Claudia Kishi, Middle School Drop-Out Read online

  The phone rang as I was watching Mary Anne, and the BSC swung into action. Kristy answered the phone with a cheery “Baby-sitters Club!” and listened for a while, then hung up after promising to call the client right back. “That was Mrs. Newton,” she reported, “looking for a sitter for Jamie and Lucy on Friday night.”

  Mary Anne checked the record book, scanning it to see which of us was free. “Looks like the job is yours,” she said, smiling at Stacey, who sat next to her on my bed.

  “Great,” said Stacey.

  Kristy called Mrs. Newton back, and that was that.

  Stacey is the club treasurer. She’s responsible for collecting dues each week, which are used to pay club expenses such as my phone bill. It’s the perfect job for Stacey, since math is so easy for her.

  My abstract painting of Stacey would have to suggest her strength, beauty, and elegance. I’ve already told you what she looks like and how she dresses, but I haven’t told you one important thing about my best friend: She has diabetes. That’s a lifelong disease caused by her body’s inability to process sugars correctly, and unless she takes really good care of herself every single day Stacey can become very sick.

  Her parents, who were divorced not long ago (her dad still lives in Manhattan, and Stacey visits him a lot), freaked out when she was diagnosed with diabetes. She’s an only child, and they were really overprotective at first. But by now they’ve come to understand that Stacey has a very mature attitude toward her disease. She works hard at keeping herself as healthy as possible. That’s where the strength I mentioned comes in. It can’t be easy to avoid eating sweets all the time (just think, no Ring-Dings!) not to mention the insulin injections Stacey has to give herself every single day. I have a lot of respect for Stacey.

  The newest member of the BSC is Abby Stevenson. She and her twin sister, Anna (an awesome musician, who is not in the BSC), moved to Stoneybrook with their mom only recently. Their dad died in a car wreck when the twins were nine. Abby doesn’t talk about him much. Abby has dark, thick, curly hair. She wears contacts sometimes (especially when she’s playing sports) and glasses other times. She’s an excellent athlete, even though she has asthma and allergies which can make it hard for her to breathe sometimes.

  My portrait of Abby? It would have to have an energetic feeling, and lots of bright, strong colors (Abby has an independent, vibrant personality!), but it would also reveal some sadness, which I see in Abby’s eyes.

  Abby is our alternate officer, a job that used to be held by Dawn. “Alternate” means that she has to be ready to take over for any other officer who can’t make it to a meeting. That doesn’t happen too often, although Abby did just have her big chance to run the club while Kristy was away on a family vacation in Hawaii. She tried hard, but nobody can really replace Kristy.

  Now, all the members I’ve mentioned so far are thirteen and in the eighth grade, like me. But the BSC also has two younger members (we call them junior officers) who are eleven and in the sixth grade. Both of them are extremely responsible sitters, even though they can’t sit at night except for their own families. But they take lots of afternoon jobs.

  Jessi Ramsey and Mallory Pike are their names, and they are best friends. In fact, they stick together so much that I’d probably keep them together in my abstract portrait. Jessi’s part of the picture would combine grace and power. She’s an awesome ballet dancer who works out every day and has the muscles and the skill to show for it. She’s African American, with long legs and gorgeous dark eyes, and she comes from a very close family: There are her younger sister, Becca, a baby brother called Squirt, her parents, and an aunt who lives with them.

  Mal’s family is also close, but it’s much, much bigger. Her part of the picture would have to show a quiet space (Mal, who loves to read and write) surrounded by movement and noise (representing her seven brothers and sisters!). Mal has reddish-brown hair and freckles, and she wears both glasses and braces, which she hates.

  We also have two associate members: Logan Bruno and Shannon Kilbourne. They take up slack when we’re extra-busy, but they aren’t required to attend meetings or pay dues. Logan (who is also Mary Anne’s boyfriend) is a great sitter. He has a killer smile, blondish-brown hair, and a slight southern accent (he’s from Louisville, Kentucky).

  Shannon has curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. She goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, where she’s in the Honor Society and a million other clubs. Even so, she usually finds time to sit when we need her.

  Although they weren’t at the meeting, I thought about the abstract portraits that I would make for Logan and Shannon. Shannon’s would be a collage of busy images depicting her activities and achievements. Logan’s portrait would be fun and whimsical to show his sense of humor but with swirls of softer colors because he is understanding and sweet.

  By the end of that day’s meeting I had created an imaginary gallery of portraits. Looking around at my friends made me realize all over again how much they mean to me. The BSC is much more than a club. It’s like a family. I’m so glad we’re back together. I don’t know what I’d do without my friends.

  “Okay, people, that’s it for today!” Mr. Schubert erased the chalkboard, then stood in front of the class and clapped his hands. “Don’t forget to keep up with your homework assignments. We’re moving right along here, and if you don’t put in the practice, you’ll be lost.”

  Tell me about it. I shut my math book, zipped my protractor into the little pouch in my notebook, and stood up, stretching. Another math class was over. That was something to be thankful for. True, I hadn’t understood most of what Mr. Schubert talked about during the past forty minutes, but that was nothing new. As I said, math is a foreign language to me. I don’t expect to understand it. I knew I’d make it through the class somehow, though. I always do.

  It’s not as if I have a learning disability, you know. I’ve been tested for that. And my I.Q. is just fine, thank you very much. I am perfectly capable of understanding anything Mr. Schubert or any other teacher throws my way. It’s just that I honestly can’t see why I should bother. After all, I’m going to be an artist when I grow up, not a research scientist or a mathematician.

  There are so many interesting things to think about and look at and do in this world. Why waste time on things that don’t interest you in the least? For example, angles. And protractors to measure them with. I stuck my math stuff into my backpack and threw the backpack over my shoulder. It was time to head to science class.

  “Claudia? Claudia Kishi?” called Mr. Schubert, trying to be heard over the voices of a roomful of kids who were milling around like cattle. I looked up at him, and he gestured to me.

  Oh, boy. I’ve seen that gesture before. The one that says, “Stop by my desk and chat for a second.” The one that says, “I’m onto you, and you’re heading for serious trouble.”

  “I have to go —” I began, as I approached Mr. Schubert.

  “I realize you don’t have much time right now,” he said. “Neither do I. I just wanted to let you know that I’m starting to feel concerned about whether you can keep up with the rest of the class.”

  “Sure, I can,” I said. “No problem. I just have to work a little harder.” I smiled cheerfully, but inside I was groaning. Work harder on math? I’d just as soon eat brussels sprouts for dessert.

  “I’m honestly not sure that will take care of the problem,” Mr. Schubert said seriously. “I think you may also need to spend some time brushing up on what you learned in math last year.”

  “Last year?” I repeated.

  “Right,” he said. “What you learned last year provides the foundations for what we’re doing this year.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled, nodding as I looked down at my shoes (Mary Janes with this cool lug sole and a two-inch heel — they’re new and I love them). I couldn’t meet his eyes. If I did, he might be able to guess the truth.

  The fact is, I don’t remember a thing from
last year’s math class. I know I did the work, and I even understood a lot of what I was doing — at the time. I studied hard for my tests, and then the second I found out I passed I forgot everything. I figured there was no need to clutter my brain with information I didn’t need anymore. And who needs it once you’ve passed the test? Nobody told me I was going to have to remember that material all the way into eighth grade.

  “Claudia?” said Mr. Schubert. He looked worried.

  I smiled at him. “I’ll work on it,” I promised.

  “Don’t forget you can always come to me if you have questions,” he said.

  Little did he know. It’s not just that I have questions; it’s that eighth-grade math is one huge question. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I smiled again. “Thanks,” I said. Then I shouldered my backpack. “I’m going to be late,” I said, realizing that the kids in the room behind me were all there for Mr. Schubert’s third-period class, and that I was supposed to be in my third-period class, which is science.

  Now, science isn’t nearly as bad as math. In fact, there are times when I really like science class. Last year we did these cool experiments. We’d put two different chemicals into a test tube and watch how they reacted. Some would change color, or smoke, or bubble over, while others did nothing at all. I loved the suspense of waiting to see what might happen.

  What I didn’t love was the part after that, when we were supposed to write up our “research results” and apply something called the scientific method, which I never totally understood. Also, we were supposed to learn all the qualities of liquids and solids and gases, and understand terms such as “density.” Some of that I learned, some I didn’t. And most of what I did learn, I’ve already forgotten. Again, I couldn’t figure out how any of it would be important to me in real life.

  I mean, is somebody going to knock on the door of my art studio some day and ask me the definition of a liquid? And even if someone does, will I care if I can’t answer the question? (Only if he’s offering a million-dollar prize to everyone who answers correctly!)

  I landed in class just in time to hear Ms. Griswold explain that we were going to be identifying rocks that day. She waved toward one of the lab tables and told us that there were a number of specimens on display, and that we were supposed to identify each one as being either “igneous, metamorphic, or sedimentary.”

  Whew! This was not going to be easy. Those words didn’t mean a thing to me, even though I knew Ms. Griswold had gone over them the week before. My classmates and I headed to the lab table, where we clustered around, clutching our notebooks and staring at the rocks. Ms. Griswold had handed out worksheets that we were supposed to fill in.

  “I think this one is metamorphic,” said Emily Bernstein, picking up a rock with a white crystal thing growing out of one side. I didn’t know if it was metamorphic or not, but I did think it had a special kind of beauty. I mean, part of it was just this lumpy old brown rock, and part of it looked like a diamond’s cousin. It was a nice contrast.

  “Igneous rocks are easy to pick out,” said Rick Chow, pointing to a shiny black one. He scribbled something on his worksheet.

  I turned over my own worksheet and made a quick sketch of the rock he’d pointed out. It had beautiful depth to it. The color was blacker than black. I wanted to remember what it looked like so I could use that kind of shiny blackness in a painting some day. Was he right that it was igneous? I had no idea.

  I did pick out the sedimentary rock, just by luck. I was checking out the gorgeous rust and brown and cream-colored layers in this one huge hunk of stone when I realized Ms. Griswold was standing behind me. “Good, Claudia,” she said. “You picked out the best example of a sedimentary rock.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t have cared less what it was called. I just knew it was made up of colors that were so harmonious that only nature could have put them together. That’s the kind of blending I aim for in my artwork.

  I knew I had a lot to learn about the different kinds of rocks, but I figured I could study up on it right before our next test. After all, what was the point of trying to memorize all that stuff now? I’d forget it before the test if I did. It was better to wait until the last minute.

  At lunch that day, I sat with the other BSC members. Kristy was eating — and dissing — the hot lunch, which was supposed to be chicken chow mein over noodles but looked more like “garbage à la barf,” as she put it. I was happy with my Doritos appetizer, my apple, my peanut-butter-and-jelly main entrée, and, most of all, with my dessert: a pack of Starbursts.

  Mary Anne had a tuna sandwich she’d brought from home, and Stacey seemed satisfied with her carefully planned meal of a cheese sandwich, an apple, and two Frookies (cookies that are sweetened with fruit juice instead of sugar).

  Abby was toying with her hot lunch and looking a little queasy after hearing what Kristy had called it.

  Mal and Jessi weren’t there, since each grade at SMS eats at a different time.

  “You know,” said Stacey, who was polishing her apple on her jeans, “I think I’m really going to like math class this year.”

  Now I felt queasy. Stacey is my best friend, and she’s fairly normal in every other way. But I couldn’t believe she could just sit there and say such a thing. I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “Really!” she insisted. “My teacher is so good. He makes math fun.” She grinned at me and took a big bite of her shiny apple.

  Oh, please.

  “I feel the same way about social studies,” said Kristy, putting down her fork. “Ms. Anderson makes it so interesting. I mean, the work is hard, but I don’t mind it.”

  “I know what you mean,” chimed in Mary Anne. “It’s like the teachers really expect more out of us this year. I mean, in seventh grade we had a fair amount of homework, but this year you really have to keep up. It’s kind of cool. They’re treating us more like adults, instead of like kids.”

  “Exactly!” said Abby, beaming.

  Great. If being treated like an adult means having tons of homework assigned every night, I’ll take the Peter Pan route and avoid growing up. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My friends really seemed to be enjoying their time in this torture chamber we call SMS. I felt a twinge of nervousness. Was I the only one who was having a hard time keeping up? It sure sounded that way.

  It was a big relief to head for art class after lunch. Art class is the bright spot in my school day. It’s the one place I feel at home. My attention never wanders when I’m there. I love the art room, with all its special sights and smells. It’s lined with closets just bursting with raw materials: clay, drawing pads and pencils, tubes of paint. There are easels set up around the room, and drawing tables, and two potter’s wheels. Student artwork decorates every square inch of the walls. Mr. Wong, my art teacher, is always coming up with great ideas for projects, and he never hesitates if someone wants to mix up, say, a huge batch of papier-mâché. “Go to it!” he’ll say. “That’s what this room is for. Remember, you can’t make art without making a mess.”

  I like his philosophy.

  As I walked in the door, I glanced at a flier taped to the bulletin board and my heart skipped a beat. I read through it quickly, hardly believing my eyes. Serena McKay, who is only one of the best artists in the country, was going to be teaching a class at Stoneybrook Community College. A “master class,” it was called, for “accomplished amateur artists.” You had to apply for it by sending in samples of your work, and only fifteen people would be accepted. It would be an intensive class that met for just a few weeks. The idea was to learn how to prepare a piece of artwork for a show. At the end of the class, the student work would be hung in the college gallery, and judges would award prizes, just like in a real art show.

  “You should definitely apply,” said Mr. Wong, when he saw me reading the flier.

  “But it’s college!” I said. “I’ll never get in.”

  “You never know unless you try,” said Mr. Wong.

&n
bsp; Now, how could I argue with that?

  “Kristy! This is a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?” Dr. Johanssen waved her clipboard at Kristy. She was dressed in a white lab coat and wore a stethoscope around her neck.

  “I’m here to visit Jackie Rodowsky,” said Kristy. “Actually, it’s kind of a sitting job. His mom likes him to have company as often as possible, and she can’t always be here in the afternoons.”

  On Thursday afternoon, while I was home agonizing over my application for that special art class, Kristy was at Stoneybrook Hospital. She would have gone to visit Jackie anyway, even if it weren’t a paid job, because she felt really guilty about his being in the hospital in the first place.

  Not that it was actually her fault.

  To understand, first you have to know that the BSC has a pet nickname for Jackie Rodowsky. We call him the Walking Disaster. Jackie is a freckled, red-headed, seven-year-old with a nose for trouble. When he’s around, life is never boring. Things happen. Oh, boy, do they happen. Vases break, knees are bumped, curtains come tumbling down. Never a dull moment!

  Anyway, shortly before the BSC broke up, Kristy was sitting for Jackie. He was in a wild mood, and wasn’t listening to her. No matter what she said, he kept misbehaving. He didn’t listen when she said he wasn’t allowed to climb the tree in the backyard, and while she was occupied with his brother Archie he climbed it anyway. Guess what? He fell out of the tree, of course. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt too badly. That’s not what landed him in the hospital.

  What happened was this: Jackie’s fall out of the tree ended up being the last straw, in Kristy’s mind. She felt as if the accident were her fault somehow. And since it was the last in a string of bad things that had happened in the BSC, she figured it was time for the club to break up.