one by one, hoping to find someone available — or make one call and reach seven eager, experienced sitters at once?

  Do we do anything besides baby-sit? Yes, lots. We hold special events for our charges, like parties, fund drives for good causes, and picnics.

  I have to admit, most of our best ideas have come from Kristy Thomas. She’s like a faucet — new ideas just flow out of her all the time. Some of them are elaborate, like the time she organized a softball team made up of kids not ready for Little League. Other ideas are simple, like Kid-Kits. Those are activity boxes we take with us on sitting jobs. They’re just cartons full of old toys and games and books, but believe it or not, kids adore them.

  Kristy’s greatest idea was … the Baby-sitters Club! She got the idea back in seventh grade when she and I were next-door neighbors. Her mom was franctically trying to line up a sitter for Kristy’s little brother and was making a million phone calls. Suddenly the Idea Faucet started flowing. Kristy got on the phone — to me and Claudia. She told us her plan, and next thing you know, history was made!

  Kristy, by the way, is the BSC president. (Surprised?) That means she runs the meetings and gets to scowl at whoever comes late. She’s very confident and take-charge. A lot of people find her loud and bossy (well, she is), but the great thing about Kristy is she knows it and doesn’t care. Sigh. I always wanted to be that way, but I just crumble if someone even gives me a cross look.

  Remember when I said that Dawn was one of my two best friends? Kristy is the other. We’ve known each other since before we could walk. Now I can walk fine, but Kristy’s gone on to other things — like track, softball, gymnastics, and volleyball. Unlike me, she’s a great athlete. You can tell just by looking at her. She’s sort of small and wiry, and always dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans.