Happy Holidays, Jessi 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

  “Brrrrup!” burped my little brother, John Philip, otherwise known as Squirt.

  As my mom lifted him out of his high chair, he clapped his hands proudly and said, “Bup!”

  “John Philip!” scolded my aunt Cecelia. “What do we say?”

  “He can’t talk yet, Aunt Cecelia!” shouted my sister, Becca, from the family room.

  My dad stopped sweeping the kitchen floor and kissed the top of Squirt’s head. “But he makes great sound effects.”

  “Yaaaaay! Bup!” Squirt screamed, running into the living room.

  Aunt Cecelia hurried after him. “Don’t go in there before I’ve washed your hands!”

  “O-o-o-oh, you better watch out, you better not cry …” a voice sang out from our living room CD player.

  “You better not bup, I’m telling you why,” sang Daddy, dancing with the broom. “Cecelia is hot onnnnn your tail!”

  My mom, who was handing me dirty dishes from the kitchen table, burst out laughing.

  Welcome to the Ramsey family of Stoneybrook, Connecticut. We’re only six in number — Daddy, Mama, Aunt Cecelia, Becca, Squirt, and me (Jessi) — but we make the noise of a hundred. Sometimes Daddy calls us the Circus Ramseycus.

  From the living room, Aunt Cecelia called out, “I’ll be in there to see how clean those dishes are in a minute!”

  Daddy rolled his eyes.

  Daddy loves to tease Aunt Cecelia, and she likes to scold him. They’ve been like that all their lives. They’re brother and sister, but you’d never believe it from looking at them. Daddy kind of reminds me of a prince in a fairy tale. He’s tall and handsome, with a great sense of humor and a beautiful, deep voice. Aunt Cecelia’s not naturally thin. She has a scratchy voice and she hardly ever cracks a smile. In a fairy tale, she’d probably be the witch. I love her dearly, but she can be hard to live with.

  Aunt Cecelia claims she’s younger than Daddy, but the only one who believes her is my little sister. (Becca’s eight years old, so she’s easily fooled.) I, Jessica Ramsey, am eleven, which is old enough to smell a fib.

  “He sees you when you’re sweeping,” Daddy sang as he swept. “And buys you a new car …”

  “Daaaaaddyyyy!” Becca yelled.

  Mama sighed. “For your father, life is ‘Showtime at the Apollo.’ ”

  “I’d give him the hook!” Aunt Cecelia called out.

  Daddy jutted out his jaw. “You all don’t respect real talent.”

  Crazy. What can I say?

  Well, we had an excuse for acting so silly. It was the first of December. The beginning of the absolute best month of the year.

  I don’t know about you, but I think the holidays are truly magical. The moment I see the first Christmas decorations in the store windows, I’m a little kid again. I feed Christmas carol recordings into the CD player all day long. Thinking about presents, I’m weak in the knees. And when I look forward to a whole week of Kwanzaa, my eyes water. Honest.

  The entire month of December I’m one big tingle.

  “Yvonne called today,” Mama said to Daddy. “She was wondering what our plans were for the holidays.”

  I nearly dropped a plate. Yvonne is my aunt. Her daughter, Keisha, is my all-time favorite cousin. We grew up together in Oakley, New Jersey, before my branch of the family moved to Stoneybrook. “Can they come over for Christmas?” I asked.

  “Yaaaaaay!” Becca shouted from the family room.

  “Well, they’re spending Christmas at home,” Mama replied, “but they’d love to get together for Kwanzaa —”

  “Can they?” I asked. “Oh, please please please please?”

  Becca rushed in, clutching an enormous department store catalog. “Pleeeeeeeease?”

  Daddy laughed. “As long as they bring some pecan pie, they’re welcome in this house.”

  “Then we just have to figure out exactly when,” Mama said.

  “You’re not planning to have them over for the entire week?” Aunt Cecelia called out from the bathroom. “That’s an awful lot of work.”

  “Oh, Cecelia, don’t be a Kwanzaa Grinch,” Daddy said.

  “Bup! Bup! Bup!” shouted Squirt, hopping into the kitchen.

  “Could one of you change his diaper?” Aunt Cecelia said wearily. “I have got to clean my bedroom.”

  Daddy went running after Squirt. “Maybe not a week,” he said over his shoulder. “But a couple of days, at least.”

  “Definitely for the karamu feast,” Mama agreed.

  “Yaaay!” I did a little pirouette in front of the dishwasher. Liquid flung outward from the coffee mug I was holding.

  “Ewwwww!” Becca cried out. “Germs!”

  “Jessi!” Mama warned.

  “Oops. Sorry!”

  I couldn’t help it. I was ecstatic. And when I’m ecstatic, I dance.

  Even when I’m just plain happy, I dance.

  Actually, I dance when I’m depressed, too. And when I’m feeling medium-okay.

  That’s one thing you should know about me. I’m basically a dance maniac. I jeté from class to class in the halls of Stoneybrook Middle School. I practice walking en pointe in my yard when I’m mowing the lawn in the summer. At meetings of the Baby-sitters Club (a group I belong to), I do stretches and practice pliés.

  If you already know that a jeté is a leap, en pointe means “on the point of the toe,” and pliés are knee bends, then you’re probably a balletomane like me. (If you’re not, I need to explain that “balletomane” means “ballet freak.”) I take ballet class in Stamford, Connecticut, which is the city closest to Stoneybrook. My number one goal in life is to be a ballerina (preferably famous, but that’s not required).

  As I loaded up more plates, I heard Aunt Cecelia call from her bedroom, “Don’t worry about the dishes! I’ll be there in a minute to help — and whatever I can’t do, we’ll do in the morning!”

  Daddy came back in, holding Squirt. “Translation?” he whispered. “Do it now, or you’ll be scraping dried, crusty collard greens off those plates before breakfast.”

  “Brother John, I heard that!” boomed Aunt Cecelia’s voice.

  Daddy pursed his lips into an exaggerated Ooooo, like a little boy who’s been caught. Then he raced upstairs with Squirt.

  Becca was now sitting at the kitchen table, using a thick red marker to circle something in the catalog. “I want this, too!”

  “Making your list for Santa?” Mama asked.

  “Yeah, right.” Becca rolled her eyes. “Like I believe in him? I’m not a baby.”

  “You told me you were going to mail that to the North Pole,” I reminded her.

  “That’s, like, just in case,” Becca said. “I mean, maybe there’s no reindeer and stuff, but a factory that he runs — you know, with Ex-Lax or something.”

  Mama burst out laughing. “I think you mean Fed Ex.”

  “Whatever,” Becca said, circling a new bike. “If I mail this tomorrow, will it get there in time for Christmas?”

  “Twenty-four days? Sure,” Mama said.

  Twenty-four. That meant only twent
y-five until Kwanzaa, thirty-one until the New Year.

  I rose en pointe. I did a perfect arabesque against the dishwasher and dumped in a load of dirty silverware.

  I thought about a Christmas tree. The smell of logs in the fireplace. Exchanging gifts with my best friends in the Baby-sitters Club. Making Kwanzaa stuff with Keisha and her little brother, Billy.

  Do you know about Kwanzaa? You probably do if you’re African-American, like us Ramseys. If you don’t, I’ll tell you.

  It’s the coolest holiday. It lasts seven whole days. The entire family participates, with lots of crafts-making, feasts, gift-giving, visiting, and storytelling.

  Kwanzaa was conceived of in 1966 by an African-American professor named Dr. Maulana Karenga. He had seen a neighborhood in Los Angeles destroyed by race riots. He wanted to create a special celebration to unify the African-American community.

  Dr. Karenga studied the rituals of many different African tribes. He discovered that a lot of celebrations take place around the winter harvest season. He took different parts of each ritual and combined them, creating a holiday that was modern and meaningful.

  “Kwanza” means “first” in Swahili. Why first? Because it’s a time when we African-Americans put our people and our families first. Also, the holiday ends on the first of the new year. And the African rituals celebrate the first fruits of the harvest.

  Dr. Karenga wanted the holiday name to have seven letters, one for each of the days. “Kwanza” has six. So which letter did he add? A. The first letter of the alphabet!

  Each day has a special theme. The first is umoja, or togetherness. The theme: “We help each other.”

  The second day is kujichagulia, or self-determination: “We decide things for ourselves.”

  The third is ujima, or collective work and responsibility: “We work together to make life better.”

  Ujamaa, or cooperative economics, is the fourth: “We build and support our businesses.”

  The fifth day is about nia, or purpose: “We have a reason for living.”

  My personal favorite is the sixth day, kuumba, or creativity: “We use our minds and hands to make things.” On that night, we have a big feast to celebrate the end of the holiday.

  On the last day (imani, or faith), we relax and think about the nicest theme of all: “We believe in ourselves, our ancestors, and our future.”

  “Done!” I said, closing the dishwasher.

  The table was spotless. Mama was reading a magazine, sitting across from Becca.

  Daddy walked in, holding Squirt. “All clean!” he said.

  “Keeeeeen,” Squirt echoed.

  “Who wants hot cocoa with marshmallows?” Daddy announced.

  “Meeeeee!” Mama, Becca, and I answered.

  As Daddy headed for the stove, I heard a familiar creaking of the floorboards. Aunt Cecelia peered into the kitchen.

  I could see that Daddy looked proud of our work. “Come on in, Cecelia,” he said. “The dishes are clean. We’re having cocoa. You’re just in time.”

  “You’re taking a break?” Aunt Cecelia huffed as she sponged off the counter.

  “Marshmallows for me!” Becca said.

  “Me, too,” I added.

  “None for me,” Mama said.

  “Doos!” added Squirt (which means juice).

  Aunt Cecelia settled herself in her seat and cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose some cocoa would settle my stomach,” she said. “No marshmallows, but I could go for a little of that vanilla ice cream …”

  “All riiiiight, Aunt Cecelia!” I said.

  What a life. A peaceful Sunday night. The hint of snow in the air. A nice, quiet family evening over hot cocoa. Just perfect.

  As Daddy opened the freezer, Aunt Cecelia said, “The low-fat variety, please! And, oh my lord, will someone turn down the heat under the pot? Honestly, John, don’t you know you’re not supposed to boil the milk?”

  Well, almost perfect, anyway.

  “It’s spitting,” said Claudia Kishi, gazing upward through her bedroom window.

  “Is it white, fluffy spit?” asked Mallory Pike. “Or clear?”

  “It’s spit spit,” answered Abby Stevenson.

  “Isn’t it too cold for spit spit?” Mary Anne Spier remarked.

  “Uh, I hate to interrupt,” Kristy Thomas announced, “but I call this meeting of the Baby-spitters — sitters — Club to order!”

  Claudia and Mary Anne sat back on Claudia’s bed. Abby plunked down on the carpet, next to Mallory and me. Stacey McGill sat on Claudia’s desk chair.

  Kristy, as usual, was sitting on a director’s chair, wearing her visor and keeping her eye on the clock. (Kristy is the Baby-sitters Club president, and she would never, ever allow a meeting to start late.)

  We were all in our places, ready to begin. Well, our bodies were. Our minds were outside in the spit.

  The weather report had said it might snow. It was only December second, so no one really believed it. But in New England, you never know. The stuff outside seemed too wet for snow but too light for rain.

  “I think it’s sleet,” Claudia said.

  “What’s the difference between freezing rain and sleet?” Stacey asked.

  Mary Anne frowned. “They’re the same thing, aren’t they?”

  “No,” Kristy declared. “Sleet is, you know, rain that’s ice. Freezing rain is … uh, well, it’s …”

  “Ice that’s rain?” Claudia asked.

  “That’s it!” Kristy replied. “Or whatever.”

  Abby giggled. “Thank you, Professor.”

  “I’ll ask my sister.” Claudia sprang off the bed, opened her door, and called down the hall: “Ja-niiiiiine!”

  “Who-o-oa!” Kristy said. “Come on, guys. It’s Monday. First things first!”

  “Dues!” Stacey chimed in. She pulled out a ragged manila envelope from under the bed and held it open.

  We all rummaged in our pockets, grumbling and moaning.

  Yes, we pay dues. The Baby-sitters Club is a serious business. We meet three days a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from 5:30 to 6:00. We have officers, rules, a record book, an official notebook (a journal of our job experiences), and a ton of regular clients.

  How did we get so organized? Two words: Kristy Thomas. She invented the BSC. It happened one evening when she saw her mom calling all over town to find a baby-sitter for Kristy’s little brother, David Michael.

  Back then, Kristy lived in a small house across the street from Claudia. Her dad had abandoned the family a few years earlier. So Mrs. Thomas had to rely on Kristy and her two older brothers, Charlie and Sam, to do a lot of sitting. Well, they were all busy that evening. And poor Mrs. Thomas could not find one sitter in the whole town.

  Kristy to the rescue. She knew what Stoneybrook needed: an agency for sitters — one central phone number, satisfaction guaranteed.

  So she created it.

  The first club members were Kristy, Mary Anne, Claudia, and Stacey. But they became so popular that they had to add new members (such as moi). Now we have ten members altogether, including two associates and an honorary member who lives in California. We all keep each other up-to-date about the various changes in the lives of our clients’ kids by writing about them in the BSC notebook.

  Mallory Pike and I are the youngest sitters. We’re both eleven and in sixth grade. All the other BSC members are thirteen-year-old eighth-graders. Well, except for Claudia. I’ll explain about that later.

  The BSC has had its ups and downs. Not long ago, we even split up for a while. We were getting on each other’s nerves and were tired of all the work. But don’t worry, the split-up didn’t last long. These days we’re stronger than ever.

  President Kristy runs the meetings and basically bosses everybody around. But we respect her a lot. She is the Kid Expert. Honestly, she can figure out how to make any kid happy. When several of our younger charges complained that they wanted to play softball but couldn’t find a team to join — vo
ilà! Kristy organized them into a team called Kristy’s Krushers. Another great Kristy idea was Kid-Kits — boxes filled with games, toys, and knickknacks. We take them on our jobs, and kids think they’re incredibly cool.

  Kristy’s very forceful. I think she’d scare me if I weren’t taller than she is. (Despite our age difference, she’s only five feet tall and I’m five-two.) Kristy has brown eyes and brown hair, which is usually pulled back into a ponytail. She wears old, casual, comfortable clothes all the time, even though her family’s super rich.

  You see, the Thomases no longer live in that house near Claudia. Kristy’s mom got remarried, to this millionaire named Watson Brewer. He lived in a mansion and had two children from a previous marriage (Karen and Andrew, who live with him every other month). So Kristy gained a nice new dad, a humongous home on the other side of Stoneybrook, and two new siblings. Then Kristy’s parents adopted a two-year-old Vietnamese girl and named her Emily. After the adoption, Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, moved in to help take care of Emily. Add in Kristy’s brothers and a lot of pets, and that big old house can seem like a crowded train station.

  Kristy’s best friend in the BSC is Mary Anne Spier. She looks a little like Kristy, but her hair is shorter, she wears preppy-ish clothes, and she has the exact opposite personality. Mary Anne is quiet, shy, and sensitive. She is the best listener and the most loyal friend. And it doesn’t take much to make her cry.

  Actually, even I cry when I think about Mary Anne’s life. Her mom died when she was a baby. Mr. Spier was so grief-stricken that he had to let Mary Anne’s grandparents raise her for a while. Then, when he was ready to take Mary Anne back, they said no way. They believed that being a single parent would be too hard for him. Well, Mr. Spier did get Mary Anne back, but as she grew up, he went overboard on parenting. He raised Mary Anne super strictly — early curfews, a very conservative dress code, little-girl hairstyles. It wasn’t until Mary Anne was in seventh grade that he started to loosen up.

  Now, here’s the really teary part. One day, a girl named Dawn Schafer joined the BSC. She had been born and raised in California, but her parents had divorced. Mrs. Schafer was a Stoneybrook native, so she decided to move back here with Dawn and Dawn’s younger brother, Jeff. Well, guess who her high school sweetheart had been?