Kristy and the Sister War

  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

  “Sit, girl, sit!”

  Emily Michelle came to a halt and plopped onto her bottom. Then she grinned at me.

  I cracked up. “Not you, silly,” I said. “I was talking to Shannon.”

  “Doggie sit,” said Emily Michelle.

  I glanced at Shannon just in time to see her drop her hind end down obediently. She looked at Emily with an expectant tilt of her head, as if waiting for the next command. “I don’t believe it!” I cried. Shannon never sits when I tell her to. I clapped my hands, and Shannon hopped up and pranced around. “Say it again, Emily,” I said.

  “Doggie sit,” crowed Emily.

  Shannon stopped prancing and tucked herself into a perfect sit.

  I smacked my forehead and groaned. Then I picked up Emily and twirled her around. “You are an excellent dog trainer,” I said, squeezing her tight. Emily squeezed me back. Shannon, eager to be part of the action, bumped up against my ankles and gave a couple of yelps.

  I lowered Emily to the ground and flopped down beside her. Shannon nuzzled my ear and licked my cheek. The warm afternoon sun lit up the golden yellow leaves of the big maple tree I lay beneath, and the sky was a brilliant blue. It was a perfect fall day, a Monday in early October, and I was perfectly happy. I could think of nowhere I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing. The day was made for scuffling around in the leaves with my little sister and our puppy.

  I sighed with contentment. Emily and Shannon sighed too.

  And now, we interrupt this perfect moment for a word from our sponsors.

  Just kidding. But I should stop to explain who I am. My name’s Kristy Thomas. I have brown hair and brown eyes and I’m on the short side. I’m thirteen years old and in the eighth grade at SMS (formally known as Stoneybrook Middle School). I’ve lived my whole life in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, and it’s a pretty great place to grow up, if I do say so myself. (One thing you’ll learn about me is that I’m never shy about giving my opinion.)

  Emily Michelle is my sister, though you’d never know it by looking at us. She’s a little roly-poly two-and-a-half-year-old, with shiny, dark hair and shiny, dark, almond-shaped eyes. Emily Michelle was a Vietnamese orphan, but she’s part of our family now. She doesn’t speak much yet, but I know it won’t be long before she’s chattering away. I’m so glad my mom and Watson adopted her.

  Who’s Watson? I’ll explain. But sit tight, because my family is kind of complicated, and it’ll take awhile to introduce you to everyone.

  First of all, there’s my mom, Elizabeth Thomas Brewer, otherwise known as Superwoman. She’s a true heroine, at least in my eyes. Why? Because years ago, when my father walked out on us, she didn’t give up. She hung in there and raised me and my brothers (two older, one younger) on her own. And it wasn’t easy, believe me. We went through some pretty hard times, but we did it together, as a family. And now things are much, much better.

  See, not long ago, my mom met this sweet guy named Watson Brewer, and the two of them fell in love. (To be honest, I wasn’t crazy about Watson at first — but that’s changed.) And, as if love weren’t enough to make my mom happy, it turned out that Watson is rich. And I mean rich. As in millionaire. After my mom married Watson (I’ll spare you all the gory romantic details of the proposal, the wedding, etc.), we moved across town to live in his mansion.

  Yup. That’s right. His mansion.

  Can you believe it? I, Kristy Thomas, actually live in a mansion. It’s huge: three stories high, nine bedrooms. The living room (which is practically bigger than my old house) has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the humongous front lawn (where I was sitting that afternoon) and is big enough to hold a grand piano, three couches, five armchairs, a long glass coffee table, and an incredible crystal chandelier. And that’s just the living room. I haven’t even started to tell you about Watson’s library.

  Don’t misunderstand; I’m not boasting. Things like chandeliers really aren’t important to me at all. I’m just trying to give you an idea of my surroundings.

  Okay, back to my family. As I said, I have two older brothers: Charlie, who’s seventeen and has his driver’s license, and Sam, who’s fifteen and thinks about nothing but girls. Then there’s David Michael, who’s seven. He was only a baby when my father left, and since my mom was always working after that, I spent mondo hours caring for David Michael. I learned most of my baby-sitting skills during that time, so I guess I can thank David Michael for the fact that I’m now president of a very successful business called the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC (more about that later).

  When Mom married Watson, he came with something extra: two kids from his first marriage. I love my stepsister and stepbrother. Their names are Karen and Andrew, and they are seven and four. Karen has an imagination the size of Texas and is a total live wire. Andrew is sweet and shy. The two of them live with us every other month, traveling back and forth from their mother’s house to ours along with Bob the hermit crab and Emily Junior the rat. (Yes, she’s named after Emily Michelle. Cute, no?)

  Speaking of Emily Michelle, her arrival forced Mom and Watson to think about having someone in to help out with child care. That someone turned out to be Nannie, my mom’s mother. She arrived in style in her old car — known as the Pink Clinker — and she dotes on all of us, whenever she’s not too busy bowling or gardening or volunteering at the hospital. (She’s another live wire.)

  Is that everyone? I think so, though I haven’t told you about Boo-Boo, Watson’s way old, way cranky cat, or Crystal Light the Second and Goldfishie, the swimming pets. And you’ve already met Shannon, who is a Bernese mountain dog puppy. I never thought I’d have a purebred — our last dog (my beloved Louie) was a sort-of collie whose grandfather was a sheepdog — but Shannon was a gift our family couldn’t refuse.

  “Sannie!” Emily Michelle exclaimed suddenly, interrupting my Indian-summer day-dreaming.

  I sat up quickly, wondering why Emily Michelle was calling Shannon’s name. Had the puppy wandered off? No, she was sleeping peacefully next to me, tail curled to touch her nose.

  “Sannie!” Emily Michelle said again, and I looked up just in time to see what she was pointing at. Barreling toward us at what seemed like the speed of light was an in-line skater dressed in purple Lycra. She had thick blonde curls and she was outfitted with a helmet plus knee and elbow guards and wrist protectors, all in a shocking shade of pink. Towing her was a giant-sized version of Shannon, a strong, barrel-chested, brown-and-black dog with white markings. The dog’s tongue hung out and I could swear she was grinning as she galumphed along happily.

  The girl, however, wasn’t exactly grinning. In fact, she looked terrified. “Help!” she cried. “Grab her!”

  I jumped to my feet, ready for action. But as it turned out, there was no need to grab the dog. It stopped short as soon as it had reached its objective: Shannon. A tender nose-touch, some maternal snuffling, and the mother-daughter reunion was under way.

  That’s right. The big dog was Astrid, Shannon’s mother. And, just to totally confuse you, the girl was Shanno
n. Shannon Kilbourne, that is. The human Shannon on our block. Bewildered? I don’t blame you. I would be, too. Perhaps I should back up and explain.

  See, when I first moved to Watson’s house, I felt a little out of place. After all, this is a very wealthy neighborhood. And I thought the kids who lived here were snobby, especially Shannon, who paraded around with her purebred dog (Astrid’s full name is Astrid of Grenville) and made fun of Louie, who was becoming very old and sick. But before long we’d become friends despite ourselves. We ironed out our misunderstandings, and as a peace offering Shannon gave my family one of Astrid’s puppies. (Louie had been put to sleep by then and we missed him terribly.) David Michael promptly named the puppy after Shannon. I could have told him it would be confusing, but he was determined to have his way.

  Now Shannon (the human) is a good friend and a member of the BSC, while Shannon (the puppy) is a much-loved member of the Thomas-Brewer family.

  At that moment, the canine Shannon looked perfectly happy as she tumbled around under Astrid’s gentle paw prods. But the other Shannon didn’t look happy at all.

  “Astrid,” she called. “Come on. We only have ten minutes to finish our exercise!”

  Astrid didn’t even look up. Shannon (the human) gave an exasperated sigh.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked.

  Shannon sighed again and shook her head. “This isn’t working,” she said. “I thought it would be efficient to combine my exercise with Astrid’s afternoon walk, but she’s distracted way too easily. I’m not getting any aerobic workout at all.”

  “So?” I said. “Just enjoy the time with Astrid and go skating by yourself later.”

  “I’d love to,” said Shannon, “but there’s no way I’ll have time. Tonight I have to finish planning the next Astronomy Club meeting, plus write up the minutes for French Club. Also, I have to think about a presentation for Honor Society and make some calls about the All-Stoneybrook Dance. And I need to work on memorizing some lines. I’m auditioning for the school play.”

  This all came out in such a rush I could hardly follow what she said. But I understood the gist of it: Shannon was majorly busy. This is nothing new. Shannon is always busy. She’s the student version of a workaholic, always signing up for more clubs, more activities, more extra-credit work. I don’t know how she does it, especially when you consider that she’s also a member of the BSC and makes all A’s. (Shannon goes to Stoneybrook Day School, a private school.) Plus, she helps out with the care of her two younger sisters, Tiffany and Maria.

  “How are plans for the dance coming?” I asked. Shannon is the SDS representative for the All-Stoneybrook Dance committee. My friends and I are psyched about the dance they’re planning, which is a first for our area. It’s going to be a combined bash for the middle school kids at three schools: SDS, SMS, and Kelsey. It should be a blast.

  Shannon rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask about the dance,” she said. “We have so much to do, and it’s only a few weeks away. It’s a madhouse.”

  I felt a little sorry for Shannon. Being on the committee should be fun, but it seemed as if she felt too overwhelmed to enjoy it. I thought for a second about a time when I was overbooked with responsibilities and remembered how anxious and tense I’d felt. I opened my mouth to suggest something to Shannon about cutting back (as I said, I’m never shy about giving my opinion), but before I could say a word she had grabbed Astrid’s leash and was taking off down the street.

  “See you!” she called, waving as she rolled away. “Nice talking to you.” Her voice was already faint, and soon she disappeared around the corner. I shook my head, thinking what a shame it was to be so busy on such a beautiful day. Then I gave Emily Michelle a squeeze, stroked Shannon’s soft ears, and lay in the leaves again to soak up some more of that warm October sun.

  “Hey! Your Royal Cluelessness!”

  I looked up with a start. “Charlie!” I said. My brother was standing over me, grinning and shaking his head.

  “I’ve been calling your name for the last five minutes, you airhead,” he said. “Are you spacing out?”

  “I guess I am,” I admitted. The warm sun, Emily Michelle’s sleepy yawns as she lay across my lap, the cozy autumn smell of leaves — all of it had made me so relaxed I’d forgotten everything else.

  “Well, your space days are over,” said Charlie, showing me his watch. “If we don’t hustle, Madame President will be clocking in late.”

  “What?” I shouted, jumping to my feet. “It can’t really be five-fifteen.”

  “Wanna bet?” asked Charlie. “Come on, let’s move it. Nannie’s inside waiting for Emily, the car’s running, and Abby’s on her way over —”

  “No, Abby’s here,” interrupted Abby Stevenson, my neighbor and the most recent addition to the BSC. She’d appeared just as Charlie spoke her name. “And she’s ready to go too, which is more than she can say for some people,” she added teasingly.

  “I don’t believe this,” I muttered as I sprinted across the yard, holding a still-sleepy Emily in my arms. “I’m never late. Never.”

  It’s true. I’m never late for BSC meetings. After all, I have a reputation to maintain. As president, I insist on punctuality. A good sitter is never late for a job, not to mention a club meeting.

  Inside, I unloaded Emily into Nannie’s lap and gave each of them a quick kiss and a wave good-bye. Then I raced outside again, jumped into Charlie’s car, and pulled the door shut with a slam. “Let’s go!” I told Charlie. “What are you waiting for?”

  He laughed as he shifted the car into gear. With a loud clunk, several sick-sounding coughs, and a strange squeal, the Junk Bucket (that’s what we call Charlie’s car, for obvious reasons) began to move.

  I think the Junk Bucket could probably find its own way to Claudia Kishi’s house by now. Charlie has driven me over there and back, three times a week, ever since we moved across town to Watson’s house. (Before we moved, I could make it on my own to Claudia’s. I grew up in the house across the street from hers.)

  I guess now is the time to explain a little more about the BSC. We are a group of baby-sitters who meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from five-thirty until six. Why? Pretend you’re a parent who needs a reliable, experienced, responsible baby-sitter for next Thursday at seven. Would you rather make a bunch of calls to sitters you’ve never met, trying to find someone who might be free and might be trustworthy, or would you prefer to make one call to an established business that can guarantee you the kind of sitter you’re looking for?

  Right. Well, plenty of real parents feel the same way, which is why the BSC is the success that it is. It’s such a simple idea, really. Anyone could have thought of it. But they didn’t.

  I did.

  Which is why I’m president.

  Let me just say now, without meaning to brag, that if there is one thing I’m very good at, it’s having ideas. And having the energy and the drive to follow through on those ideas. You might call me pushy, you might call me bossy, but one thing you can never call me is lazy.

  My friends aren’t lazy either. In fact, I have to say that, while the rest of the BSC members aren’t quite as busy as Shannon, not one of them is what you’d call a couch potato. All of us are active, busy people with very full lives. In a way, I think that’s what makes us great sitters. We’re just not interested in plopping down in front of the TV with our charges. We want to be doing things.

  Take Claudia Kishi, for example. She’s the vice-president of the BSC. We meet in her room because she has her own phone with a private line, which is essential for our business. Claudia is totally gorgeous, with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes. (Claudia is Japanese-American.) She’s also crammed with talent, from the tips of her hand-painted sneakers to the tops of her creative hairdos.

  Claudia may not be a world-class student. In fact, she’s in the process of repeating seventh grade because eighth turned out to be more than she could handle, but she shines when it comes to art. (Her
older sister, Janine, is the opposite. She’s creatively challenged but a genius when it comes to academics.) Claudia’s sculptures are stupendous. Her drawings are dumbfounding. And her paintings are prime. In short, she’s an awesome artist. (Class, take note: All of the above are examples of alliteration. There will be a quiz tomorrow.)

  Claud’s creativity even extends to her outfits (they’re wild), her Kid-Kit (a box of fun stuff she brings to sitting jobs; Claudia’s is decorated differently each month), her room (full of art projects, art books, and art supplies), and even her hiding places. Hiding places? Yup, for books and munchies. Claudia’s parents aren’t crazy about her choice of reading material (Nancy Drew mysteries) or her choice of eating material (the junkiest of junk foods). So if you check any nook or cranny in Claudia’s room, you’re likely to turn up a couple of paperbacks or a Snickers bar.

  Claudia’s best friend, Stacey McGill, is another busy baby-sitter. She’s the club’s treasurer, which is a perfect job for someone with Stacey’s natural talent for math. (We pay dues into the treasury every Monday and use the money to pay for things like Claud’s phone bill and gas for the Junk Bucket.) Stacey is an only child who lives with her mom (her parents divorced not long ago). Her dad still lives in Manhattan, where Stacey grew up, so Stacey visits him as often as possible. That’s not a hardship for her. Stacey ♥ NY. I think she’ll always be a New Yorker at heart, and I know she’ll always look like one. Stacey has long, curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sophisticated sense of style that tells you loud and clear that she’s not from Stoneybrook.

  (I haven’t told you much about my style, which is basically nonexistent. I wear the same thing nearly every day: jeans, running shoes, and a turtleneck. I switch to shorts and T-shirts in the summer.)

  Another thing that keeps Stacey busy is her diabetes. Imagine having to keep track of every single thing you eat (and avoiding any goodies like those Snickers bars of Claud’s), having to give yourself frequent blood tests, and having to inject yourself with insulin on a regular basis. That’s what Stacey has to do because she’s diabetic. Diabetes is a lifelong condition that has to do with the way your body processes (or doesn’t process) sugars. Stacey works hard to stay on top of her health, and I admire her for it. It can’t be easy.