Get Well Soon, Mallory! Read online

  That brings me to Claudia. Claud is vice-president of the BSC mostly because she not only has her own phone but also her own number. Isn’t that cool? That’s why we hold the meetings at her house. Our clients can reach us easily. Claudia is Japanese-American and really gorgeous. She has this straight shiny black hair and big almond-shaped eyes and, because Claud is an artist, everything she wears looks really stylish. She makes her own earrings, which can be little dangly papier-mâché stars and a moon with a cow jumping over it, or paper clips and safety pins painted in neon colors. Claud has a perfect ivory complexion, which is amazing because she is completely addicted to junk food. I’m not kidding! Ring Dings, Mallomars, Twinkies — she’s hidden them all over her room.

  Claud is very creative and smart, but she’s not the best student in the world. English is her worst subject (she used to be a terrible speller but she’s getting better). Part of the reason Claudia has trouble in school may have something to do with the fact that her sister Janine is a genius and Claud doesn’t want to compete with her. Janine is a junior in high school but (are you ready for this?) she’s already taking courses at college!

  Stacey McGill is Claudia’s best friend and the BSC treasurer because she’s really good in math. Stacey grew up in New York City and is the most sophisticated member of our group. She wears super trendy clothes and her long blonde hair is permed. She has big blue eyes and is tall and thin.

  Stacey sounds perfect, doesn’t she? But she has a problem which is really serious. Stacey is diabetic, which means her body can’t process sugar. So she has to stay away from sweets and watch her diet. If she doesn’t get enough of something called insulin every day her body could get all out of whack and Stacey could get really sick. Here’s the yucky part — she has to give herself injections every single day. (Ew! ew!) I don’t know how she does it.

  Stacey’s home life has been pretty bumpy lately. First her parents moved to Stoneybrook, then they moved back to New York City. Then they got a divorce (which was traumatic for Stacey) and then Stacey had to decide whether to live with her mom or her dad. We’re all glad she chose her mom because her mom moved back to Stoneybrook. Guess what? We’re neighbors. The McGills moved into the house directly behind mine. Stacey and I have a special code that we use on school days. If I leave a white towel on my patio, it means, “Let’s walk to school together.” A red towel means that I have to walk my brothers and sisters to school.

  There are two other members of the BSC — me and Jessica Ramsey. Because we’re only eleven and in the sixth grade (the other members are thirteen-year-old eighth-graders) and can only baby-sit on weekends or afternoons, we’re called junior officers.

  Jessi and I are a lot alike. We love to read, especially horse stories by Marguerite Henry. We’re each the oldest kid in our family and we both finally convinced our parents to let us get our ears pierced. Jessi and I are also very different. I love writing and plan to be a famous children’s book author and illustrator someday. Jessi loves ballet and intends to become a famous ballerina. She will, too.

  Jessi goes to a special dance school in nearby Stamford, Connecticut, and already has danced many important lead parts. (You should see her dance; she’s amazing.) Oh, one other difference: our looks. Jessi is black, with beautiful long legs and big brown eyes. I’m white, with short legs, glasses, and frizzy red hair.

  And that’s our club.

  “Any new business?” Kristy asked from her director’s chair.

  Ever since Mom had made the announcement that we were going to see the Macy’s parade, all I could think about was Thanksgiving. I brought it up.

  “I’m going to be gone for the entire Thanksgiving weekend, Mary Anne, so be sure not to schedule me for any jobs.”

  “Where are you going?” Mary Anne asked as she jotted down my news in the club notebook. As secretary, Mary Anne keeps track of all of our schedules so when a client calls she knows which of us are available. It’s hard to believe but Mary Anne has never made a scheduling mistake.

  “New York City,” I said. “One of our relatives got us bleacher seats to watch the Macy’s parade.”

  “How fun!” Claudia said. “I wish I could go.”

  “My parents and I used to go to the parade every year,” Stacey said wistfully. “You’re going to love it.”

  “Speaking of Thanksgiving,” Kristy said, chewing thoughtfully on her pencil, “I’ve got this idea —”

  “Uh-oh,” Claudia cut in. “You know what happens when Kristy gets one of her great ideas.”

  “Yeah.” Stacey laughed. “We all have to do it. And it nearly kills us.”

  “Cut it out, you guys.” Kristy waved a hand at Stacey. “I was just thinking about the meaning of Thanksgiving. Every year we all have wonderful Thanksgiving dinners with our families. But there are people out there who don’t have families. Wouldn’t it be great if this year we did something special for them?”

  “You mean like people in homeless shelters?” Shannon asked.

  Kristy nodded.

  “Or the people at Stoneybrook Manor,” Claudia said. “I know some of them don’t have any families or friends.” (Stoneybrook Manor is a residence for elderly people.)

  “That’s it!” Kristy said. “We could do something for the Manor. We already know a lot of the people there, like Esther Barnard, Karen’s friend from her school’s adopt-a-grandparent program.”

  “That’s right,” Stacey said. “We could talk to Mrs. Fellows, the activities director, or to Ruth. Remember, she took care of Mr. Hennessey when he lived there?”

  Mr. Hennessey was this frail old man who told Stacey and the rest of us mysterious tales about the haunted house he had once lived in on Elm Street.

  “My uncle Joe would be able to tell us what the residents like,” I said. “I’ll ask him the next time we visit him.” Uncle Joe is my dad’s uncle. He lived in a couple of homes before he moved to Stoneybrook. He even stayed with my family for a few weeks and boy, was that tough. He seemed really cranky but we found out later that he was developing Alzheimer’s disease. Uncle Joe wasn’t used to being around kids (and we’ve got a lot of them).

  “Hey, what if we got our sitting charges involved in our Thanksgiving plans?” Mary Anne said. “It would be fun for the old people at the Manor and a good way for the kids to learn about Thanksgiving.”

  Kristy grinned at Mary Anne. “Brilliant. I wish I’d thought of it.”

  “Kristy, you always have the great ideas,” Claudia kidded. “It’s nice to spread them around.”

  We didn’t get to talk much more about our Thanksgiving plans because the phone started ringing and didn’t stop until it was six o’clock on the dot. A lot of baby-sitting assignments were made. Phew! I felt tired just thinking about them.

  I rode my bike home that afternoon feeling more dragged out than ever. It took forever to get home and once there, I barely had enough strength to climb the steps to my front door. All I could think about was the nap I was going to take when I got inside. What was wrong with me?

  It was Tuesday morning, and I hurt all over. Everything hurt. I mean, everything. My joints, my skin — even my hair hurt. I stumbled over to look in the mirror above my dresser. I opened my mouth and said, “Ah.” My throat was fiery red and burned every time I tried to swallow. Two bumps stuck out of my neck, just under my ears. My glands had swollen to the size of big marbles.

  I desperately wanted to crawl back in bed but I couldn’t. It was a school day and I had two tests that I just couldn’t miss. Besides, I’d already missed so much school that I was starting to think I’d never catch up. I glanced at Vanessa’s bed and saw that she was already up. She was probably eating breakfast. I hoped I wasn’t going to be late.

  “The Barretts,” I muttered as I shuffled to my closet. I was scheduled to sit for them after school. I was going to have to muster every ounce of strength to take care of those three. They’re a real handful.

  I grabbed the first thing my hand touche
d inside the closet, a sweatshirt. I tugged it over my head and sat down on the bed. I felt a little dizzy. Then the simple effort of pulling on a pair of jeans and slipping on my socks made little beads of sweat pop out along my forehead. I’d been sick before but this was the worst I’d ever felt. It was going to be a long day.

  It seemed to take hours to finish getting dressed and go downstairs to the breakfast table. As I pulled out a chair, Claire looked up at me and announced, “Ew, Mallory’s all sweaty — and look at her face. She looks like a ghost.”

  Mom took one look at me and ordered, “Back to bed.”

  “But my tests … the Barretts …” I mumbled as she guided me toward the stairs.

  “I’ll take care of all that,” Mom replied. “Now, I want you to lie down while I find the thermometer.”

  Mom took my temperature. It was 103°. No wonder I was sweating. I lay back and dozed while Mom called the school and then made arrangements for Stacey to take my sitting job at the Barretts’. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the couch in Dr. Dellenkamp’s waiting room.

  “Well, Mallory,” Dr. Dellenkamp said as she peered at my tonsils, “you have the distinction of having one of the worst looking throats I’ve ever seen.”

  “Nnnngh,” was all I could say because the tongue depressor was still in my mouth.

  “You probably have strep throat, a bacterial infection, or mononucleosis.”

  Any one of the three sounded terrible. Dr. Dellenkamp did a quick in-office strep test, which came out negative. That left two options. She stuck a pin in my finger (I was too sick to feel it) and drew a blood sample.

  “The blood test will tell us what you have, but in case our strep test was inaccurate or you have a bacterial infection, I’m going to start you on antibiotics right away.”

  “Great,” I mumbled. Anything that would make my throat and body stop hurting sounded good to me.

  “We should get the blood test result back in a couple of days. In the meantime, I want you to be sure and stay in bed, drink plenty of fluids, and take some Tylenol for your fever or headache.”

  After a quick stop at the pharmacy and then the grocery store to stock up on orange and apple juice, Mom took me home and I crawled back under the covers. The rest of Tuesday evaporated in a dreamy blur.

  On Wednesday I discovered that while I was sleeping, Mom and Dad had moved Vanessa in with Claire and Margo.

  “Mallory needs to be by herself so she can get plenty of rest,” Mom explained to the rest of my brothers and sisters. “And if what she’s got is contagious, we want to try to keep the rest of you from getting it.”

  By Wednesday afternoon I felt a little better. The Tylenol seemed to help my headache and it didn’t hurt quite so much to swallow. But it was weird. Before, when I had taken antibiotics for an ear infection or a strep throat, they made a big difference. This time they didn’t. I still felt achy and exhausted.

  When the clock beside my bed turned from 5:29 to 5:30 I got this really strange feeling. Everyone in the BSC was gathered at Claud’s. It didn’t seem right that I was still at home. I decided I’d better call and report in.

  “Baby-sitters Club,” Stacey answered in her official-sounding voice.

  “Hi, Stacey,” I croaked. “It’s Mallory.”

  “Hey, everybody,” she called to the room. “It’s Mal!”

  I heard shouts of, “Hi, Mal! How are you feeling? Are you getting better?” in the background and I couldn’t help smiling.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I still feel pretty rotten,” I answered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go to any of my jobs this week.”

  Kristy grabbed the phone. “Don’t worry, Mal. We’ve worked it all out. Logan’s here with us and we’ll cover for you.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured. “I really appreciate it.”

  The next person on the line was Jessi. “Mallory, everybody asks about you at school. How are you doing?”

  “Not great,” I said. “And I’m really worried about homework. Mom’s been getting it for me, but I’m just too tired to do it.”

  “Then don’t,” Jessi said. “The important thing is for you to rest and get better. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll try not to,” I said. But when I hung up the phone and looked at the big stack of books and assignments from school piled up on my desk, I felt like crying. How would I ever catch up?

  On Friday we got the official news.

  “Mallory can stop taking the antibiotics,” Dr. Dellenkamp told my mom. “She has mononucleosis.”

  “What can we do?” Mom asked.

  “Unfortunately, nothing except keep her in bed. Mallory needs to stay there until her throat and glands are completely back to normal.”

  Mom talked to Dr. Dellenkamp for ten more minutes before she hung up. When she told me what I had, I said, “I’ve never heard of mononucleosis. What is it?”

  “Mono is sometimes called glandular fever,” she explained, “which means it affects the lymph nodes.”

  “Is that why my neck looks like I’ve got golf balls sticking out of it?”

  “Yes. The good news is, ninety-nine percent of the time it’s not serious if you take care of yourself, which means staying in bed.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Well, sometimes too much activity can cause damage to your spleen.”

  That sounded scary even though at that moment I had no idea what my spleen was. Or where it was. I looked it up later in our encyclopedia and found out that the spleen is a soft, purplish-red organ (ew, ick!) located in the upper part of the abdominal cavity. It’s close to the stomach and to the diaphragm. They don’t really know what it does but they do know that it acts like a lymph gland and has a lot to do with our immune system.

  “How long do I have to stay in bed?” I asked, figuring I’d be there through the weekend and go back to school on Monday.

  Mom pursed her lips. “As little as a week. Or it could be a month or so. We don’t know.”

  “A month!” I gasped, dropping my head back on my pillow. “I’m going to flunk out of school! I’ll be in sixth grade for the rest of my life!”

  Mom smoothed her hand over my forehead. “Now don’t get upset, it will only make you feel worse. You’re not going to fail. I’ll make sure of that.”

  I tried to believe her but I was too worried. And what I heard next only made me more upset.

  “Mallory has the kissing disease!” Jordan shouted as the triplets arrived home from school.

  “The kissing disease?” I looked at Mom. “Is that what I have? But I haven’t kissed anyone.”

  “It’s only called the kissing disease because it’s mostly teenagers who get it.”

  “But what will the kids at school think?”

  I was answered by Nicky who banged through my bedroom door and chanted, “Mallory has cooties! Mallory has cooties!”

  “Nicky,” Mom said shooing him out of the room. “That’s enough. Mallory does not have cooties.”

  “Then why can’t Vanessa sleep in her room?” he asked.

  “Because there’s a slight chance that you kids could catch mono if Mallory is still in the infectious state.”

  “See?” Nicky said. “She does have cooties.”

  “Stay away from me,” Adam shouted, holding up his arms in the shape of a cross as if I were a vampire.

  Then Vanessa stuck her head in my room. “Mallory, you should hear what the kids are saying to Ben Hobart. They say he kissed you and gave you the disease.”

  “What? I never kissed Ben.” I turned to Mom. “Make them stop. I swear I never kissed anybody.”

  “Cooties, cooties, Mallory has the cooties,” Claire chanted. It was almost too much to bear.

  I pulled my pillow over my head. Now I had much bigger things to worry about than homework. How would I ever be able to face the kids at school when every student and teacher at Stoneybrook Middle School knew that I, Mallory Pike, had the kissing d
isease?

  Stacey and Charlotte Johanssen have always had a special relationship. It might have something to do with the fact that they’re both only children or that Char’s mom is a doctor and helped Stacey and her family when Stacey was coming to terms with her diabetes. Char used to be extremely quiet and sad and didn’t have any friends. But with Stacey’s help she’s now happy, much more outgoing, and has lots of friends.

  Anyway, it was Saturday, and Charlotte was wearing a cranberry-colored felt beret (just like Stacey’s) over her long chestnut brown hair. She slipped her gloved hand into Stacey’s as they walked down the street toward town.

  “Stacey, do you think the Pilgrims dressed in those black clothes with the big white collars and pointy hats because they thought they looked good, or because they had to?”

  “I don’t know, Char.” Stacey chuckled. “What made you ask that?”

  “Well, we’re putting on a Thanksgiving play at school, and Bobby Phillips said Pilgrim kids wouldn’t have worn those dorky outfits.”

  “What does Bobby think they wore?”

  “He said the Pilgrim kids would probably have dressed more like the Indians, because that way they could climb trees and build forts much easier.”

  “It makes sense,” Stacey said. “But the Pilgrims were very strict and I’m sure they thought what they wore was not dorky.”

  “I would have hated it,” Charlotte declared. “Dresses to the floor and those silly hats and no colors. Ick.”

  Stacey gave Charlotte’s hand a squeeze. “I’m with you.”

  “Our play is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving,” Char continued. “Can you come?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule with the BSC,” Stacey replied. “But I’ll sure try. Who do you play?”

  Charlotte blinked her big brown eyes at Stacey and said very seriously, “The head turkey.”

  “What does the head turkey do?”

  “Well, a head turkey in real life would probably lead all the turkeys away from the hunters and help them find good places to hide, but in our play the head turkey leads the turkey dance.”