Happy Holidays, Jessi Read online

  Mary Anne’s dad!

  They had been seriously in LUV, but Dawn’s grandmother had disapproved of the relationship. BUT — deeee-deee-deeeee (those are romantic violins) — years later, the love was still there! They were married (sigh). So Mary Anne and her dad moved into the Schafers’ funky, two-hundred-year-old farmhouse. (I wish I could say the story has a perfect ending, but it doesn’t. First Jeff grew miserably homesick and moved back with his dad, and then Dawn did, too. She’s the honorary BSC member I told you about.)

  Fortunately, Dawn visits a lot. And Mary Anne talks to her on the phone all the time. But I know Mary Anne misses her awfully. (Boy, do I understand. When we moved from Oakley, I thought my heart would break from missing Keisha.)

  Mary Anne may be emotional, but when it comes to her BSC job, she’s steady as a rock. As secretary, she handles the official record book. It includes our job calendar; a list of client names, addresses, and rates; and special information about our charges. Mary Anne manages to keep all that stuff up-to-date. On the calendar, she carefully records all our conflicts — doctor appointments, after-school activities, and family obligations. When a client calls, we take down the information about the sitting job and promise to call back. Then Mary Anne checks the calendar. She tells us who’s available and tries to distribute jobs evenly. Just between you and me, I’d go crazy if I had her job. But to Mary Anne, it’s fun. If Kristy has a Big Idea Mind, Mary Anne has an Organization Mind.

  Stacey, on the other hand, has a Math Mind. That’s why she’s club treasurer. She collects dues and keeps track of our “treasury.” At the end of each month she pays Claudia for her phone bill and gives Charlie Thomas gas money (he drives Abby and Kristy to our meetings). Whatever’s left over buys Kid-Kit supplies. If we’re really lucky, we have enough for a pizza party or a special event for our charges.

  You would recognize Stacey instantly at a meeting. She’s the blonde girl dressed like a Vogue model. I adore her clothes. Lots of black, sleek and urban. Very New York City. Which makes sense, because she grew up in Manhattan, until seventh grade. Then she moved to Stoneybrook. Twice. The first time was with her mom and dad, when Mr. McGill’s company transferred him to Connecticut. Not long after, he was transferred back to N.Y.C. Unfortunately, the McGills’ marriage wasn’t doing well, and all the moving made it worse. They divorced, and Stacey chose to move back to Stoneybrook with her mom.

  Stacey visits her dad a lot. Each time she goes, she has to remember to pack a special kit for insulin injections. You see, she has diabetes. When she eats sugar, it goes straight to her bloodstream. That’s because her pancreas doesn’t produce this hormone called insulin, which parcels sugar into the blood a little at a time. Eating a candy bar at the wrong time could make Stacey seriously ill. But fortunately diabetes is controllable. Stacey just needs to take her medicine daily (she insists the injections aren’t as gross as they sound), stay away from refined sugar, and eat meals on a strict schedule.

  What’s the opposite of a diabetic? Claudia Kishi. She thrives on refined sugar. If she gave up candy, I think she’d shrivel away. Her room is like a junk food minefield — candy bars between folded shirts, bags of chips in shoe boxes, bags of pretzels wedged between her piles of art supplies. If nonmelting ice cream were invented, she’d insulate her walls with it. Why does she hide all this stuff? Because if her parents knew, they’d pass out. They’re anti-bad nutrition. (Also anti-pop culture. Claudia has to hide her Nancy Drew books.)

  Claudia is nothing like the rest of her family. Mr. Kishi has some important job in high finance, Mrs. Kishi is a librarian, and Janine is a high school kid with a genius IQ who takes college courses. Claud’s a free spirit. She’s funny. She can’t spell to save her life. Her grades were so bad she had to repeat seventh grade. She has long, silky black hair and dresses in crazy styles. And she is the most talented artist you have ever seen. Painting, sculpting, drawing, jewelry making — Claudia does it all.

  For a long time, Claudia felt like an alien in her super-intellectual family. Only her grandmother, Mimi, understood her. Mimi lived with the Kishis. Although her English wasn’t great (she was born and raised in Japan, like all of Claudia’s grandparents), she and Claudia learned to communicate beautifully. When Mimi died, Claudia was devastated. She keeps a photo of Mimi on her wall for inspiration.

  Claudia’s our vice-president. She hosts all the meetings, feeds us junk food, and answers phone calls that stray in during off hours.

  “Sleet is falling ice,” explained Janine, leaning against Claudia’s door. “Freezing rain is water. It only becomes ice when it hits frozen ground.”

  With that, she went back to her room. We heard the clacking of computer keys.

  “Wow,” Abby said. “She’s like a walking CD-ROM. Can I rent her?”

  Abby is our newest member. She cracks me up. The thing is, she doesn’t try to be funny; she just is. She’s like that with sports, too: a fabulous athlete without working hard at it. (Kristy is very jealous of that, but she’d never admit it.) Abby’s hair is this huge tangle of black curls. She has pearly skin and wears glasses or contact lenses. If you meet her, don’t be surprised if she talks as if she has a cold. She’s allergic to a million things. She also has asthma and always carries an inhaler with her.

  To the BSC, Abby was like a gift that dropped from the sky. Actually, she rode in from Long Island. That’s where she, her mom, and her twin sister, Anna, used to live (her dad died in a car accident when the girls were nine). They moved into a house on Kristy’s block shortly after Dawn left for California.

  We invited both Stevenson girls to join, but Anna declined. She’s gifted violinist, and she practices for hours every day. Anna is kind of quiet and serious. (The only time I’ve seen Abby like that was when the twins had their Bat Mitzvah. That’s a religious rite for thirteen-year-old Jewish girls. Abby and Anna both read from the Torah, the first five books of the Bible, written in Hebrew.)

  Abby’s our alternate officer, which means she takes over for any absent officer.

  Our associate members, Shannon Kilbourne and Logan Bruno, help us out whenever we have an overflow of jobs. They’re not required to attend meetings or pay dues. Shannon goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, where she’s involved in lots of after-school stuff. Logan is Mary Anne’s boyfriend. He’s on just about every sports team, so he’s always at practices.

  Of course, I’m saving the best for last. The youngest but most valuable members — Mallory and me! We’re called junior officers, but don’t let that fool you. We give full baby-sitter value. The only thing we can’t do is take late sitting jobs on weekdays. Why? Because our parents treat us like babies, that’s why.

  Next to Keisha, Mallory is my best friend in the world. She’s the only girl I’ve ever met who adores reading horse books as much as I do. Like me, Mal is the oldest kid in her family. But her family is enormous — seven younger brothers and sisters! And that includes ten-year-old triplet brothers. Can you imagine?

  Mallory has thick, reddish-brown hair and light, freckled skin. She wears braces and glasses. She begged her parents to let her wear contacts, but they said she couldn’t until she is fifteen. (I told you our parents treat us like babies.)

  Riiiinng!

  At 5:40 our first call came in. Abby snatched up the receiver. “Hello, the all-weather Baby-sitters Club! We sit in the sleet, we sit in the freezing rain …” Abby’s face suddenly turned red. “Uh, well, no, Mrs. Harris, we don’t actually sit in the rain. I meant baby-sit. You know … uh-huh … yes…. Okay, I’ll call you back.”

  Abby hung up and buried her face in her hands. “Duhhh, me and my big mouth.”

  We were howling with laughter.

  “Ahem,” Abby said. “A family named the Harrises needs someone to baby-sit for their boys a week from Thursday.”

  “Yyyyes!” Kristy said. “New clients! How did they find out about us?”

  Abby shrugged. “How should I know?”

/>   The name sounded familiar. “Are the boys’ names Omar and Ebon?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Abby replied.

  “They’re cute,” I went on. “My mom and I met them at the supermarket. They were already Kwanzaa shopping.”

  Mary Anne looked up from the record book. “You’re busy that day, Jessi. But I could do it.”

  Kristy looked agitated about something. “So I guess they’re, like, African-American?”

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “I mean, because of Kwanzaa and all, I just assumed …”

  “Uh-huh, so?”

  “Nothing.” Kristy looked out the window.

  I felt a little creepy. I mean, my BSC friends are not bigots. But that reaction was weird.

  “Nothing?” I asked. “Or something you don’t want to tell me?”

  Kristy shrugged. “Well, does it ever bother you … you know, Kwanzaa being only for one race of people?”

  I shrugged. “No.”

  “I mean, I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but isn’t that kind of biased? Excluding people on the basis of skin color?”

  Stacey was shaking her head. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Well, African-Americans can celebrate Christmas, right?” Kristy countered. “Everybody can.”

  Abby raised her hand. “Uh, hello? Not everybody.”

  “Kristy,” I said, “Hanukkah is a holiday for Jewish people. Kwanzaa’s a holiday for African-Americans. Lots of nationalities and cultures have their own holidays.”

  “The Papadakises celebrate name days,” Mary Anne spoke up. “One for each person. It’s like having another birthday.”

  “The Greeks aren’t excluding anyone,” I continued. “Neither are the Jews. They’re doing something positive. Following a tradition that’s meaningful to them.”

  Kristy nodded. “Makes sense. I guess I don’t really know anything about Kwanzaa.”

  “Not too many people do,” I said.

  What I really meant to say was white people. Which made me think. Why don’t they know about Kwanzaa?

  Answer: It’s a quiet, family holiday. And in Stoneybrook, there aren’t many African-American families.

  Okay, fine. But why not spread the word? My mom always says people are afraid of stuff they don’t know. If Kristy could think Kwanzaa was a racist idea, maybe other people could, too. They’d never know all the wonderful aspects. They’d never know the feeling of pride and togetherness Kwanzaa brings.

  And they should know.

  “Maybe Stamford has a Kwanzaa festival we could go to,” Abby said.

  “Why don’t we have one here in Stoneybrook?” I suggested.

  “Great idea!” Abby exclaimed.

  “I was just about to suggest the same thing,” Kristy mumbled.

  The idea was taking shape in my mind. “It would be fun — families eating great food, kids displaying Kwanzaa crafts …”

  “African folktales,” Mallory chimed in.

  “An artistic display about the history of Africa,” Claudia added.

  “Or about the seven principles of Kwanzaa,” I said.

  “Huh?” Abby asked.

  I went through the description, day by day.

  I knew my friends were hooked.

  Somehow or other, I, Jessi Ramsey, was going to organize the first annual Stoneybrook Kwanzaa festival.

  “So I called up the Stoneybrook Community Center, and guess who answered the phone?”

  I practically had to shout my question to Becca. I was in the front seat of Aunt Cecelia’s noisy old Volkswagen. We were on our way to a department store called Bellair’s to do holiday shopping.

  Becca leaned forward in the backseat. “What did you say?”

  Honk! Honnnnnnnk!

  Aunt Cecelia was blaring her horn. “And where did you get your driver’s license?” she shouted, glaring straight ahead. “The five and dime?”

  I snapped around and looked out the windshield. A car was entering the lane far in front of us, its signals flashing.

  “Mercy, will you look at these maniacs on the road!” Aunt Cecelia grumbled. “They think this is a racetrack!”

  Becca was peering out the window. “I don’t see any maniacs.”

  To be honest, I didn’t either. All I saw were cars whizzing by us on the right at normal speeds. Aunt Cecelia was puttering along slo-o-o-owly in the left lane of the highway.

  “Isn’t the left lane for passing?” I asked. “Maybe if you drove in the center —”

  “Please, Jessica!” Aunt Cecelia cut me off. “When you have your license, I will listen to your suggestions.”

  “Peeeeez, Decca!” Squirt echoed from his car seat behind me.

  I turned and tickled Squirt. Then I continued shouting to Becca: “When I called the Community Center, Ms. Lebeque answered! Remember, the woman who was in charge of the summer day camp, where I was a junior counselor?”

  “Uh-huh!” Becca replied.

  “Anyway, I asked her about the Kwanzaa festival, and she spoke to the head of the center, and guess what? We can have it there in the gym, on New Year’s Eve!”

  Becca bounced up and down on her seat. “Yaaaay!”

  Next to her, Squirt squealed with happiness. “Aaaaay!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a minivan driving onto the highway. It slid comfortably into the lane next to ours.

  Honnnnnnk! We all lurched forward as Aunt Cecelia clomped down on the brake.

  “Hush!” she shouted. “I can’t concentrate with you screaming. That man nearly killed us!”

  “He did not,” I said.

  “Slow down! Where’s the fire?” Aunt Cecelia thundered. “Honestly, that young man has children in the car!”

  “He can’t hear you, Aunt Cecelia!” Becca said, giggling.

  “You see, Jessica, you set the example!” Aunt Cecelia retorted. “When you back talk, your sister follows. You’ll be having your brother at it next.”

  I tried to turn toward Becca, but my stomach was knotting up and I started feeling nauseous. Let me tell you, a ride with Aunt Cecelia is like a day on a roller coaster.

  By the time we reached the Bellair’s parking lot, I thought I was going to puke.

  Aunt Cecelia passed a lot of empty spaces in the back of the lot. She drove close to the entrance, where the cars were packed tight.

  Slowly, she inched right into a space marked for the handicapped.

  “Aunt Cecelia, you’re not supposed to park here,” I said as gently as I could.

  “Jessica Ramsey, do you see any other spaces?” Aunt Cecelia asked.

  “In the back —”

  “Darling, I have three children and an arthritic ankle,” Aunt Cecelia replied. “Besides, there are other empty handicapped spots. That means the police will not ticket.”

  Daddy has a phrase for an argument like that. Cecelian Logic. He says no one can understand it but Aunt Cecelia.

  I climbed out of the car and pushed the front seat forward. Then I reached into the back, unhooked Squirt’s car seat harness, and helped him out.

  “Anyway,” I said to Becca as we both guided him into a collapsible stroller we’d brought along, “I’m trying to figure out what should be in the festival. You know that elevated area at the end of the big conference room? We could use it as a stage, for a skit.”

  “Starring Becca Ramsey,” Becca said, gently hooking Squirt’s stroller straps.

  “We’ll see,” I said with a laugh. “But we have to talk this up, okay? I want Omar and Ebon Harris involved, Sara Ford, Bob Ingram, whoever.”

  Aunt Cecelia let out a little sarcastic snort. “And who do you expect is going to take care of all the preparations?”

  “My friends in the BSC will help out,” I replied, holding open the front door of Bellair’s.

  Aunt Cecelia pushed the stroller past me. “Jessica, come down from your cloud. Do you realize how much we grown-ups have to do around the holidays? What do you think is going
to happen when eight-year-olds are bothering their mommies and daddies about cooking up food and making place mats …”

  She walked straight into the store, scolding away. Becca ran alongside the stroller and began tickling Squirt. He screamed with pleasure.

  “Don’t get him too excited,” Aunt Cecelia warned her. “He won’t nap.”

  I stopped at a display of gorgeous carved-wood jewelry. “Oooooh, look,” I called out. “I would love these.”

  “Cool!” Becca shouted.

  “Tool!” Squirt echoed.

  “Girls, we are shopping for others,” Aunt Cecelia reprimanded us.

  “Well, if you just happened to be thinking of what to buy me for Christmas,” I teased, “you might wander over here while my back is turned …”

  Aunt Cecelia shook her head. “You know, your daddy and I couldn’t tell our parents what to buy us for Christmas. We were grateful for whatever we received, no matter how humble. We respected our parents’ hard work, and we knew they’d do the best they could …”

  Out of sight of Aunt Cecelia, Becca inserted two fingers into her mouth and pretended to barf.

  I stifled a giggle. “Where did you learn that?”

  “From you,” Becca replied.

  “… one present each,” Aunt Cecelia droned on. “And that was in the good years. And you never saw us complain …”

  “Men’s shirts!” Becca exclaimed, pointing to a distant sign. “That’s what Daddy needs.”

  “Shirts are expensive,” Aunt Cecelia said. “Come with me to accessories. You’ll find something more reasonable.”

  Shopping is a funny thing. With friends, it’s great. With grown-ups, it can be incredibly boring.

  With Aunt Cecelia, it’s a little like torture.

  Becca and I were determined to buy a shirt. But we obediently followed Aunt Cecelia into men’s accessories. There she argued with a sales clerk over the price of a pair of wool socks.

  In ladies’ lingerie, Aunt Cecelia looked at some bras for about an hour. She waved off two clerks who offered help. Two minutes later she stormed away, complaining that no one was assisting her.

  Squirt fell asleep while we were in kitchen appliances. I don’t blame him. Aunt Cecelia was raising a ruckus with the manager because her favorite type of blender was now made out of plastic instead of glass. Or something like that.