Kristy and the Walking Disaster Read online

  There’s one other thing I better tell you about — our club notebook. The notebook is different from the record book. It’s a sort of journal. We’re all responsible for writing up every single job we go on. Then, once a week, we’re supposed to read about the jobs in the notebook. It’s really helpful. We can find out if the kids we sit for are having problems the rest of us should know about, or how one of us sitters handled a sticky situation, and other important things, like if any kid has food allergies or special fears. The notebook was my idea and I know it was a good one. I also know that most of the other club members think writing in it is a big bore. Well, too bad. Writing in the book is one of our few club rules.

  “Okay,” I said, from the director’s chair, “the treasury is in good shape. Anything else?”

  “Aw, look at Tigger!” Dawn said suddenly. Tigger was sitting in one of Claudia’s shoes, which was pretty cute — but I was trying to conduct a meeting.

  “Anything besides Tigger?” I said sternly.

  Five heads snapped to attention. And just then the phone rang. I was nearest to it, so I answered it. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club … Hi, Mrs. Rodowsky.” (I heard Dawn groan, and I waved my hand at her to make her quiet down.) “Tuesday?” I repeated. “Okay, I’ll get back to you … Yes … Okay, good-bye.”

  I hung up. Mary Anne had opened the record book to the appointment pages. “This coming Tuesday?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Let’s see. You’re free, Kristy, and so are you, Dawn.”

  “You can have the job, Kristy,” said Dawn quickly.

  I grinned wickedly. “Is Jackie too much for you?” I asked.

  “Nooo. Not exactly. You know I like him. His brothers, too. It’s just … Well, you never know what’s going to happen at the Rodowskys’.”

  That’s true. And it’s all because of Jackie, the middle of the three Rodowsky boys. Shea is nine, Archie is four, and Jackie is seven — and a walking disaster. He’s just totally accident-prone. And he doesn’t have little accidents like skinned knees. No, he’s more apt to lock himself in the bathroom and then get his hand caught down the drain of the tub. I could understand why Dawn preferred not to sit for him.

  “Schedule me for Tuesday,” I told Mary Anne. Then I called Mrs. Rodowsky back to tell her that I would be sitting.

  I had just hung up when the phone rang again. Then four more times. For quite awhile, all we could do was schedule jobs, although Claudia did manage to pass around the Cheese Doodles and little candy bars.

  The meeting was almost over when Mary Anne suddenly said in a sort of strangled voice, “Uh, where’s Tigger, you guys?”

  We searched Claud’s room from top to bottom. We found a bag of Doritos, a box of Mallomars, some GummiBears, and a package of Twinkies — but no Tigger.

  Mary Anne was just beginning to get tearful when we heard someone say, “Perhaps you are looking for this.”

  Standing in Claud’s doorway was her sister Janine, cradling Tigger. “I found him sitting on my computer,” she said. She was trying to look cross, but you could tell she wanted to smile.

  Mary Anne greeted Tigger as if he’d been missing for a year or so, and then the meeting ended.

  Jackie Rodowsky, I thought as Charlie drove me home. Would my afternoon with the walking disaster be fun … or, well, a disaster?

  “Hit it! … Hit it! … No, hit — Oh, never mind,” said Max Delaney crossly.

  “Don’t yell at me!” retorted his sister.

  “Anyway, you never hit the ball,” Karen accused Max.

  Max stuck his tongue out at Karen, and Karen stuck hers out at Max.

  It was Saturday, the day after our club meeting, and it was a gorgeous afternoon. I was baby-sitting for Karen, Andrew, and David Michael. We were in the backyard and a bunch of kids had come over to play softball … or to try to play softball. Amanda and Max Delaney were there (Amanda is eight and Max is six), and Linny and Hannie Papadakis had come over, too. Linny is David Michael’s good friend, and Hannie is one of Karen’s best friends. The girls are in the same class at school.

  The kids had a pretty pathetic game going. Most of them were old enough to be in Little League or to play T-ball, but I could see why they hadn’t bothered to join a team. They all worked and worked and worked — and nothing happened. I’d never seen so many kids play ball so hard with so few results.

  Hannie really couldn’t hit. She never connected with the ball. Max dropped or missed every ball he tried to catch. David Michael was simply a klutz. He tripped over his feet, the bat, even the ball, and no matter how he concentrated, he somehow never did anything right, except pitch. Karen wasn’t a bad hitter. And Andrew might have been a good catcher if he weren’t so little, but he’s only four, so balls went sailing over him right and left, even when he stretched for them. Amanda and Linnie were no better than the others.

  “You guys,” I said to the kids, “come over here for a sec, and let me help you get organized. I’ll give you some pointers, too, okay?” (I happen to like sports a lot.)

  Karen, Andrew, David Michael, Hannie, Linny, Max, and Amanda dropped their gloves, bats, and the ball. They gathered around me.

  “First of all,” I said, “Hannie, it helps to watch the ball when you’re trying to hit it. Don’t look away from it, even to look at your bat.”

  “Yeah,” said David Michael knowingly, as if I hadn’t just told him the same thing the day before.

  “And, Max, the trick for holding on to the ball after you catch it is to close your glove around it right away. Otherwise, the ball will fall out. And keep your eye on the ball when you’re trying to catch it, just like when you’re trying to hit it. Don’t look at your mitt or the batter. Got it?”

  The kids nodded.

  Then Andrew said, “What about me? I could catch those balls if I were taller.”

  “I know you could,” I replied. “So let’s work on your hitting and pitching instead. The only way to make you taller is to give you stilts. Or else hold up this game for a year or two while you grow.”

  Andrew giggled.

  I divided the kids into teams — the four younger kids versus the three older ones. “Now!” I cried. “Let’s play ball!”

  David Michael pitched to Hannie. Hannie swung her bat. She missed the ball by about two feet. Three times. He pitched to Karen. Karen hit the ball. Smack! It sailed right to Amanda, who appeared to be looking at the ball — until just before it reached her glove. Then she glanced at her glove to see how things were going. The ball flew over her head.

  Everyone groaned. Even Karen, who was running bases.

  I gathered the kids around me again. “We’re going to stop the game,” I announced, “and have a softball clinic instead.”

  “Clinic?” repeated Amanda nervously. “You mean, like a hospital?”

  “No. No, I mean when I work with each of you on your weak points — the stuff you need help with. I’ll be your coach and trainer.”

  The kids looked excited. And David Michael said, “If I were in Little League, there’d be a coach to help me all the time.”

  “You should join,” I told him. “The rest of you should, too. Or play T-ball.”

  “I can’t,” said Andrew. “I’m not old enough.”

  “I can’t, either,” said Karen and Hannie.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Girls can play.”

  “Yeah,” said Karen, “but no one would want me.”

  “Or me,” said Hannie.

  “Or me,” said Linny, David Michael, and Max.

  “I don’t want to join,” announced Amanda. “I don’t like playing ball that much.”

  “Well, the rest of us do,” said Hannie, who does not get along with Amanda and probably never will.

  “We want to be on a team,” added David Michael. “We just don’t want to embarrass ourselves.”

  “No Little League?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  “Nope,” he replied, and the other
kids agreed with him.

  Then Amanda spoke up. “Hey, Kristy, do you know Bart Taylor? He coaches his own team right here in the neighborhood. A whole bunch of kids belong. His team is called Bart’s Bashers.”

  “Maybe we could join!” exclaimed David Michael.

  “I could talk to Bart,” I said slowly. “Where does he live, Amanda? And who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s this kid. He goes to Stoneybrook Day School. I think he’s in eighth grade, just like you, Kristy.” Amanda told me where he lives, which isn’t too far from my house.

  Well, I thought, I could go talk to him. I wouldn’t like it — but I would do it. Why wouldn’t I like it? A lot of reasons. For one thing, you can never tell about eighth-grade boys. Half of them are normal, the other half are jerks. And in this neighborhood, about half of both groups are also snobs. I figured my odds. I had a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain jerk, a twenty-five percent chance of getting a snobby jerk, a twenty-five percent chance of getting a plain snob, and a twenty-five percent chance of getting a regular, old nice guy.

  The odds were not great, but I would risk them.

  If only my brothers and I went to private school like the rest of the kids in this neighborhood, then the kids wouldn’t have to lord their snobbishness over us. On the other hand, we might be jerks ourselves then, and besides, I wouldn’t be in the same school with Claudia, Mary Anne, Dawn, Jessi, and Mal.

  Mom and Watson came home at three-thirty that afternoon. At four o’clock, I put Shannon on her leash and walked her over to Bart’s house.

  A very, very, very cute guy was in the Taylors’ yard, raking up dead grass and twigs and things. It couldn’t be Bart. Most people around here have gardeners to take care of their lawns.

  The boy saw me slow down and look curiously at him.

  “Can I help you?” he called.

  “I’m, um, I’m looking for Bart Taylor,” I replied.

  “Well, you found him.” Bart grinned.

  I grinned back. So far, so good. Maybe Bart was from that normal nonjerky twenty-five percent.

  Bart dropped his rake and crossed the yard to the sidewalk. “That’s a great-looking dog,” he said as Shannon put her front paws on his knees and wagged her tail joyfully.

  “She’s a Bernese mountain dog,” I told Bart. “Oh, my name’s Kristy Thomas. I came by … I came by to ask you something.”

  Why did I feel so nervous? I’ve talked to boys before. I’ve been to dances with boys. I’ve been to parties with boys. But none of them had looked at me the way Bart was looking at me just then — as if standing on the sidewalk was a glamorous movie star instead of plain old me, Kristy Thomas. And, to be honest, none of them had been quite as cute as Bart. They didn’t have his crooked smile or his deep, deep brown eyes, or his even, straight, perfect nose, or his hair that looked like it might have been styled at one of those hair places for guys — or not. I think it’s a good sign if you can’t tell.

  “Yes?” said Bart, and I realized I’d just been staring at him.

  “Oh. Oh,” I stammered. “Um, what I wanted to ask you is, well, I heard about your softball team, and I wondered whether you need any more players.”

  Bart laughed. “You’re a little old,” he replied.

  “Oh, it’s not me!” I cried. “It’s my younger brother, and my little stepbrother and stepsister, and, let’s see, one, two, three other kids. My stepbrother, Andrew, is only four,” I rushed on. “I feel I have to tell you that. And none of them is very good. Well, Karen’s not a bad hitter, but David Michael’s a klutz, and Linny’s —”

  “Whoa!” exclaimed Bart. “Hold it. You’re talking about six kids? I could take on one more, maybe two, but not six. I’ve already got more kids than I need.”

  Bart and I talked a little while longer. I decided two things. Since Bart couldn’t handle any more kids, I would start my own team. I would take on any kid who really wanted to play on a team, no matter how young or klutzy or uncoordinated he or she was. I would call the other girls in the club and tell them to keep their ears open for kids who’d want to join. Maybe Jamie Newton, or some of the Pikes or Barretts would be interested. I could talk to Watson about the team. Watson loves baseball. In all honesty, he’s not the most athletic person I can think of, but he’s a huge baseball fan, and he’s good at organizing and running things — even better than I am, and I don’t mind admitting it. If I wanted to start a softball team, Watson was the person to go to.

  The other thing I decided was that I had a Gigantic Crush on Bart Taylor.

  Monday

  This afternoon I baby-sat for Myriah and Gabbie Perkins. What can I say? We always have good time together. If Kristy had to move away, and a new family had to move into her house, I’m glad my dad and I got the Perkinses as our new neighbors.

  Anyway, I guess I’m off the subject. Our afternoon went great, of course. And I got some kids for Kristy’s ball team, but you already know that, Kristy, since I called you as soon as I finished sitting. What happened was that when Mrs. Perkins left, Jamie Newton and Nina Marshall showed up to play with Gabbie and Myriah. Things got sort of out of hand, so I suggested playing catch in the backyard.

  Rowf! Rowf! Rowf!

  “Hey, is that you, Mary Anne?”

  “Toshe me up, Mary Anne Spier!”

  The door to the Perkinses’ house hadn’t even opened and already there was happy noise and commotion as the girls and Chewy clamored for Mary Anne. The Perkins girls are Myriah, who’s five and a half, Gabbie, who’s two and a half, and Laura, the new baby. Chewy (short for Chewbacca) is the Perkinses’ big, friendly, black Labrador, a great dog, even if he is sort of, well, high-spirited.

  Myriah was the one calling, “Is that you?” She knows she’s supposed to find out who’s at the door before she opens it, even if her mother or father is home. Gabbie was the one calling, “Toshe me up.” That’s her way of saying, “Pick me up and give me a hug, please.” No one knows where that phrase came from. She just invented it. And she almost always calls people (except her sisters and parents) by their full names.

  “Yes, it’s me! It’s Mary Anne!” Mary Anne replied.

  The door was flung open. There were Chewy, Myriah, and Gabbie in an excited bunch on the other side of the screen door. Mary Anne let herself in, and Myriah threw her arms around Mary Anne’s legs in a happy hug. She and Mary Anne have been special friends ever since Mary Anne showed her how they could look out their bedroom windows and see each other, just like she and I used to do. (Myriah’s room is my old room.)

  Even with Chewy barking and leaping around, and Myriah gripping her legs, Mary Anne leaned over to toshe Gabbie up.

  “Look, Mary Anne Spier,” said Gabbie, holding out her finger. On the finger was a Band-Aid with pictures of Baby Kermit printed all over it. “I have an owie,” she informed her sitter.

  “An owie!” exclaimed Mary Anne. “Oh, no. How did that happen?”

  “I was playing, and by accident, my finger went WHAM on the side of the TV. I was running, and it just went WHAM!”

  “It’s only a little owie,” added Myriah, looking up at Mary Anne and Gabbie.

  “No, it’s a big one.”

  “No, little. How could —”

  “Girls!” called Mrs. Perkins. “Let me talk to Mary Anne for a moment.”

  Mrs. Perkins came down the stairs with Laura bundled up in a baby blanket. Us sitters would love to take care of Laura sometimes, but she’s just too little. Mrs. Perkins usually takes her wherever she goes. I guess one baby is a lot easier than one baby plus two kids.

  Mrs. Perkins made sure that Mary Anne knew where the emergency numbers were, where she was going, and when she’d be back. Then she left. She hadn’t been gone long when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Mary Anne. “You guys hold Chewy.”

  Chewy just loves to gallumph up to visitors. All he wants to do is greet them, but sometimes people don’t know that. The sight of a huge dog
running straight at you can be scary, especially if you’re only four or five years old and not much taller than Chewy.

  Mary Anne opened the door. There were Jamie Newton and Nina Marshall. They’re both kids in the neighborhood and they’re both four years old. Jamie was no surprise, but Nina sort of was. Our club sits for Jamie all the time, and for Nina and her little sister Eleanor sometimes, too, but while Nina hardly ever goes to the Perkinses’, Jamie often does.

  Mary Anne was glad to see both of them, though.

  “Hi, you guys!” she said. “Did you come over to play?”

  “Yup,” said Jamie and Nina at the same time.

  Mary Anne had just let them in and closed the front door when she heard a rowf! Chewy had struggled out of Myriah and Gabbie’s grasp. He made a skidding dash through the hallway. Mary Anne caught him and led him out into the fenced-in backyard. Chewy is a handful — a happy handful with a doggie grin.

  When Mary Anne went back in the house, she found things a little out of hand. Nina was running after Myriah with a giant foam-rubber banana. “Zonk! Zonk! Zonk!” she kept crying as she hit Myriah over the head with it.

  Gabbie had found a plastic pitcher from her tea set. She had filled it with water and was carrying it through the house, crying, “Drinks for sale! Drinks for sale! Who wants to buy special water?”