Baby-Sitters Club 058 Read online

  At that, the kids flew from the room and stampeded upstairs.

  Mallory and I returned to our work. When I left for home later that evening, my assignments were not exactly finished, but I was in a much better frame of mind. I kept imagining Claire chasing after Vanessa and the bust-developer, crying, "But what is it? What is it?" And I did feel bad that the Pike kids were out of money, but they had brought it on themselves, and the situation was sort of funny.

  When I went to bed that night, I actually - for the first time since Monday - relaxed and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 11.

  "Stacey! Hey, Stacey!" I was standing on the steps at the front entrance to Stoneybrook Middle School. Kids streamed around me, shouting and calling to one another, eager to leave school and start their weekends. I was looking for Mrs. Pike, who was going to drive me to the train station, so I wasn't expecting to hear a male voice calling my name.

  "Stacey!" the voice called again.

  I became aware of frantic movement somewhere to my left. I turned my head - and there was Sam, waving to me from across the lawn.

  "Hi!" I called back excitedly. Sam had never stopped by my school before. I think he was embarrassed to be seen at SMS, since he is a mighty high school student. I trotted over to him.

  "Walk you home?" asked Sam.

  "I wish you could, but I'm not going home," I had to reply.

  Dam, darn, darn. Or as Karen Brewer would say, boo. Double boo. This was the one day I couldn't go with Sam, because of stupid old New York.

  "Oh." Sam looked crestfallen.

  "I'm going to New York to see my dad," I explained.

  "I thought your mom was sick." "She is, but . . . oh, never mind. It's too hard to explain. I'll be back tomorrow," I added hopefully.

  But all Sam said was, "Well, have fun. See you around." Darn, darn, DARN.

  "Stacey!" This time I recognized Mrs. Pike's voice. She was calling to me from the parking lot. I waved sadly to Sam, then ran to the Pikes' car, where I nearly crashed into Mal and Jessi who were running from another direction. They were coming along for the ride to' the station. Mrs. Pike leaned over and opened the front door for me.

  "Thank you for picking me up," I said breathlessly as Mal and Jessi climbed into the backseat with Claire. "Is my suitcase here?" "I have it!" said Claire proudly. It was sitting in her lap. My suitcase was actually just an overnight bag. Basically all I had ended up packing was my new outfit, a nightgown, and clean underwear. I was traveling light. I planned to wear the same outfit tomorrow that I was wearing now.

  "Thanks, Claire," I replied. I turned to Mrs. Pike. "How's Mom?" "Just fine, honey. Nothing to worry about. Mrs. Arnold is with her, and she plans to stay until dinnertime. Then Mrs. Braddock will take over." "Okay." At the station, everyone piled out of the car. Mal, Jessi, and Claire pretended they were seeing me off on a long trip.

  "Don't forget to write!" called Jessi.

  "I'll think of you every day!" called Mal.

  "Have fun in Spain!" called Claire.

  Mrs. Pike rolled her eyes.

  The ride to New York was long enough to allow me to finish my math homework and start an English assignment. I was halfway into the English assignment when I realized the train wasn't moving. I looked at my watch. Uh-oh.

  I don't know what caused the train delay, but we rolled into Grand Central Station in New York City a full half an hour late.

  "Stacey!" exclaimed Dad when we found each other at the information booth. "I thought you'd never get here." I groaned. "Me, too. We just sat on the tracks - right outside Grand Central - for half an hour." Dad gave me a bear hug. Then he said, "We better get a move-on." (I have never known just what a "move-on" is.) "We're cutting this close." My father and I hurried out of the station and caught a cab on 42nd Street. Unfortunately, it was now rush hour, so the ride to Dad's apartment that should have taken about twelve minutes took nearly forty-five. I know Dad wanted to grumble to our cab driver, but he didn't, because the driver had posted this really defensive sign on the back of his seat, right in front of Dad's knees. It read: Please be aware that: - I know where I am going.

  - I know how to drive.

  - I have a complete grasp of the English language.

  I pointed to the sign and giggled, which made Dad smile, but didn't get us to his apartment any faster.

  When we did get there, we raced inside and I hurried to my bedroom. (Well, Dad and I call it my bedroom, but somehow it doesn't feel like mine. I don't stay in it often enough. It feels like a motel room.) "What time does the dinner start?" I called to Dad.

  "We're supposed to be there at six-thirty." "Six-thirty? Yikes!" I yelped as I opened my overnight bag.

  "I know. We're running late. We didn't allow time for delays." I paused. "Urn, did we allow time for ironing?" "What?" said Dad, poking his head into my room.

  "Well, it's just that I had to do my packing yesterday, and now my outfit is sort of smushed. I need to iron it. Badly." Dad sighed. He did not say a word, but he set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron for me.

  I think the extra delay was worth it. When I finally emerged from my room, wearing the new, ironed outfit (with tasteful Dad-type jewelry), my hair combed and shining, my father just stared at me. After a few moments, he managed to say, "You look . . . like your mother." Then he added hurriedly, "You look beautiful, sweetie. Absolutely perfect." "Thanks," I whispered. Then, hating to break the spell, I said, "Um, it's already six-twenty-five, Dad." We caught another cab. This one rushed us to a very fancy hotel on Madison Avenue. And I mean, it rushed us. We squealed around corners, jerked to stops, then jerked into motion again. I have never made such good use of that strap that hangs by the window as I did that evening. When we screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, I said, "Dad? Do I still have all my teeth? I think I can hear them rattling around in my head." The cabbie shot me a dirty look in the rear-view mirror then, but he didn't say anything because Dad was in the middle of trying to figure out how much to tip him.

  We stepped out of the taxi, and Dad took my arm and led me into the hotel. We followed the signs to the MCGILL PARTY.

  "They made signs for this?" I whispered to Dad.

  He just smiled at me.

  When we reached the MCGILL PARTY, I glanced at a clock on the wall. Six-forty-three. Not too bad.

  We walked through a pair of plain wooden double doors and into ... a ballroom. I was awed. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The floor was carpeted in gold - except for a large bare area in the center of the room.

  (I would have to ask Dad about that later.) The tables were covered with white cloths. At every place setting was gleaming silverware and a crystal bud vase holding a single red rose; in the middle of each table was a large arrangement of red and yellow roses.

  "Whoa. All this for you, Dad?" I whispered.

  He didn't answer the question, but simply replied, "I'm so glad you're here to share the evening with me." So was I. When Dad had talked about a fancy dinner, I never imagined he meant this fancy ... or important. My father must mean an awful lot to his company.

  I was gazing at those chandeliers again when I realized Dad was talking to some people. "Stacey?" he said, and I dragged my eyes away from the glitter of the crystal. "I want you to meet Mr. Davis, the president." The president! I thought wildly. . . . Oh, the president of the company. "And this is Mrs. Barnes, the executive vice-president." "It's nice to meet you, Stacey," said Mr. Davis.

  "You must be very proud of your father," said Mrs. Barnes.

  "Oh, I am." I was absolutely awestruck.

  "Well, we better get this affair underway," added Mr. Davis.

  Dad took my elbow. "Time to sit down," he said.

  "Which table is ours?" I asked.

  "I'll show you." Dad led me through the fifteen or so small round tables to a long banquet table where a podium was set up. "We're at the head table," he said, "with Mr. Davis and Mrs. Barnes and the other executives." "Whoa,"
was the only word I managed to utter.

  We slid along between the banquet table and the wall, reading the placecards, until we reached the podium. Dad's place was next to the podium; mine was next to his. We sat down. I felt breathless. Stoneybrook seemed a million miles away.

  Here is what we did at the dinner that evening: ate and listened to speeches.

  The dinner itself was very fancy. Lots of courses. First came a beautiful . . . well, I'm not sure what you would call two jumbo shrimps on a piece of lettuce. An hors d'oeuvre, maybe? Then came a tiny bowl of consomme.

  Then came a speech. Mrs. Barnes gave a sort of pep talk to the company. _ After that, someone who seemed to be a good friend of my father presented a slide show. It was about Dad and his years with the company. A lot of the pictures made the dinner guests hoot and clap and laugh. I was even in one picture. The photo showed Dad sitting at his desk at work, holding me on his lap. I was, like, five years old, and wearing a truly hideous dress, falling-down socks, and ratty sneakers. But the laughter that followed was friendly, so I didn't mind too much.

  When the slide show was over, the waiters served sherbet. I couldn't eat mine, of course, but I was still curious about it. "Why are they serving dessert?" I asked Dad. "They haven't served dinner yet." Or had they? Maybe those two shrimps were dinner.

  "This is to clear your palate," Dad whispered. "Dinner is next." Whew. While everyone else was eating the sherbet, I excused myself and went to the lobby. I had noticed a bank of pay phones there, and I wanted to call Mom and check on her.

  Mrs. Braddock answered the call and said Mom was fine but that she was sleeping. I returned to the dinner.

  I reached my place just in time to be served a plate of roast beef and vegetables - and to hear another speech.

  Then came the salad course. After dinner? Oh, well. I decided I had been away from New York too long. I was losing my grip on sophistication.

  I ate the salad, called Mom again (she was still fine and still asleep), and this time returned just as coffee was being poured and dessert was being served. Dessert was white chocolate mousse, but guess what the waiter brought me: a goblet of fresh fruit, topped with a strawberry.

  Then came another speech. This one was made by ... my father. He didn't seem at all nervous as he adjusted the microphone, or as he talked about how important the company was to him. He spoke for nearly ten minutes. The very last thing he said was, "I am especially honored that tonight my daughter Stacey could be here to share in this event. Thank you all very much. And thank you, Stacey." Dad started to sit down then, but Mr. Davis stopped him. He joined my father at the podium and said, "Not so fast," which made everyone hoot and laugh again. Mrs. Barnes stood up, too, and together she and Mr. Davis presented Dad with a plaque, thanked him for his years of service, and congratulated him on his new position.

  That was the end of the speeches. Also the food. I checked the time. Ten o'clock! Oh, my lord. I wanted to catch the six-thirty A.M. train. Luckily, people were starting to get up then.

  "Okay, Dad, we better leave, too," I said.

  "Now? Before we have a chance to dance?" The people who had stood up were now moving around the square of bare floor. (So that's what it was for.) "I have to get up at four-thirty tomorrow morning," I informed Dad.

  "You're kidding." I shook my head.

  Reluctantly, Dad left his party.

  Chapter 12.

  I am not at my best early in the morning. I am particularly not at my best at four-thirty in the morning.

  Neither is my father.

  Guess what time we had gone to bed the night before. Midnight. We were running on a measly four and a half hours of sleep'.

  See, Dad couldn't just walk away from his dinner. He (and I) had to say good night to Mr. Davis and Mrs. Barnes and about fifteen other people. Then, as we walked through the ballroom to those double doors, people kept stopping Dad to talk to him. So between that and a ride with New York's slowest cab driver, we didn't turn out the lights in the apartment until 11:54.

  When the alarm rang at four-thirty, I truly could not believe it. "Didn't I just go to bed?" I mumbled into the darkness.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and washed my face in an attempt to wake up, but I hadn't bothered to turn on a light, so the water didn't do me much good.

  "Dad?" I called. I knocked on his door, then returned to my room, sat on my bed, and rubbed my eyes. At last I dared to turn on a light.

  "Oh, spare me," I moaned, squinting into the brightness.

  Finally I dredged up enough energy to take a shower. When I finished, Dad took one. I got dressed (in yesterday's school clothes) and started Mr. Coffee for Dad.

  "Do we have anything for breakfast?" I called from the kitchen.

  "Bagels," Dad replied. "In the bread drawer." Oh, goody. Real New York bagels. I set them on the table along with cream cheese and orange juice.

  Soon my father stumbled out of his room and directly to Mr. Coffee. He poured himself a cup, and then we sat silently at the table.

  Dad blinked, trying to focus his eyes. After a moment he said, "What happened last night, Stacey?" I swallowed a large mouthful of bagel. "Huh?" "All of a sudden you wanted to leave." "I was hoping to get to bed early. I was trying to prevent us from feeling exactly the way we feel now." "I had no idea you would intend to get up at four-thirty in the morning." "I told you I wanted to take an early train." "I know, but I didn't realize that would involve walking out before the dinner was over." "If that bothered you, how come you didn't say so last night?" "I didn't want to spoil the evening. But I swan, Stacey." (He swanned?) "You kept getting up and leaving the room during the ceremony, and then for us to be the very first people to leave, well . . ." "Look," I said, bristling, "at least I came, didn't I? I was trying to do what I thought was best. I was trying to be there for you and Mom." Dad just nodded his head.

  We barely said two words to each other between then and the time Dad escorted me to my train at Grand Central. At ten after six, when we entered the station through the row of swinging doors off of Vanderbilt, Grand Central was a busy place, but a quietly busy place compared to the bustle of commotion which it would become in a couple of hours. A few stores had opened - mostly donut and coffee stands - and the newsstand was in full swing. Short lines of people stood at the ticket windows, waiting drowsily. Along one wall, about twelve men were sleeping. They huddled in cardboard boxes or in piles of rags, clutching their possessions, even while they slept.

  Dad saw me looking at them. "Sometimes now they kick them out of the station at night," he said. "They tell them they have to sleep somewhere else." Those were the first complete sentences Dad had uttered since breakfast. He was trying to make up with me. He and Mom used to have this rule that they couldn't go to bed mad at each other. If they were angry they would have to talk out their problem before they could go to sleep. (I guess this policy hadn't worked too well.) Anyway, I knew that now Dad didn't want me to leave for Stoneybrook while we were angry. I didn't want to do that, either.

  So I said, "They kick out the homeless? But then where do they go?" Dad shrugged. "The streets. Doorways. Subways. But sometimes they get kicked out of the subways, too." "Remember Judy?" I asked.

  "Judy?" "The homeless woman who lived in our old ^neighborhood. Before the divorce." "Oh, Judy. Of course." "I wonder whatever happened to her." "Don't know." "And I wonder what happens to homeless people when they die. They must die right in the streets. Or in a park. Or even here in Grand Central. But you never hear about that. You never hear on the news that someone found a dead person in the train station." "Stacey!" exclaimed Dad.

  "Well, you don't." I paused. "You know, there's an awful lot to worry about." "But that isn't your job," countered my father.

  We were approaching the gate to my train. A ragged man, his feet wrapped in newspapers, was standing at the gate, his hand extended toward us.

  "Wait, Dad," I said. I opened my purse (not a good thing to do in the streets or train stati
ons of NYC, but sometimes you don't have much choice), and found a five-dollar bill. I gave it to the man.

  "Thank you," he whispered. "God bless you." "You're welcome. . . . Um, good luck." "Stacey, that was very nice of you," Dad said gently after we had passed the man, "but you can't take care of everybody, you know." I nodded. "But I can try." I found a seat on the train. Dad waited on the platform until the doors closed. We waved to each other through a window. Then as the train eased down the track, my father turned and walked off.

  I slept all the way home.

  Mrs. Pike met my train in Stoneybrook. "Hi," she said stiffly as I slid into the front seat and closed the door. She pulled out of the parking lot before I had even buckled my seat belt.

  "Is anything wrong?" I asked nervously. Maybe Mrs. Pike resented spending so much time helping Mom and me.

  "There's a slight problem at your house," she admitted.

  I must have turned pale or looked like I was going to faint, because Mrs. Pike added in a rush, "Oh, it isn't your mother! She's just fine. It's a matter of scheduling. You'll see when we get there." I had a feeling I was in Big Trouble.

  Mrs. Pike parked in our driveway, and I dashed into the house ahead of her. I heard voices coming from the kitchen. Was Mom out of bed?

  No. In the kitchen were Mrs. Kishi, Mrs. Arnold, and a woman in a white uniform. They were drinking coffee.

  "Hi," I said uncertainly. "Where's my mother?" "She's upstairs, asleep," answered Mrs. Arnold.

  Mrs. Pike joined us in the kitchen then. "Stacey," she said, "this is Miss Koppelman. She's from a visiting nurse service in Stamford. Your father hired her to stay with your mother last night." "He did? He didn't tell me. At least, I don't think he told me." "And Mrs. Kishi has been here since midnight," Mallory's mother went on. "She thought she was supposed to be here until eight this morning, and Mrs. Arnold arrived at six." "Oh, no. I'm so sorry." Mrs. Kishi smiled. "Don't worry," she said. "It isn't your fault." I never did find out just who had lined up who. Mrs. Pike and I had both been phoning neighbors on Thursday afternoon and evening - without checking with each other. We told people to call us back, or that we'd call them back, and I didn't keep track of anything. My scheduling system had failed.