Stacey's Emergency Read online

  The author would like to thank

  Dr. Claudia Werner

  for her sensitive evaluation of this book.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  I looked up from my homework. I watched Charlotte Johanssen, my baby-sitting charge. Charlotte is eight years old.

  She was reading The New York Times.

  She had just finished going through the Stoneybrook News.

  “Wow,” said Charlotte.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “It says here that in New York this woman had a gun and she —”

  “Stop!” I cried. “I don’t want to hear about it! And why are you reading that story, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. It’s right here in the paper.”

  I guess I couldn’t fault Charlotte for reading something great (and grown-up) like the Times. But did she have to read the grisly stuff? And did she have to read it aloud?

  “Gosh,” said Charlotte. “Here it says that there was a huge fire in a big, fancy hotel one night and —”

  “Char! I really don’t want to hear about it…. Okay?”

  “Okay. Actually, I was looking for science articles. Oh, here’s one! Hey, Stacey! There’s a whole article about diabetes.”

  “Really?” Now I was interested. That’s because I have diabetes myself. Diabetes is a disease. If your blood sugar level gets too high, you can become really sick. There are different kinds of diabetes and different ways to treat the disease. Some people just stick to a low-sugar diet. Other people have to have injections every day. (I’m one of those people. I know giving yourself shots sounds gross, but the shots save my life.) The injections are of insulin, which is what the pancreas (that’s a gland in your body) produces to break down sugar. When your body’s natural insulin isn’t working right, then sometimes you have to give yourself insulin. From outside your body. But that doesn’t always work. Natural insulin is more effective.

  I am lucky in one way because I can give myself insulin. Before doctors knew how to do that, I guess people with diabetes suffered a lot. But I am unlucky in another way: I have a severe form of diabetes. My mom told me recently that I’m called a brittle diabetic. That means that my disease is hard to control. I have to have the insulin shots and stay on a strict diet. And I mean strict. My mom helps me count calories. This is complicated. We don’t simply count calories. We count different kinds of calories, like proteins and fats, and we have to balance them. Plus, I have to test my blood. And I have to do it several times each day. How do I test my blood? I prick my finger (I know — you’re thinking that diabetes is all shots and finger sticks), then I squeeze out a drop of blood, wipe it on this thing called a test strip, and put the test strip into a machine. A number comes up on the machine, and the number tells me if the level of sugar in my blood is too high (either because I’ve misjudged and eaten something that has a lot of natural sugar in it, like fruit, or because I have too little insulin in my body), too low (not enough sugar in my blood; everybody needs some), or just right.

  A few times recently I’ve seen some numbers that haven’t been what they should be. Plus, lately, I’ve been hungrier and thirstier than usual — and also tired. (I’ve had some sore throats and stuff, too.) I haven’t told Mom about the blood tests, though. She’s been through a lot in the past months. (My parents just got divorced, but I’ll explain about that later.) I don’t want Mom to have to worry about me as well as everything else. Anyway, I’m thirteen years old, and I know my body is going through lots of chemical changes. (Everyone’s does when they reach puberty.) So maybe the insulin was just another chemical in my body that was changing — reacting differently to my diet and injections. That is what I wanted to believe, but it was my own theory. To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to worry Mom because I was already worried.

  “What does the article say, Char?” I asked her.

  “Oh, it’s sort of boring.” Charlotte skimmed down the page. “It’s nothing about treating diabetes. It’s about how scientists need more money for research so they can study the disease.” Charlotte folded up the paper. Then she reopened it and began looking at the headlines again.

  Charlotte Johanssen is really smart. She’s an only child, and her parents spend as much time with her as possible — but that isn’t a lot. They both work hard, especially Charlotte’s mother, who’s a doctor. Charlotte’s teachers once asked the Johanssens if they’d let Char skip a grade — which Dr. and Mr. Johanssen finally said yes to. It was a big decision. Charlotte may be smart, but she’s shy and clingy (although not as bad as she used to be) and has a little trouble making friends.

  Sometimes she can be awfully serious, too, which is why I said then, “Hey, Char, let’s read something more fun than the paper.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Can I see what’s in your Kid-Kit?”

  A Kid-Kit is a box full of my old toys, books, and games, plus some new things, such as art materials. I bring the Kid-Kit with me on sitting jobs. I wish I could take credit for this great idea, but it wasn’t mine. Kristy Thomas, the president and founder of the Baby-sitters Club (which I belong to), thought up Kid-Kits — and a lot of other things as well. But I’ll tell you about Kristy and the BSC later, along with my parents’ divorce.

  Charlotte poked through the Kid-Kit. She pulled out the first book she saw. “Oh, Paddington,” she said, sounding disappointed. “We’ve already read this one.”

  “Keep looking,” I told her.

  Char did. Finally she emerged with The Dancing Cats of Applesap. “This is a new book, Stacey! Cool!”

  “Do you want me to read to you?” (Of course, Charlotte could read the book perfectly well by herself, but there’s nothing like being read to, no matter how old you are.)

  “Yes!” said Charlotte, jumping to her feet.

  We both moved to the couch, and Char snuggled next to me while I began reading. I glanced at her a couple of times, because she was so engrossed.

  Charlotte and I could practically be sisters. Not because we look alike (we don’t), but because that’s how close we are. Charlotte even stayed at my house once when her parents suddenly had to go out of town for a few days. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but Char is my favorite sitting charge — and I’m her favorite sitter. We mean more to each other than that, though, which is why I think of us as sisters.

  Also, I wish I really did have a sister or a brother. But like Charlotte, I’m an only child. And since my parents’ divorce, I live mostly with my mother.

  Maybe this would be a good time to tell you about the divorce. But beware, it’s complicated! Oh, well. Here goes. I grew up in New York City. My dad has a big-time job there. But just before I was going to enter seventh grade, the company he works for transferred him to Stamford, Connecticut, so my parents went house hunting and found a place for us here in Stoneybrook, which is not far from Stamford. Then, in the middle of this school year (eighth grade), the company transferred Dad back to New York. (I didn’t mind much. I had joined the BSC and made friends in Connecticut, but I also wanted to return to New York and live in the city that felt like home to me.) However, we hadn’t
been back in New York for more than a few months when my parents began to have problems with each other. They were always fighting. And the next thing I knew, they were getting a divorce. Worse, my father was staying in New York, my mother wanted to return to Connecticut (she loves Stoneybrook), and I was given the choice of where I wanted to live. (In other words, with which parent I wanted to live.) It was an awful decision, but finally I chose Connecticut, promising my dad I would visit him on weekends and vacations — whenever I could. I’ve been pretty good about that, but lately, what with feeling tired and cranky and just not well, I haven’t gone to New York as often as Dad would like. All my energy goes into baby-sitting, school, and homework. I can’t think about traveling. It wears me out.

  Plus, I feel as though Mom and Dad have been using me a little. I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your own parents, but it’s true. And it makes me resent the divorce even more, which makes me want to stay put in Connecticut. I’m not trying to punish my dad, I’m just trying to feel like a normal kid with one home. Each time I have to get on the train and travel to see my father, I’m reminded of the divorce. I don’t like to think of myself as a divorced kid, even though the parents of half of my friends are divorced, too.

  Oh. I got off the track. I started to say that I feel like Mom and Dad are using me. By that I mean that they’re putting me in the middle. In the middle of them. For instance, when I come home from New York, Mom usually wants to know what Dad’s “up to.” After a few more questions, I can tell that what she really wants to know is whether Dad is dating someone. Dad does the same thing to me on my weekend visits. What am I supposed to do? In the first place, I usually don’t know the answers to their questions. In the second place, when I do know, if I tell, am I being an informant? Is one parent going to call the other and say, “Stacey told me you went out with so-and-so the other night”? And then will I be in trouble?

  “Stacey?” asked Charlotte. “Are you okay? You stopped reading.”

  “Oh, Char, I’m sorry,” I told her. “My mind was wandering. Let’s see. Where was I?” I’d been reading without paying any attention.

  “Right here,” said Charlotte, pointing to a spot on page nine.

  “Okay.” I began reading again. This time I kept my mind on the book. In fact, Charlotte and I both became so caught up in the story that when Dr. Johanssen returned, she startled us!

  After I’d been paid (and also after I’d lent Charlotte The Dancing Cats of Applesap because she couldn’t bear not knowing the end of the story), I asked Dr. Johanssen if I could talk to her in private.

  “Of course,” said Charlotte’s mother, and we sat down in the kitchen.

  “It’s my diabetes,” I blurted out. “I’m tired all the time, hungrier and thirstier than I should be, and … and …” I finally managed to admit to her that I’d been getting funny blood sugar readings.

  I was afraid Dr. Johanseen might blow up at me for ignoring all this stuff. She’s not my doctor, but she’s a doctor, and she’s told me I can always go to her when I have questions. But Dr. Johanssen didn’t blow up. (I should have known she wouldn’t. She’s not an explosive person.)

  However, she did say, “I think you should have this checked out soon, Stacey. You’re awfully busy, you’re under a lot of stress, and you do have a tricky form of diabetes. Why don’t you ask your mom to call your doctor in New York? Or make an appointment to see your doctor, since you’re going to visit your dad in a few days.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Thanks, Doctor Johanssen.”

  “Any time, honey.”

  I called good-bye to Charlotte then and left the Johanssens’ house. I had intended to go home and catch up on some of my homework. Besides, I was ravenous. I could have eaten a horse. Maybe two. Even so, I suddenly didn’t feel like going home. I wanted to be with someone — in particular with my best friend, Claudia Kishi. I needed to talk to her.

  I needed an escape.

  Claudia and I have been best friends since that day at the beginning of seventh grade when we ran into each other. (I mean, actually ran into each other.) We realized we were dressed alike — in very trendy clothes — and somehow we hit it off. Then when Kristy Thomas, one of Claud’s friends, wanted to start a baby-sitting club, I was asked to join. So I became friends with Kristy and her best friend, Mary Anne Spier, as well. But Claudia is my best friend. (Well, she’s my best Connecticut friend. My best New York friend is Laine Cummings. I usually see her when I visit my father.) Anyway, like most best friends, Claudia and I are similar in some ways and different in some ways. We’re similar in that (I hope this doesn’t sound stuck-up; I just think it’s true) we are both pretty sophisticated for thirteen. We wear really fresh clothes — leggings, cowboy boots, oversized shirts, hats (Claud wears hats more than I do), and wild jewelry. Claudia, who is an excellent artist, makes some of our jewelry herself. Both Claud and I are pretty interested in boys (I’ve been described as “boy-crazy”), and we like action! But that’s where the similarities end.

  We look different as different can be. I have blue eyes and blonde hair, and my mother allows me to get perms, so my hair is usually fluffy or curly. Claudia, on the other hand, is Japanese-American. She’s got these beautiful, very dark, almond-shaped eyes; creamy, unblemished skin; and long, black, silky hair. While I wear my hair pretty much the same way each day, Claud is forever experimenting with hers. She braids it, puts it in clips, swoops it over to one side of her head in a big ponytail, etc. And she loves weaving ribbons into her hair, buying or making fancy barrettes, and trying out scarves, headbands, you name it. Then, while I’m an only child in a family that seems pretty mixed up right now, Claud comes from a regular old family. She grew up here in Stoneybrook, and she lives with her parents and her older sister, Janine. Janine is a genius. I mean, a real one with an I.Q. that’s way over 150, which is the genius mark. She goes to Stoneybrook High School, but she takes classes at our local college. Can you imagine? Sixteen and taking college courses? I don’t know why she doesn’t just go off to college right now and forget the rest of high school. If she did, she would certainly make life easier for Claudia. That’s because, although Claud is smart, she’s a terrible student — and an even worse speller. I think that school just doesn’t interest her. What does interest her is art. Claud is very talented. As I mentioned earlier, she makes jewelry. She also paints, draws, sculpts, and sometimes experiments with pottery. Her work has even won some local awards. Another thing Claud likes is reading Nancy Drew mysteries. Her parents, however, think she should be reading classics or something. (Mrs. Kishi is a librarian.) But Claud just loves mysteries, so she buys the books anyway and hides them around her room. Along with junk food, which she’s addicted to. Her room can be pretty interesting. You reach into a container labeled PAPER CLIPS and pull out a handful of root beer barrels. You open a desk drawer, looking for a pencil, and find a bag of M&M’s. You ask Claud about the latest book she’s read — and she retrieves it from the folds of a quilt at the end of her bed. Claudia is fun, funny, generous, and talented. I just wish she had higher self-esteem.

  Talk about self-esteem, Kristy Thomas has it, despite what she’s been through in the last year or so. You think my family is mixed up? Wait until you hear about Kristy’s. Kristy, the president of the Baby-sitters Club, used to live across the street from Claud. She lived there with her mother and her three brothers — Charlie and Sam, who are in high school, and David Michael, who is seven. Mr. Thomas had walked out on the family when Kristy was six or seven (I think). He just walked out, leaving Kristy’s mom to raise four kids. Which she did. She got herself together and found a good job with a company in Stamford. Then, a few months before Kristy entered seventh grade, her mother began dating this millionaire, Watson Brewer. He was the first guy Mrs. Thomas had been serious about since her husband left. And he was the first guy that Kristy said she didn’t like. Watson had been married once before, and he had two children, Andrew and Karen, who are four and
seven now. During the summer between seventh and eighth grade, Mrs. Thomas married Watson. (That’s how I always think of him, because that’s what Kristy calls him.) After the wedding, Watson moved Kristy and her family from their small house into his mansion across town. Naturally, Kristy resented this, even though everyone in the family has a room to himself or herself, including Karen and Andrew, who live with their father only every other weekend.

  Guess what. Not long ago, Watson and Mrs. Thomas adopted a little girl. They named her Emily Michelle. She’s two and a half, and she comes from Vietnam. She’s adorable. With such a little kid around, though, arrangements had to be made for someone to be at home while the adults were at work and everyone else was at school. So Nannie, Kristy’s grandmother, joined the household. What with Kristy, her mom, her brothers, her stepfather, her stepsister and stepbrother, her adopted sister, her grandmother, and the pets (a cat, a dog, and two goldfish), the Brewer/Thomas house is wild, crazy … and wonderful! (Even Kristy admits that now.)

  Kristy herself is outgoing (she’s noted for her big mouth), a tomboy, and just a little immature compared to the rest of us in the BSC. She doesn’t care a thing about clothes and almost always wears jeans, a turtleneck shirt, a sweater or sweat shirt, and running shoes. Sometimes she wears her baseball cap with the collie on it. She’s pretty, although I don’t think she knows it. Best of all, when you dig below the loudmouth exterior, you find a caring, concerned, organized person, full of good ideas and creativity. (Needless to say, Kristy — like the rest of us — loves kids.)

  Kristy’s best friend, Mary Anne Spier, actually looks a little like Kristy. They’re both short for their age (Kristy is shorter) and have brown hair and brown eyes. Their features are even similar. But beyond looks, they are two extremely different people. While Kristy is outgoing, Mary Anne is shy. She has trouble speaking up for herself or voicing her opinions, although she’s better about that than she was when I first met her. She’s a romantic and cries easily. (Never see a sad movie with her.) She even had a steady boyfriend for a long time.