Mary Anne to the Rescue 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

  “There it is!” Abby Stevenson jumped up from her seat in the airport waiting room. She began waving at an incoming airplane. “Hi, Dawn! Hi, Jeff!”

  Kristy Thomas squinted out the window. “Air New Zealand?”

  “Oops,” Abby replied. “Wrong plane.”

  “Maybe Dawn and Jeff took the scenic route,” Claudia Kishi suggested.

  Stacey McGill gave her a Look. “From Los Angeles?”

  “They’re now nine minutes late,” Mallory Pike complained.

  “Patience, patience,” said my stepmother, Sharon.

  My dad looked up from his newspaper. “We could play twenty questions or something.”

  “Can I start?” Jessi Ramsey piped up. “Let’s see, I’m thinking of a —”

  “Attention, please!” blared a voice over the airport loudspeaker. “Flight three-oh-four from Los Angeles, due in at two-fifteen, will be arriving approximately one hour late.”

  “One hour?” groaned Kristy, sinking back into her seat. “What do we do now?”

  Abby shrugged. “We could lengthen our game. Make it two hundred questions.”

  “I saw a really cool shop on the way in,” Stacey suggested.

  “What about the video arcade?” asked Claudia.

  “Or the cafeteria,” I chimed in.

  “Now there’s an idea,” Dad said. “Would you girls like a snack? Our treat.”

  Zoom. Forget about the clothes and the videos. Off we went.

  Thank goodness. I was starving. All day long I’d been so nervous I could barely eat.

  You see, Dawn and Jeff Schafer happen to be my stepsiblings. She’s thirteen, like me, and he’s ten. Dawn is the only sister I have ever had, and I miss her sooooo much. I count the days between her visits.

  Dawn and Jeff live in Palo City, California, with their dad. I live in Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

  Why do two stepsisters live so far apart? Well, it’s a long story. A tale of two coasts.

  It starts in Palo City, where Dawn was born and raised. When Sharon and Mr. Schafer divorced, Sharon decided to move back to her hometown, which happened to be Stoneybrook. Jeff couldn’t make the adjustment. (Eventually he begged to move back with his dad, and Sharon let him.) Dawn liked Stoneybrook, though. She and I became friends, and we soon discovered an incredible Big Secret — my dad and her mom had been madly in love in high school. Well, we went right to work. We reintroduced them, wedding bells were soon chiming, and the rest is history.

  Dad and I moved to Dawn’s house, a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse. Dawn and I grew as close as if we’d known each other forever. Unfortunately, though, Dawn became homesick for California. Like Jeff, she felt she had to move back.

  Which is why she’s there and I’m here.

  Sigh.

  I, by the way, am Mary Anne Spier. My friends and I were waiting at the airport. Stoneybrook is a little more than an hour away, and I had managed to convince Sharon and my dad to take both cars to the airport, because the entire Baby-sitters Club wanted to surprise Dawn. (The BSC is a group I belong to, and I’ll tell you all about it later.)

  It wasn’t easy to persuade my dad. He said that taking both cars was “overkill” and “a waste of gas.”

  He is Mr. Practical.

  Sharon’s response? “Come on, Richard, the more the merrier!”

  Thank goodness Sharon hasn’t grown homesick for California. She’s so much fun. In many ways she’s the opposite of Dad — she’s relaxed and absentminded, and he’s conservative and super-organized — but in a funny way they’re a perfect match. Sharon has totally changed his life. Mine, too.

  I didn’t know what it meant to have a mom until I was thirteen. My real mother died when I was a baby. Dad raised me by himself.

  I didn’t mind being an only child. Dad took great care of me, even though he was strict. Kristy, my best friend, used to call him the King of Rules. It’s kind of true. Until seventh grade I wasn’t allowed to have my ears pierced. I had to keep my hair in pigtails and wear these long, little-girlish skirts all the time. Kids teased me about it. It took Dad forever to accept that I was growing up. Fortunately, he’s changed a lot. If you saw me now you’d have no trouble believing I’m a thirteen-year-old eighth-grader. I have brown hair, which I wear short, and if you had to name my clothing style, you might call it preppy casual. And yes, I do have pierced ears.

  Walking to the airport cafeteria, Dad and Sharon were like two lovebirds. Arm in arm, smiling away. Sharon looked so happy. She becomes very emotional whenever Dawn visits. (I think Dad does, too, but he doesn’t show it.)

  My friends and I slapped trays onto the metal rack and pushed them along. The foods of choice seemed to be salad and chips, except for Claudia the Junk Food Maniac, who selected chocolate pudding, a brownie with a scoop of chocolate ice cream, and a Ring-Ding.

  As we took seats, Abby was cracking up at Claudia’s tray. “You sure you don’t want some sprouts with that?”

  “For your information, chocolate is a high-energy foodstuff,” Claudia informed her.

  “Foodstuff?” Kristy murmured.

  “Why do you need high energy to wait in an airport?” Stacey asked.

  “The anxiety,” Claudia said, unwrapping her Ring-Ding, “is exhausting.”

  We all dug in, giggling and chatting. Around us, the cafeteria was beginning to fill up. I noticed a family of five — a dad and a mom with two young boys and a girl — sitting a few tables away from us.

  Kristy had her eyes on them. She’s the founder and president of the BSC, and whenever she sees a family like that, you can almost see a neon light blinking in her head: CLIENTS … CLIENTS … CLIENTS …

  “I wonder if they live in Stoneybrook,” she said softly.

  Stacey rolled her eyes. “Kristy, puh-leeze.”

  “Well, they could,” Kristy insisted. “Or they could know someone who does. The worst they could say is no.”

  Claudia’s jaw dropped. “You’re not actually thinking of asking them?”

  “Well …”

  “You would embarrass your best friends in the middle of a huge international airport?” Claudia barreled on. “You would bother this innocent family while they’re trying to enjoy a peaceful meal?”

  I glanced at the innocent family. The two older kids, who looked to be about six, were flinging french fries at each other. The youngest one, maybe three years old, was pushing her glass of milk over the edge of the table. The mom and dad were trying to eat between scoldings and disaster prevention.

  Kristy was glancing at them warily. “Uh, maybe it wouldn’t be such a great idea.”

  I caught a glimpse of the mom running off to the bathroom with the little one, who was covered with milk.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The table-smacking was like sudden gunshots. I am a very patient, understanding, tolerant person, but this was too much.

  We all turned to look.

  The dad was standing up, his fists pounding the table.

  I could not believe how rude he was being.

  His ch
air skidded back, then fell over. He was leaning forward, legs spread apart.

  His kids stopped flinging. They looked at him with big smiles, as if he were doing some silly impersonation.

  Then the smiles disappeared.

  “Oh my lord …” Stacey murmured.

  The man’s face was turning red. Around him, people were staring. He stopped banging and started flailing his arms jerkily. His mouth was open but he was making no sound.

  “It’s a heart attack!” someone yelled.

  “Call a doctor!” another voice rang out.

  Sharon was out of her chair like a shot. “He’s pointing to his throat!” she blurted out.

  She raced across the room, practically colliding with a busboy.

  The man sank to his knees. His kids were frozen, in total shock.

  I am watching someone die.

  The words sneaked into my brain. I felt helpless. Dizzy. My throat was like sandpaper. My vision blurred. I could feel the blood rushing from my head.

  Everything seemed to be happening underwater, slow and dreamlike. Sharon was behind the man now. He had slumped to the floor, propping himself up on one elbow. His face was practically purple.

  She knelt down and wrapped her arms around his midsection. He must have weighed two hundred pounds, but she managed to lift his torso upright.

  She dug her fists into the area below his ribcage. Then she pulled inward sharply.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried it a second time, and a third. The man was limp now. The kids were crying hysterically.

  The fourth time, Sharon pulled so hard, I thought she’d break his ribs.

  A chunk of something shot out of the man’s mouth. He let out a loud, strangled-sounding shout.

  Then I lost sight of them as a crowd began to close around the scene.

  Slowly my own senses were coming back to me. My dad was in the crowd now. So were Kristy, Abby, Jessi, and Stacey. The man’s wife was pushing frantically through the crowd, holding the little girl. Restaurant workers followed, with wet towels and small bottles — of what? Smelling salts? Medicine? Spring water? I had no idea.

  “Mary Anne, are you all right?”

  Mallory’s voice startled me. I turned to see her looking up at me with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I replied.

  “I think Sharon just saved that guy’s life,” Mal said.

  “I hope so,” was all I managed to reply.

  Mal and I made our way across the floor. Most of the tables were empty now. The crowd around Sharon had swelled. Everyone was yakking away, asking questions. I could see a few people nodding and smiling.

  Then someone started to applaud, and all the buzzing stopped. More people joined the clapping.

  By this time Mal and I had worked our way to the front, near Kristy and our other friends.

  The man was sitting on the chair with a weary smile, breathing hard. His wife was wiping his forehead with a white towel, which she also used to wipe tears from her eyes. His kids were in his lap, hugging him tightly.

  Sharon and Dad were standing nearby, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Sharon looked a little bewildered at the loud cheering. She was nodding and muttering, “Thank you.”

  “Unbelievable,” Kristy said admiringly. “I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.”

  I ran to Sharon. She looked up at me with a big smile. “He’s okay.”

  “That was such quick thinking,” I said.

  Sharon shrugged. “I didn’t even think, really. I just did it. My instincts took over.”

  “Well, I certainly couldn’t have done it,” Dad said.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Sharon replied. “Really. Just your basic Heimlich maneuver. It’s the first thing you learn in any first-aid course.”

  Now a group of white-uniformed medics was being led through the crowd by an airport official.

  As the official began asking Sharon questions, I hung back in the crowd. Kristy, Claudia, Abby, Jessi, Stacey, and Mallory were talking excitedly. Total strangers were joining in the conversation. Everyone was praising Sharon.

  But I didn’t have either of those feelings. I was still feeling stunned.

  And ashamed.

  I hadn’t done a thing when the emergency started. I had just frozen up.

  Tears began rolling down my cheeks.

  “It’s okay, Mary Anne,” Jessi said softly. “He’s all right.”

  “I — I just stood there,” I mumbled. “Like a statue.”

  Abby nodded sympathetically. “So did the rest of us. Good thing Sharon was here, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A great thing.”

  I didn’t want to mention what was really on my mind.

  What if Sharon hadn’t been there?

  The man might not have survived. Everyone in his family, all his kids, would have been devastated.

  And I couldn’t have done anything.

  The crowd was beginning to thin out now. The airport official was offering the family a free meal. The man and woman were nodding politely, but I could tell they weren’t really paying attention. They were clinging together, so happy and grateful.

  Their lives were going to go on. All because of my stepmother.

  In the background, I heard an announcement about Dawn’s flight, but I didn’t catch the details.

  My mind was racing. I wanted to say something to the man, but I couldn’t bring myself to. What would I say? “I’m the daughter of the woman who saved you. You know, the girl who almost fainted?”

  I felt like such a chicken.

  “Ta-da!” Claudia sang. She emerged from her bedroom closet, holding a lumpy brown object wrapped in plastic, and a container of green mush.

  “Mmm, boulders and boogers,” said Abby. “What a nice way to greet Dawn.”

  “Gross, Abby!” Stacey exclaimed.

  Jessi and Mallory were hysterical. Doubled over with laughter.

  Claudia held up the two things and read from their labels: “ ‘Yeastless seven-grain molasses bread’ and ‘organic mint tabouli.’ ” She grinned. “Dawn food.”

  Dawn was sitting in the middle of Claudia’s bed, squidged between Stacey and Abby. “Yum, thanks!” she said, taking the food. “You guys don’t know what you’re missing.”

  That’s Dawn. She is the world’s number-one health-food freak. She calls hamburgers “processed cow corpses.” When we became stepsisters, she and Sharon forced my poor dad to return almost an entire load of groceries he’d bought because the produce was “tainted with chemical insect killer.”

  Dawn’s also passionate about the environment — recycling, global warming, alternative packaging, you name it. Some kids at school used to make fun of her, but she didn’t care a bit. She’s a real individual.

  It was so great to have her back home. And just in time for our Friday Baby-sitters Club meeting.

  Dawn is the BSC’s honorary member. She always comes to meetings when she visits. And Claudia always remembers to provide some “Dawn food.”

  “And now, for the rest of us!” Claudia announced, pulling a box of Yodels and a bag of potato chips from under her bed.

  Claudia tossed them around the room, and we all dug in. (No, Dawn has not totally converted me to health foods, although she’s still trying.)

  Luckily for Dawn, she’s found a group of friends in California who share her beliefs. They formed a baby-sitting organization called the We Kids Club.

  Well, that’s what most of us call them. Kristy usually puts a “so-called” before the word club. (On her nice days. I have heard her refer to them as the We R Lazy Club, too.) They’re very informal about meeting times and rules. Kristy believes a real club has to have officers and dues and strict procedures.

  Like the club she formed — us!

  The idea came to her one day as she watched her mom desperately calling all over town to find a sitter for Kristy’s younger brother, David Michael. Kristy couldn’t believe how inefficient that wa
s. What Stoneybrook needed was a central phone number for baby-sitters.

  She knew Claudia had her own private phone. And back then, the three of us lived on the same block. Stacey lived nearby, too. So we became the first Baby-sitters Club members.

  We meet in Claudia’s room three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from five-thirty to six. During that half hour, Stoneybrook parents call to set up baby-sitting jobs.

  As secretary, my job begins when a call comes in. First we take down the information and promise to call back. Then I check the BSC record book, which contains our official calendar. On the calendar, I keep track of every BSC member’s conflicts — lessons, doctor appointments, family trips, and so on. I announce who’s available, and we all decide who’ll take the job. Then we call back the client to finalize.

  At the back of the record book, I keep up an alphabetical client list with phone numbers, addresses, rates, and any important information about our charges. Because we can’t guarantee the same family the same sitter each time, it’s crucial to record new developments in our charges’ lives, for instance, allergies, fears, habits, problems. (We also maintain a club journal, called the BSC notebook. Kristy makes us write about each of our jobs in it.)

  Am I making Kristy sound unbearable? She’s not. She’s kind and funny and loyal. Her mind just goes about two speeds faster than everyone else’s. That makes her a little impatient and bossy.

  Kristy also loves to be in control, which is why she’s a perfect BSC president. She runs us like a company. But don’t think we sit around with three-piece suits and laptops. We don’t. Our meetings are fun, and, as you’ve probably figured out, we’re all great friends.

  Personally, I think Kristy’s title should be Creative Director. Ideas are her great passion. She practically breathes them out. For one thing, she loves figuring out ways to advertise the club. If a local fair is announced, you can be sure we’ll set up a baby-sitting booth. Kristy’s best ideas, though, are kid-oriented. Like Kid-Kits, which are boxes of old toys, games, books, and kid-friendly odds and ends we take to our jobs. Kristy’s constantly planning talent shows and sports events for kids. She even organized a softball team, called Kristy’s Krushers, for our charges who aren’t in Little League.

  Kristy and I look alike. Sort of. We both have brown hair and brown eyes, and we’re both just a little over five feet tall. Personalitywise, we’re not alike at all. I could never be as forceful as Kristy. Or as opinionated. I’m shy, I hate confrontation, and I tend to cry a lot. (My boyfriend, Logan Bruno, keeps extra tissues in his pocket whenever we go to a sad movie.)