Stacey the Math Whiz Read online

  “Okay, anyone have any new business?” Kristy called out over the loud munching in the room.

  “Stacey does,” Abby piped up. “She was sent to Ms. Hartley. I want to hear all the juicy details.”

  “Abbyyyyy —” I said.

  Rrrriinnng!

  Claudia snatched up the receiver. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club…. Hi, Mrs. Braddock…. Uh-huh…. Okay, I’ll get back to you. ’Bye.” She hung up and looked at Mary Anne. “Matt and Haley, next Thursday, after school.”

  Mary Anne was already leafing through the official BSC record book. “Um … Jessi, Kristy, and I are free.”

  “I’d love to do it,” Jessi spoke up.

  “Okay,” said Claudia, picking up the phone to call back the Braddocks.

  That’s how we book jobs. Simple, huh? Well, not for Mary Anne. As our secretary, she has the hardest job. She’s keeper of the BSC record book. She has to know who’s available to baby-sit on any given day. On a master calendar she records all of our conflicts: doctor appointments, lessons, family trips, and so on. In the back of the book she keeps an updated list of client names, addresses, phone numbers, pay rates, and information about our charges — their likes and dislikes, bedtimes, and habits.

  Mary Anne’s the perfect person for the job. She’s thorough, patient, and unflappable. (Don’t you just love that word? It makes me think of a pancake stuck to a griddle.) She’s also one of the quietest, sweetest people I’ve ever met. If you have a problem, she’ll listen carefully to every word and give great advice. But bring tissues with you, because she tends to cry a lot.

  Although she is painfully shy, Mary Anne is the only BSC member with a steady boyfriend (his name is Logan Bruno). She’s also best friends with Kristy Thomas, of all people. They grew up next door to each other. They even look a little alike. Both are petite with dark features. (Mary Anne’s hair is cut much shorter, though, and she wears preppier clothes.)

  For a long time, Mary Anne had more of a Pollyannaish appearance. Richard, her dad, insisted she look that way, and he had the strictest rules about TV time, bedtime, and homework. He’s loosened up a lot, thank goodness. Mary Anne claims he was just going overboard trying to be Super Single Parent. You see, Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was a baby, and Richard hadn’t remarried.

  Hold that thought.

  Enter Dawn Schafer, who moved to Stoneybrook with her divorced mom and younger brother, Jeff, from California. They moved into a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, and Dawn ended up joining the BSC. Her mom had grown up in Stoneybrook, and guess who the dashing love of her life had been in high school? Yes, Richard Spier. Of course, Dawn and Mary Anne went to work getting them together, and soon Mr. Spier and Mrs. Schafer were married, and Dawn and Mary Anne became stepsisters, living happily in the old farmhouse. Well, not completely happily. Dawn became homesick and ended up moving back to California, just as her brother had done earlier. Boy, does Mary Anne miss her. We all do.

  Dawn used to be our alternate officer. Now she’s in a baby-sitting group in California called the We ♥ Kids Club, which doesn’t believe in officers (don’t ask Kristy what she thinks of that). So she has become our honorary member, which means she joins us whenever she visits.

  The BSC’s most supremely important officer is, of course, moi, the treasurer. I collect dues every Monday and keep them in a manila envelope. At the end of each month I contribute to Claudia’s phone bill and pay Charlie Thomas gas money. If anything’s left over, we buy stuff for Kid-Kits or put the money toward special events for our charges.

  Jessi and Mallory are our junior officers. They’re both eleven years old, two years younger than the rest of us. Neither is allowed to baby-sit at night. Ooh, are they sore about that. Fury at their parents’ rules is one of the many things that cements their friendship. They’re convinced that the oldest child in the family has it the hardest. Jessi’s the oldest of three, Mallory of eight (can you imagine?).

  Both girls absolutely adore reading, especially horse books. They’re not clones, though. Jessi’s African American and an incredibly dedicated ballerina. Her hair is usually pulled back tightly, and she carries herself with elegance and grace. Mal is Caucasian and not very athletic. She has a mop of reddish-brown hair, and she wears glasses and braces. Her great passion is writing and illustrating stories, and she dreams of becoming a children’s book author someday.

  That’s it for our regular members. We do have two associate members, who fill in for us whenever we’re super busy. They’re not required to attend meetings or pay dues. One of them is Logan, Mary Anne’s boyfriend. He’s a terrific sitter, but he participates in several after-school sports, so his schedule is always tight. The other is Shannon Kilbourne, who goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School and is involved in tons of extracurricular activities.

  Back to our meeting. Claudia had disappeared into her closet and was now emerging with a box of Wheat Thins. “So? Did Ms. Hartley need help grading papers or something?”

  “She just wanted to bug me about joining Mathletes again,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “Cool,” Abby remarked.

  Somehow, that wasn’t among the words I’d expected to hear. “Cool?” I repeated.

  Abby shrugged. “My school on Long Island had a math team. They were the Nassau County champs. Those kids were so smart.”

  “You’d be great on that team, Stacey,” Mary Anne said.

  I shrugged. “Well … yeah, I guess. But it’s, you know, the Maaaaathletes.” I made a scrunched-up nerd face.

  Claudia looked puzzled. “Did you just smell something funky?”

  “Look, I’m not seriously thinking about it,” I replied. “Between homework and baby-sitting and tutoring Lindsey, it would be too much. Besides, it’s too geeky.”

  “It wouldn’t be if you joined,” Jessi remarked.

  “One of us could tutor Lindsey,” Mary Anne volunteered.

  “What’s the commitment?” Kristy asked sharply.

  “A month or so,” I replied. “Practices are informal, not mandatory. Meets are mostly on weekends.”

  Kristy relaxed. “In that case, I say go for it.”

  Mary Anne and Abby nodded in agreement.

  “I wish I could do something like that,” Claudia said. “Do they have a remedial team?”

  “We’ll come cheer for you,” Jessi offered.

  “SMS, SMS! If you don’t know the answer, take a guess!” Mallory improvised.

  All of a sudden, the idea didn’t seem so dumb. I guess I’d really been afraid of Kristy’s reaction. Of everyone’s reaction. Afraid they’d think I’d gone nerdy on them.

  But the more I thought about it, the more ridiculous that seemed. I mean, I’ve always liked math. I’m talented at it. If I were good in sports, I would join a team. People would come to see me. They’d appreciate my skill. It would feel great. Why should I be deprived of that? If I couldn’t be an athlete, why not a Mathlete?

  One thought was still sticking in my mind, though. I could probably work Mathletes around baby-sitting and homework but not my tutoring sessions with Lindsey. They were usually right after school, and they were always exhausting. (Lindsey is incredibly stubborn.)

  I turned to Mary Anne. “If I did join Mathletes, you wouldn’t mind tutoring Lindsey?”

  “Well, I said one of us could,” Mary Anne replied. “I have to spend so much time with Victoria.”

  Victoria Kent, by the way, is an eight-year-old princess from England. Her family is living in Stoneybrook for a few months while her parents work at the U.N., and they hired Mary Anne to be Victoria’s official “companion.”

  “I’d do it, if it weren’t for all my ballet classes,” Jessi said.

  “The Krushers are having some indoor preseason practices at Stoneybrook Elementary,” Kristy added.

  “I have a bunch of orthodontist sessions coming up,” Mallory spoke up.

  “Transportation problem,” said Abby.

  We al
l looked at Claudia.

  Her face fell. “Ohhhh, no, you don’t.”

  “You’re doing fine in math,” Kristy reminded her.

  “But — but I —” Claudia sputtered.

  “You’ll be great at it,” Mallory said. “And Lindsey loves you.”

  “But —”

  “Tutoring is a great way to build your confidence too,” Mary Anne added. “Remember how much fun you had tutoring Shea Rodowsky?”

  “But —”

  “It’s settled,” Kristy announced. “Any further business?”

  Claudia sank back against the wall.

  She looked like a mouse in a trap.

  “Stacey, needless to say, I’m very pleased!”

  That was Ms. Hartley’s reaction to my decision. Yup, I joined. I’d spent all of Thursday mulling it over, and just became more and more interested. So I went to Ms. Hartley’s room after school, before I could change my mind.

  “What’s our schedule?” I asked.

  “The next practice is tomorrow evening at seven-thirty, at my house,” Ms. Hartley said. “I’ll provide enough dessert food for everyone.”

  “Well, actually, I’m diabetic, so I don’t eat sweets.”

  “Then I’ll have something you can enjoy too. We’ll probably be working pretty hard for Saturday’s competition.”

  “Which I don’t have to be in, right?” I said.

  “You’ll be our ninth member. We only need five for each problem, but we rotate. You can sit out, but I think you’ll be ready. We’ll go over plenty of questions from previous contests.” She stood and shook my hand. “Welcome to the Mathletes.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I got flutters in my stomach just thinking about the meet. I hate being the center of attention at big events. But this was Mathletes. How big a deal could it be?

  Next stop, the mall, to buy a polyester plaid shirt and high-water pants.

  Just kidding.

  HONNNNNK!

  As I stepped out the front door, a car horn blared. I looked toward the curb to see a blue Lincoln Town Car with dark-tinted windows.

  HONNNNNK!

  Probably some obnoxious high school senior picking up a younger sibling, I figured.

  I looked around for my BSC friends. Usually we meet for some after-school gabbing, but I guess they’d all left when I was with Ms. Hartley. So I began walking home alone.

  HONNNNNK! HONNNNNK!

  Suddenly I realized I was the only student on the sidewalk. And the car was rolling toward me.

  I picked up the pace.

  “Hey, is this any way to treat the most important man in your life?” a deep voice called out.

  The car pulled up beside me. Through the windshield, I could see a familiar smiling face.

  “Dad?” I said. “Hi! What — who —?”

  “Like it?” he shouted through the passenger window, which was sliding open.

  “Are you here on business or something?” I asked.

  “Come on, I’ll take you for a spin.”

  I was smiling so hard my face hurt. My dad in Stoneybrook on a workday? It was a miracle. If you knew him, you’d be shocked too. He’s about the hardest-working human being ever born. I can hardly ever reach him by phone during the day.

  I opened the door, slid into the front seat, and gave him a kiss. I was so excited, I started babbling. “I hope you’re not taking me to a board meeting or something. Does Mom know you’re here? Oh, Dad, this is sooooo cool! Are you staying over? Nice rental car they gave you!”

  Dad laughed. “Whoa, one thing at a time. Yes, I am staying over, at the Strathmore Inn. No, your mother doesn’t know I’m here. No, I have no meetings. And it’s not a rental car. I bought it.”

  “You? A car?”

  I should explain. Like most people who live in New York City, my dad doesn’t own a car. He uses subways, buses, and taxis. When he needs to leave town, he uses trains, planes, and rented cars. Period. I’d have been less surprised if he told me he’d bought a hippopotamus.

  “Hey, why not?” Dad said with a proud smile. “Why should I be a slave to mass transportation? Why not take to the open road? See the country on my own terms. Be free to spend quality time with my daughter on a moment’s notice. Stay the weekend if I want — like this weekend!”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Yyyyyes!” I said, punching the air.

  “How about a movie tomorrow night?”

  “Well, after my practice, I guess. Dad, you won’t believe this, but I joined the Mathletes. And we’re having our first meet on Saturday. Can you come?”

  “Mathletes? Like, long-distance calculator toss? Laptop bench press?”

  “Daaa-aaad, it’s a math contest. Kids from different schools solve problems.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Hang on!”

  Dad tore away from the curb. The car sped down the street, whisper-quiet.

  “Perhaps you’ve noticed the rich Corinthian leather upholstery,” Dad said in a voice like a TV announcer, “along with the superior suspension and the pickup of a computer-controlled V-8 engine …”

  I was hearing Dad’s words, but my mind was suddenly on another track.

  Thursday. It was Thursday and my dad was not at work. He was staying the weekend, which meant he was not going back to work on Friday. These things made no sense.

  “Dad,” I interrupted. “Why are you here?”

  “Well, I turned the ignition, stepped on the gas —”

  “No, I mean, why aren’t you in your office? You didn’t lose your job, did you?”

  I wasn’t totally serious about that. But Dad fell silent and didn’t say anything for awhile. I could feel my heart sinking.

  As Dad pulled up to a red light, he finally spoke. “The company’s been having some rough times. They can only let go of just so many middle managers before they hit the vice presidents.”

  “You were fired?”

  “Downsized.” Dad gave a half-grin. “It’s what they call it to make themselves feel better.”

  “But — but that’s awful!” I exclaimed.

  The light turned green and Dad turned toward the center of Stoneybrook. “Nah, it’s a blessing in disguise. I’ve been working too hard, anyway. Besides, how difficult do you think it’ll be for a guy like me to find another job? I’ll walk down Madison Avenue, and the CEOs will be screaming out their windows, ‘McGill! McGill! Up here!’ Meanwhile, I’ll live it up, concentrate on the important things in life, like being a dad. So tell me, do you really like the car? Because if you don’t, I’m taking it back.”

  Wow. For a man who’d been fired, or sized down, Dad seemed in a great mood. “It’s nice, if you like blue.”

  “You hate it! Tomorrow I’m trading it in for a pink Ferraro.”

  “Ferrari.”

  “Whatever. Let’s celebrate. The Rosebud Café?”

  “Sure.”

  Zoom. Off we went.

  I barely remember what we talked about at the Rosebud. I know we had a fun time and laughed a lot. But I also know the situation felt weird.

  All my life, whenever I thought of Dad, I thought of work. When he and Mom were together, we’d sometimes wait and wait for him at restaurants, and Mom would call to find out he couldn’t join us because of a company emergency. Often I’d be asleep at night by the time he came home. I can’t tell you how many weekend plans were canceled because of Dad’s job. Is it strange to live with a father and always miss him? That’s how I felt. As you can imagine, the feeling didn’t improve after the divorce.

  And now, here I was, alone with him on a Thursday. With his undivided attention until at least Saturday.

  Who was I to complain? I was thrilled.

  Maybe he was right. Unemployment was good for him. He was like a new person. The New Dad.

  Dad bellowed with laughter when I called him that at the restaurant. After we wolfed down some cheese, crackers, and juice, blabbering a mile a minute, h
e said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m still starving.”

  “Go ahead and order a meal,” I suggested.

  Dad thought about it a minute. “How about I make dinner — at the McGill house?”

  That was the last thing I expected to hear. My mom and dad did not have what you’d call a friendly divorce. “Uh … right, Dad,” I said.

  “I’m serious. Your mom and I have been much nicer to each other over the phone lately. Last time I spoke with her, we even had a laugh or two.”

  “Does she know you’re here?”

  “No. It’ll be a surprise. Look, Stacey, I’m offering to make a gourmet meal. She’ll appreciate that after a long day’s work. And if she doesn’t, I’ll leave quietly. You two can enjoy the meal, no hard feelings.” Dad smiled broadly. “The New Dad. I really like that name.”

  I tried to smile back, but boy, did I have my doubts.

  Since the divorce, Mom has never liked to talk to Dad. I can always tell when she picks up his phone calls. Her face goes cloudy, she immediately calls out, “Stacey, your dad!” and leaves the phone on the counter for me to pick up.

  I had to admit, though, that lately she had actually been talking to him a little. She hadn’t exactly been bubbly, but she hadn’t seemed as if she wanted to kill him anymore. That was a good sign.

  Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Mom would appreciate this kind of surprise. I sure would have liked to see them reach a truce.

  It was worth a try.

  We finished up and left. First stop was the fish store, where Dad bought some humongous lobsters. Then we went to a fruit and vegetable market for some exotic greens and imported fruit. Next stop was home.

  I loved having Dad in the house, but I couldn’t help feeling a little tense. So I put on a CD of my favorite group, U4Me. Dad and I assembled a green salad together, dancing to the tunes (Dad tried to sing along, but he was too dorky for words). Then we melted some butter and boiled the lobsters (gross, gross, gross — but good, good, good).

  We’d set the table and lit two candles when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” we both shouted.