Kristy and the Dirty Diapers Read online

  After Charlie parked in our driveway, I climbed out of the car and walked over to her. She was concentrating on her clipboard.

  “Hi,” I called out.

  She looked up for a moment. “Oh, hello, dear.” She looked down.

  “Still working?” I asked. (I know, duh. But I had to start somewhere.)

  Ms. Steinert rolled her eyes. “Ohhhh, yes. Until we make it perfect.”

  “Looks great to me.”

  “To me, too. And to the workers.” Ms. Steinert sighed. “But not, I’m afraid, to your future neighbors.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, the kitchen wallpaper, the toilet seats, the color of the living room carpet, the size of the foyer mirror, the design of the newel posts —”

  “You mean, they’ve been here to see it?”

  “On Wednesday, around five-thirty. The mother told me the house has to be absolutely finished before they move in. To avoid as little upheaval as possible with her daughters.” Ms. Steinert shrugged. “I suppose starting the girls in their old school and then taking them out after a couple of weeks is less of an upheaval….”

  Her voice trailed off. She seemed embarrassed. I don’t think she meant to blab about her client like that. Then she excused herself and hurried into the house.

  I guess I wasn’t the only person with a lot on her mind.

  I walked home. In the kitchen, Sam was making iced tea, Charlie was mopping up a spill, David Michael was looking sheepish, and Watson was busy squeezing lemons over a cold bluefish salad with dill and tarragon. (Does that sound gross? It’s not. Watson is a great cook.)

  I gathered silverware and plates. As I was setting the table for dinner, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” I called.

  I ran to the door and pulled it open. I almost gasped.

  Morbidda Destiny was staring me in the face.

  “Hi, Mor — Mrs. Porter,” I said.

  “Hello, Kristy,” she cackled (that is the only word to describe that voice). “I was wondering if I might have a word with your parents.”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of this. A vision popped into my head. She had kidnapped the mystery neighbors and put them in a witch’s brew. Now she felt guilty and wanted to confess to someone.

  I ran into the kitchen and told Mom and Watson who was at the door.

  They gave each other a curious look. “You and your brothers can finish setting the table, then help Nannie with your sister until we’re ready.”

  “Okay.”

  Very calmly, without the slightest fear, they wiped their hands, poured three glasses of iced tea, and walked into the living room.

  Helping Nannie with Emily Michelle was harder than it sounded. Emily needed a diaper change. She is in an I hate diaper changes phase. We had to chase her around the first floor.

  Charlie finally cornered her and tickled her all the way to the changing table. I helped Sam and David Michael bring things out to the dining room, but mostly I hung out within earshot of the living room.

  “… all a shock to me,” I heard Mrs. Porter saying. “I thought their marriage was solid as a rock. My daughter has custody, but she wants to move away from Stoneybrook. My granddaughter doesn’t say much about it, but I can tell she’s very upset.”

  My heart sank. I knew Mrs. Porter’s granddaughter. Her name is Dru (short for Druscilla). She’s seven and she used to play with Karen. When Dru’s parents were first looking for a house in Stoneybrook, Dru had stayed for a while with Mrs. Porter.

  I absolutely hate hearing about divorces. Poor kid.

  “How awful,” my mom remarked. “Will she and your daughter stay in the house?”

  “Well, no. My daughter doesn’t want to live anywhere near Stoneybrook. In fact, she’s already found a buyer for the house, and she’s looking for a job and an apartment elsewhere.” Mrs. Porter let out a deep sigh. “She wants Dru to live with me while she does this. She feels Dru will be more secure if she continues in her class at Stoneybrook Day School.”

  The room fell silent.

  Clink. Clank. Bonk. I let the silverware clatter as I set the table, to make myself sound busy.

  “Your children have been through separation and divorce,” Mrs. Porter continued. “What shall I do? What kinds of behavior should I expect from Druscilla? How can I make her feel better about this mess? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”

  Gulp.

  I wanted to take back every dumb “witch” thought I had ever had. Mrs. Porter sounded as if she were going to cry.

  Clinkity-clank. I rearranged the salad forks.

  “Hey, when are we going to eat?” Charlie muttered, stalking into the dining room.

  Sam was right behind him. “What’s she doing, casting a spell?”

  “Tooo-nah!” Emily Michelle shrieked from the kitchen. (She thought the bluefish was tuna salad.)

  “Shhhhh!” I said.

  I could hear Mom giving Mrs. Porter all kinds of great advice — be a good listener, don’t deny Dru’s feelings, set up a schedule of interesting activities, stuff like that.

  Then Watson said, “Mrs. Porter, Druscilla is welcome in our house any time. And as you know, our daughter Kristy is an extremely competent baby-sitter.”

  I smiled.

  Good old Watson.

  * * *

  By Saturday morning, the mystery house had been painted a sand color, and a new dogwood had been planted in the front yard. The workers were gone, and so was Ms. Steinert.

  While I was doing the breakfast dishes, I heard car doors slamming outside. Then I heard some unfamiliar female voices.

  “It’s them!” I cried.

  “Who?” Charlie asked.

  “The twins!”

  “What twins!”

  I ran to the living room. Then I nonchalantly walked outside, as if I just had to inspect the rhododendrons that very minute.

  When I cast a glance up the street, I saw a car at the curb. But not in front of the phantom family’s house. It was in front of Mrs. Porter’s house. Druscilla and her mother were lifting luggage out of the trunk.

  Lots of luggage. Dru was obviously staying a long time.

  “And the houses in Mercer have become so expensive,” Dru’s mom was saying, “and what with the mortgage rates and the points and banks and frabbajabba …”

  Well, something like that. I’d kind of tuned out. I was looking at Dru’s face.

  She was pale. Her eyes were small and red-rimmed. Her hair, which is thick and black, was kind of messed up. A few strands were stuck wetly to her forehead.

  The breath hitched in my throat. I felt tears welling up. That hardly ever happens to me. I could guess how Dru was feeling.

  “Well, I’m so happy you’ll be staying with me!” Mrs. Porter said, holding her arms out to Druscilla.

  Dru just stood there for a moment. Then she took a couple of steps forward and let Mrs. Porter hug her.

  I felt funny just hanging around. I spotted a plastic straw among our front yard flowers, picked it up, and went inside the house.

  I threw out the straw and finished the breakfast dishes. Then I ran outside again, put some air in my bike tires, and repaired David Michael’s glove, which was falling apart.

  Afterward I sauntered into the front yard. I looked next door. Nonchalantly.

  Still no car in front of the mystery house. Mrs. Porter’s daughter’s car was gone, too.

  But Druscilla was sitting on the steps of her grandmother’s house, staring into the street.

  I walked toward her. “Hi,” I called.

  She looked at me as if I were a cold plate of leftover asparagus. “Hi,” she mumbled.

  “I’m Kristy. Karen’s sister?”

  “I know.”

  I sat down next to her. “Karen’s staying overnight on Wednesday, and then she’ll be living with us all next month.”

  “Good.”

  “She’ll be so surprised to see you.”

  Silence.


  “Happy, too,” I added quickly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re in second grade?”

  Nod.

  “So you go to school with Melody Korman, right? She lives down the street.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Hannie Papadakis lives in that house.” I pointed across the street.

  “I know.”

  “So you’ll have plenty of kids to play with.”

  “That’s only two,” Dru said glumly.

  “Well, two who’re in second grade. Three, if you count Karen. But plenty of other kids live in the neighborhood. Maria Kilbourne is eight. She goes to your school, too, doesn’t she?” Then I had an idea. “You know, a lot of kids belong to this softball team I coach. Kristy’s Krushers?”

  Dru looked at me blankly.

  “We’re practicing to play Bart’s Bashers in our own World Series. It’s really fun. Want to join us?”

  Dru grimaced. “I stink at sports.”

  “Well, you’ll be perfect for the team!” I blurted out. “I mean, not that everyone stinks, but a lot of the kids are just beginners. Nobody’s a real expert. We play mainly for fun. You should try it. Or you could be a cheerleader. We have three of them, you know.”

  Dru made a face.

  “Look, our first game is this afternoon,” I said. “Why don’t you come and watch?”

  “Well, maybe,” she muttered, in a way that sounded a lot more like no than yes.

  But it was a start. I could work on her.

  We chatted a little more, until Mrs. Porter called her inside.

  I said good-bye and headed home. As I walked across the lawn, Mrs. Porter’s house cast a jagged shadow over me. What a place to live in after your parents split up. I’d be depressed, too.

  Before I went inside, I checked out the mystery house. It was still empty, practically shiny with its new paint job.

  Too bad Dru and her grandmother couldn’t live there.

  “Matt! Matt! Matt! Matt! Matt!” screamed the Krusher cheerleading squad.

  Our cheerleaders are Haley Braddock and Vanessa Pike (one of Mal’s sisters), who are nine years old, and Charlotte Johanssen, who’s eight.

  The entire Krusher team had joined in the cheer, along with a crowd of family, friends, BSC members, and a few people who had wandered over from the sidewalk. (Druscilla, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.) Everyone had spread out picnic blankets on the ground where the bleachers used to be. But now all the food was being ignored. The game was too exciting.

  It was the bottom of the last inning. The Krushers were behind, 15–12, the bases were loaded, and our best hitter was up. If Matt could manage to make it home, we’d win.

  Me? I was in shock. A state of total, absolute flabbergast. (Is that a word? I hope so. It’s perfect.)

  I’ll admit it. After Friday’s practice, I expected us to be trounced. Not that I gave up hope. I didn’t. But I honestly thought we’d need a game or two to build our confidence.

  Boy, was I wrong. My little sluggers were playing to win. Even Gabbie was two for three (okay, maybe the pitcher let her reach base one time).

  Matt Braddock cocked his bat. He stared intently at the Basher pitcher. We knew he couldn’t hear us cheering (Matt was born profoundly deaf, and he communicates with American Sign Language, or ASL), but we also knew he felt our energy.

  “Matt! Matt! Matt! Matt! Matt!”

  The pitcher threw the ball. Matt swung and missed.

  “Strike one!” called Watson, who was umpiring.

  “Stike one!” I could hear Emily Michelle pipe up from the sidelines.

  The crowd quieted down. The catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher.

  I scanned the base runners. Jackie Rodowsky had planted his left foot on first. Margo Pike was on second. At third base, Patsy Kuhn had turned her cap backward and was dancing dreamily with her eyes closed.

  “Look alive, runners!” I called out.

  Crrrrack!

  I had missed seeing the pitch. But I saw the ball bounce toward second base. The Basher shortstop and second base player ran for it. Either one could have caught it.

  But neither of them called for the ball. Instead, they collided. The ball skipped past them into right field.

  Matt’s face could have lit up the Astrodome.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I called out, waving them all on.

  Patsy skipped home. Margo barreled around third and slid home, even though the ball was still bouncing harmlessly in the outfield. Jackie, who had decided to watch the ball’s journey, started running late. Matt ended up chasing him around the basepaths.

  When Matt stepped on home plate, I yelled so loudly I think I pulled a neck muscle. I ran to Matt and lifted him in the air. Around us, the crowd was storming onto the field.

  We had won, 16–15.

  We led the series, one game to none!

  You should have seen the Krushers. I let go of Matt, and then Linny, Buddy, Margo, Jake, and Hannie picked him up and paraded him around. Matt was laughing like crazy. David Michael, Patsy, Laurel, and Jamie were doing a funny victory dance.

  “Kristyyyyyy!” Karen and Andrew threw their arms around me and started jumping up and down.

  Bart was in a state of shock. I could tell, because he was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking loose and carefree. He never looks like that unless he loses.

  Now, I am not ranking on Bart. I am a good sport. It doesn’t make me happy that he lost. (But, I admit, it would have made me a lot less happy if he’d won.)

  “Okay, guys, let’s do the Basher cheer!” I shouted.

  The Krushers gathered around me. When they were all paying attention, I led the chant: “Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? The Bashers! The Bashers! Yeeaaaa!”

  On the other side of the diamond, the Bashers returned the cheer. Then Bart and I led the players to the pitcher’s mound, where they lined up for high-fives. (Isn’t that a great tradition? I believe all players should be good sports, win or lose.)

  Both teams rushed to the sidelines, tearing into the food supply. Left and right, kids were reenacting game highlights, even some I didn’t remember.

  As I walked toward my mom, my hand became raw from giving high-fives.

  “Congratulations, Coach,” Mom said, handing me a sandwich.

  “Thanks.” Boy, was I hungry. I wolfed it down, then grabbed another.

  “Very nice game,” an unfamiliar voice said behind me.

  My mouth was full of peanut butter, jam, and bread. I had a tuna sandwich in my right hand, a juice box in my left. I turned to face a heavyset, balding man wearing Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that said Davis Diapers.

  “Fonx.” I should never talk with my mouth full. I meant to say, “Thanks.” I also meant to keep my food inside my mouth. Instead, I sent a small piece of bread hurtling past the guy’s left elbow.

  Fortunately, he did not seem to notice. “Neil Davis,” he said, offering his hand. “Of Davis Diapers?”

  I swallowed. “The diaper service! I remember. You used to bring diapers for my brother, before Mom switched to plastic.” Oops. I have such a big mouth. I quickly added, “I mean, that was when he was almost old enough to stop wearing them. She always believed cloth diapers were better for the environment.” (I didn’t mention that Emily Michelle uses plastic diapers exclusively.)

  Mr. Davis chuckled. “She’s right. Very few companies like ours exist anymore. We’re one of the brave holdouts. I guess it takes guts to hang on to something you believe in. Stick-to-it-iveness! Spirit! Which, I might add, are the qualities your team has.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Davis,” I said. The smell of popcorn was wafting toward me and I really wanted some.

  But Mr. Davis barged on. “I couldn’t help noticing how worn-out your equipment is. Not to mention your … uniforms. I was wondering if your team has a sponsor?”

  “No, we’re really just an informal kind of —”

  “Well, I may be a
ble to help you. You need funds, and I need an effective way to advertise. I just happened to be walking by the field, and I saw how many young families were watching you. Families with babies and toddlers. And every time I see babies, I think Davis Diapers. That was when the idea hit me. I could provide your team with spanking-new uniforms and equipment. Your kids will feel good about themselves, and their parents will be proud. At the same time, they’ll think of Davis Diapers. What a great opportunity for us both.”

  It didn’t sound like a bad idea. Actually, I was pretty impressed. Good advertising ideas are hard to dream up. I should know. I spend a lot of time trying to think of them for the BSC. And the Krushers did need the equipment.

  Still, I didn’t want to jump into the decision. My mind was on the game. I wanted to celebrate the victory with my team. And besides, I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of sponsorship. It sounded so official.

  “Can I think about it?” I asked.

  Mr. Davis smiled and handed me his business card. “Of course. Call me when you make a decision.”

  * * *

  My mom is great. She insisted on taking the whole team (and friends and families) out for ice cream after the game. What a crew. When we walked into the Rosebud Café, I thought the wait staff was going to faint.

  All the kids squeezed around a bunch of tables near the back. Most of the adults stood and chatted.

  That was when I brought up Mr. Davis’s idea to my parents. I mentioned the things Mr. Davis had promised. As I did, I became more and more excited.

  Finally, Watson said, “So, what’s the downside?”

  “Well, the Krushers might feel a little too … I don’t know, formal or something,” I replied. “It might not be as much fun.”

  Mom laughed. “Kids love uniforms, Kristy. They’ll think they’ve been transformed into pros.”

  “I say go for it,” Watson added.

  Two for, none against, one leaning.

  I decided to bring it up before the world’s biggest Krushers fans, the BSC.

  Monday’s meeting was another killer. The phone rang so much, I didn’t have a chance to mention my dilemma until almost six o’clock.

  Mallory and Stacey thought sponsorship was a great idea.