The Baby-Sitters Club #109: Mary Anne to the Rescue (Baby-Sitters Club, The) Read online

  “Well, the fair has really increased fire-safety awareness in Stoneybrook,” Shelley said. “I think we can do the same for first-aid awareness. I’m part of a committee that has proposed a Stoneybrook Safety Day, and if it’s approved, I’d like to involve all of you to it. So pay attention.”

  Gulp. That was the last thing I’d want to do. Performing Heimlich maneuvers and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in public? Forget it.

  “Anyway, first things first,” Shelley continued. “I’m assuming, since you’re all teenagers, that most of your personal contacts include friends, siblings, and cousins.”

  “And charges!” Kristy blurted out. “Uh, I mean, kids we baby-sit for.”

  “Exactly,” Shelley said. “So a good portion of our first class will be basic pediatric safety. I happen to be a certified CPR instructor, so we’ll cover some of that, too.”

  “Can Alan practice mouth-to-mouth with Kristy?” Irv asked.

  “Gag me!” Kristy cried.

  “Only if she agrees,” Shelley said pleasantly. “Otherwise, you, Irving, may be his partner.”

  Now the whole class cracked up. Irv’s face turned tomato red.

  “Do you really have to, like, put your lips on the other person?” asked a blonde girl I didn’t know.

  “Do they make lip cootie protectors?” someone else asked.

  “If and when the time comes,” Shelley replied, “and I hope it never does, you will not have the slightest hesitation — man, boy, girl, woman. I have seen someone perform CPR on his pet dog.”

  A major “EEEEWWWWW!” rang out in the room.

  “But CPR is an involved technique,” Shelley said, “for use in extreme emergencies. Using it properly and knowing when to use it are absolutely crucial. I’ll teach you the basics, but I strongly recommend that someday you take the CPR course I give.”

  Alan whispered something to his friends and they giggled. (I guess they knew better than to goof off aloud.)

  Shelley reached into a file cabinet drawer and pulled out a handful of objects, including a pacifier, a calculator, a deflated balloon, a fake daisy and a fake poinsettia, a plastic bunch of grapes, and a plastic hot dog. “Some common household objects. Pretend all the plastic ones are real. Now, how many are dangerous?”

  “None of them,” said Pete.

  “The pacifier has a mouth guard that’s been designed to be larger than babies’ mouths,” Kristy announced, “so they can’t swallow it.”

  “Until they chew through the latex nipple,” Shelley said. “Then it can break off and become lodged in their throats. You must always check for cracks. How about the flowers?”

  “The pot could crack open their head,” Abby volunteered.

  “True,” Shelley replied. “But I was thinking of the plant itself. See, some plants, like poinsettias, are poisonous. Others, like daisies and dandelions, aren’t — not that you should feed them to little children.”

  “Some honey and dandelions on your rice cereal, sweetie?” said Alan in a squeaky voice.

  Kristy gave him a killer Look.

  “I will give you a list of harmful and harmless plants,” Shelley said. “Now, how about the calculator?”

  “Uh, a kid could bite off the buttons?” guessed a girl in the front row.

  “Not likely,” Shelley said. “But the battery is a disk shape and, besides being poisonous, could become lodged in the throat.” Shelley held up the hot dog. “This one?”

  “Safe!” Pete shouted like a baseball umpire. “You just cut it up into sections.”

  “Those sections,” Shelley said, “are just about the exact diameter of a child’s throat. They can plug it up tight, cutting off all air. Similar problem with grapes. And both of them can hydrate, meaning they expand as they become wet with saliva. The best method? Cut grapes in half and slice the hot dog in half lengthwise before cutting it into sections. Any questions? Okay, moving on to the balloon —”

  “Very dangerous,” Kristy interrupted. “The rubber can block off the air. In the BSC we keep balloons up high and throw out broken balloon pieces.”

  “My hero,” Alan squeaked.

  “Then we hide them in Alan Gray’s sandwich,” Abby muttered.

  “Which leads to the next question,” Shelley continued. “What do you do when a child at the table begins coughing on a piece of trapped food?”

  “Oooh! Oooh!” shouted a boy in the back, waving his hand in the air. “The Heinlein maneuver!”

  “Heimlich,” Claudia confidently corrected him.

  “Good guess, but no,” Shelley replied. “If the child is coughing, that means the air passage is open. The cough should eventually clear the problem. Trying the Heimlich maneuver in that case would do more harm than good. What does a person sound like when the air passage is blocked?”

  I knew the answer to that. The man in the cafeteria was still fresh in my mind. “Silent,” I said.

  “Exactly. No air, no sound. If this ever happens to you, attract attention and begin pointing to your throat. It’s possible to give yourself the Heimlich maneuver but it’s much more preferable for someone else to. Now, before I teach you the maneuver, who knows where your diaphragm is?”

  No answer.

  “Point to the center of your collarbone,” Shelley went on. “Then slide your finger down the center of your chest until it reaches the very bottom of your ribs. The diaphragm is inside that spot, stretching from the front to the back of your body, like the head of a drum. That is what pushes the air out when you exhale.” Now Shelley began walking down the aisle toward us. “I need a volunteer. Alan, would you please stand up?”

  “Me?” Alan asked.

  “Oooooooh,” said Pete and Irv.

  (Honestly, they are so immature.)

  Slowly and sheepishly Alan rose to his feet. Shelley turned him around so that she was facing his back. Then she wrapped her arms around him.

  I thought some of the boys in the class were going to hyperventilate, they were laughing so hard.

  “Calm down,” Shelley said with a smile. “I am going to pretend Alan is choking and give him the Heimlich maneuver. First, I locate the diaphragm and clasp my fists together in front of it.”

  “Is this going to hurt?” Alan whimpered.

  “Only if you laugh,” Shelley replied.

  As she began Heimlich-ing Alan, I noticed Logan walking into class and sitting in a seat by the door. I smiled and waved.

  Logan smiled back. Sort of. He seemed preoccupied.

  I am such a worrywart. Right away I thought something terrible had happened. I was dying to ask him what was going on (if anything).

  When Shelley asked us to pick partners in order to practice the Heimlich maneuver, I moved toward Logan, but someone nearer to him beat me to the punch.

  After guiding us through the technique, Shelley discussed other basic first-aid topics. Most of it was stuff we BSC members already knew about, such as bee stings, nosebleeds, stomachaches, and fevers. She stressed the need to call 911 for worse emergencies. And she managed to keep Alan and his gang meek and obedient. I took notes and enjoyed the class a lot, but I was anxious to talk to Logan.

  “As you know, our next class is Friday,” Shelley announced at the end of the period, “so be here same time, two o’clock. We’ll discuss CPR. See you then!”

  Everyone in class stood up and started gabbing at once. I quickly made my way across the room toward Logan.

  “Hi!” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Logan replied. “Fine.”

  He sure didn’t sound fine. His voice was soft and clipped. And he wasn’t looking me in the eye. He just walked out into the hallway.

  “Are you sure?” I persisted, following behind him.

  “Um, let’s go outside,” Logan said. “I need to tell you something.”

  Now I was really worried. I did not like the sound of this.

  “Mary Anne?” Dawn’s voice called from behind me.

  I turned and
said, “I have to talk to Logan. I’ll try not to be long.”

  “No problem, take your time,” Dawn called back. “I’ll meet you at home.”

  Logan was already pushing his way through a side exit. I jogged after him. We emerged into the warm afternoon sunlight in an isolated corner of the Stoneybrook Community Center parking lot.

  Logan slumped silently against the wall. His eyes were moist.

  My heart was thumping like a jackhammer. I fought back tears. “What?” was all I could manage to say.

  Logan swallowed deeply. A tear trickled down his cheek and he quickly turned and brushed it away, as if he were just scratching an itch.

  Horrible thoughts shot through my brain.

  He’s seeing another girl.

  A high school girl.

  A college girl.

  Maybe someone has died.

  No, his family’s moving. That has to be it.

  My knees were shaking. I tried to look Logan in the eye, but tears were clouding the view.

  “Mary Anne,” he said, his voice cracking, “I need to tell you something very important. And you’re not going to like it.”

  “My dad,” Logan said, “wants me to go to boarding school.”

  Whaaaat?

  That came out of left field. Completely.

  The first thing I felt was a sudden surge of relief.

  No accidents. No deaths. We weren’t breaking up.

  Then the news sank in. “You mean, like a sleepaway school?”

  “You live there the whole school year. Like college.” Logan took a deep breath. “It’s the same school Dad went to. He says he spent the best years of his life there. It’s called Conant Academy, and it’s way out in the woods in New Hampshire.”

  “But — but I thought he grew up in the South!”

  “He did. That’s the point, Mary Anne. It’s boarding school. All the kids are from far away.”

  “But why? What’s wrong with Stoneybrook?”

  Logan shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess Dad thinks if I don’t go to a prep school I won’t get into a good enough college or something. He says the competition is tougher at Conant. It’ll sharpen my mind.”

  “But — but you don’t want to do it,” I said. “Do you?”

  “Are you kidding? But what am I supposed to do? Dad already paid a deposit.”

  My stomach was turning inside out. The idea of living in a dorm with strange kids at our age was weird enough. But Logan? Leaving home for good?

  I was speechless.

  I kept looking at Logan’s eyes. Sometimes he likes to concoct ridiculous stories, just to see if I’ll believe them. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle and he begins to crack up.

  But he was totally uncrinkly and uncracking.

  “That’s not even the worst part,” Logan continued, his voice tightening with anger. “He also wants me to spend a month in some … some boot camp!”

  “The army?” I blurted out. “But you’re thirteen!”

  “Not that kind of boot camp. That’s just what I call it. It’s really a survival camp — Survival and Leadership Training Seminars, or something like that. Dad did that when he was a kid, too. He says it builds character. You do calisthenics and run a million miles and climb rocks and carry heavy stuff up mountains until you’re practically dead. Then you have to learn to survive in the wilderness without food or shelter, eating berries and stuff.”

  “They’re allowed to let a kid do that? What about all the bears and foxes?”

  “You punch them in the nose, I guess, because you have so much character by then,” Logan said with a shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, to tell you the truth, the outdoors part sounds cool. But that only happens the last couple of days. The rest is three and a half weeks of boredom.”

  “And then you come home and pack up to leave again,” I added.

  “Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense. Besides, I have stuff I want to do here. Mr. Fee is expecting me to work at the Rosebud. And I just found out I’m supposed to be the starting shortstop on my summer league baseball team.”

  Logan was so upset he was pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. I desperately wanted to make him feel better.

  But I felt as if I’d been hit over the head.

  I’d been looking forward to a nice, relaxing summer — baby-sitting, hanging out with Dawn and my friends, going out with Logan. Now Logan was going to be plucked away, never to be seen in Stoneybrook again.

  “What’s going to happen to us in September?” I asked.

  “Lots of visits, I guess,” Logan said gloomily. “If there are roads that go all the way to Conant. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Look, um, you shouldn’t worry too much,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “Maybe your dad will reconsider.”

  Logan gave a snorting kind of laugh. “Right. You know the way he is.”

  “You guys must have had a huge argument.”

  “Sort of. I was mostly shocked. Dad kept saying stuff like, ‘You won’t know if you like it until you try it,’ and ‘Someday you’ll thank me for this.’ ”

  Now Shelley Golden was walking across the parking lot, fishing for keys in her shoulder bag.

  “Let’s get out of here, Mary Anne,” Logan said, “before she sees us blubbering.”

  “My house, okay? We can talk more there.”

  “Just promise me one thing. We don’t talk to anyone about this.”

  “Sure, okay,” I agreed.

  Logan and I walked around the corner of the building to the bike rack. We didn’t say much on the ride home. Both of us were a little shell-shocked.

  When we arrived, Dawn was alone in the kitchen, eating a salad. I could hear Jeff in the backyard, playing with the Pike triplets. “Hi, guys!” Dawn called out.

  “I’m sorry, Dawn,” I said, “I didn’t mean to walk out on you after class.”

  “Hey, you’re allowed to sneak off with your boyfriend. These things are important.” Dawn raised a knowing eyebrow.

  Logan and I must have looked like the twin masks of doom, because her smile vanished. “Uh-oh. You didn’t break up, did you?”

  I smiled cheerfully. I tried to laugh. “No way.”

  “Then why do you both look like curdled cheese?” Dawn asked.

  “It’s just the heat,” Logan replied.

  “Right,” Dawn said skeptically. “Okay, keep secrets from me. I don’t mind. I’m only your sister.”

  Logan took a deep breath and sat down. “Dawn, this is not to go past this table, okay?”

  He went through the details again. Dawn listened closely, her brows scrunching together with every painful sentence.

  “Wow,” she said after he’d finished. “That’s bad. Listen, can I make you some bancha tea?”

  “Some what?” Logan asked.

  “Tea from the bark of a bancha tree,” Dawn explained. “It’s very soothing.”

  “No thanks,” Logan replied. “Do you have any Yoo Hoo or Mountain Dew?”

  Dawn looked as if he had just asked for sewer water. “I hope not.”

  I went to the fridge and took out the only soft drink in there, seltzer with natural raspberry flavor.

  “When did your dad tell you all this, Logan?” Dawn asked.

  “Today.”

  I poured seltzer for us all. “And your mom?” I asked. “Does she want you to go, too?”

  “I can’t tell,” Logan answered. “I think she’s trying to make up her mind.”

  “That’s good,” Dawn said. “That means the problem is still fresh. If you push hard enough, you have a chance.”

  Logan shook his head. “But you know my dad. He just digs in. When I told him about summer baseball, he said, ‘Conant has the best baseball team in its league.’ Then I asked him what was wrong with Stoneybrook schools and he said, ‘They’re not the best. A Conant boy has a jump start on the rest of the world.’ ”

  Dawn made a face. “He really said that? ‘A Conant boy’?”


  “You mean, Conant isn’t —” I began.

  “Coed?” Logan jumped in. “Nope. That’s the other horrible thing. I really put up a fight about that.” Logan suddenly turned red and gave me a guilty look. “Not that I — I don’t mean to — it’s just that, you know, I’m not used to not going to school with girls, that’s all.”

  “I think your mom is the key,” Dawn insisted. “Work on her, and she’ll work on him.”

  “It’s not like that in my family, Dawn,” Logan snapped. “Everything is right out in the open. Dad says he and Mom talked about the decision a lot. Don’t you see? It’s a done deal. If I thought I could do something about it, I wouldn’t be moping around here.” He swigged down his seltzer and stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Mary Anne. I — I have to go help Mom with Hunter. See you.”

  With that, he left the kitchen. I followed him to the front door and said good-bye. Standing at the door, I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

  He looked the way I felt.

  Totally destroyed.

  “But — but — I’m scared!” cried Mathew Hobart. His knuckles were practically white as he clutched the handlebar of his bike, wobbling down the sidewalk along the Carle Playground.

  “Of course you are,” Abby said sympathetically. She was jogging alongside Mathew, holding the back of his seat. “It’s normal.”

  One of Mathew’s older brothers, James, circled gracefully around them on his ten-speed bike. “Just pretend the training wheels are still on!” he shouted.

  “I’m trying!” Mathew retorted. “Who-o-o-oa! Don’t let go, Abby!”

  “I won’t!” Abby said.

  “I’m bored!” whined James. “Can I ride to Buddy’s house?”

  RRRRRRRRRRRR … whirred the engine noise of Johnny Hobart’s tricycle behind them. “Hey! Wait!” he shouted.

  Actually, it sounded more like, “Hi! White!” You see, the Hobarts are from Australia. They have great accents. (Wonderful expressions, too, such as “brecky” for “breakfast.” One day I heard them talk about “firing up the barbie,” and I thought they were going to set fire to a doll. Boy, was I wrong. “Barbie” means “barbecue.”)

  James Hobart is eight, Mathew is six, and Johnny’s four. They have an older brother, Ben, who’s eleven. (He sometimes baby-sits, but he was shopping for sleepaway camp supplies with his mom that day.) All four have red hair and freckles. They look so much alike, you’d think they were quadruplets stuck in different parts of a time warp.