Kristy + Bart = ? Read online

  “Well, I’m not two people, Kristy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I am a baseball fan. But I am also your boyfriend.”

  “Oh, really? Well, dream on, Bart Man. Starting right now, you are history.”

  “But — but —”

  Click.

  Done.

  I let out a loud whoop. I punched the air in triumph.

  What a relief. I’d said exactly what I wanted to say. I wasn’t going to have to worry about Bart anymore.

  Boy, did I feel rotten.

  Poor Stacey. She had been looking forward to sitting for Matt and Haley Braddock. She couldn’t wait to be a part of Record Wreckers. She thought it would be “so cute.”

  Even when Tuesday turned out to be cool and cloudy, Stacey was determined to take the kids outside. She showed up for her job with a clipboard, a stopwatch, a whistle, and a stack of papers divided into columns marked CATEGORY, RECORD, and RECORD HOLDER. She wore a brand-new designer baseball cap, but brought along a slightly grubby one, just in case it rained. (Team player or not, she’s still Stacey.)

  A moment after she rang the bell, the door flew open. “Staceyyyyyyy!” Haley screamed at the top of her lungs. “Guess what? We have a whole bag of potatoes!”

  “Uh, that’s nice,” Stacey replied.

  Haley is nine. Matt, who’s seven, was jumping up and down, gesturing with his hands and fingers. (Matt was born profoundly deaf, which means he cannot hear at all. We BSC members have learned a bit of American Sign Language, which is what Matt uses to communicate.)

  Stacey waved hi to Matt and tried to figure out what he was saying.

  Mrs. Braddock bustled into the front parlor. “Stacey, I’m glad it’s you and not me,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t mind if these events are messy, but do clean up. And use your judgment. No plate-throwing contests, if you know what I mean. I’m meeting Mr. Braddock in town and we’ll be back around eight …”

  She gave a flurry of instructions and bolted.

  “Let me guess,” Stacey said. “You want to make the world’s largest potato salad?”

  Haley rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? What about, like, big restaurants? They make way bigger salads than we could make.”

  “Good point.”

  “We’re going to throw them!” Haley said.

  “Oh.”

  That came out more like “ew.” Cleaning up smashed potatoes? Stacey’s enthusiasm was already fading.

  Haley was gazing outside at the dark clouds. “Let’s go before it rains.”

  Matt began signing something. Haley interpreted, “He says he hopes it doesn’t rain the day of the show.”

  “Tell him not to worry,” Stacey said. “Mary Anne said we could hold it in her barn.” (Wasn’t I clever to think of asking her? Thank you, thank you.)

  Stacey helped Matt tote the sack outside. They dropped it on the deck, near the back door. (The Braddocks have a small deck with a picnic table, and beyond it a long, narrow yard.)

  Matt disappeared into the garage. He emerged a moment later with a baseball bat and laid it on the ground in front of Stacey.

  “The bat will be the line,” Haley announced.

  She and Matt quickly negotiated something in sign language, and Matt let out a cheer.

  “He gets to throw first,” Haley grumped.

  Well, those must have been some potatoes. Most of them didn’t even break when they hit the ground. Just thudded. By the time Haley and Matt reached the bottom of the sack, the backyard looked as if it was infested with strange little brownish-gray rodents.

  “Hey, cool!” called a voice from the driveway. “Our turn.”

  Stacey turned to see Nicky, Vanessa, Margo, and Claire Pike running toward her. On Nicky’s back was a bulging backpack.

  “Hi!” Stacey greeted them. “Guess what we’re doing.”

  “We know,” Vanessa said. “Haley called us.”

  Haley nodded. “Also the Arnolds. And I mentioned it to Jenny Prezzioso and Jamie Newton, but they’re little, so they probably won’t come.”

  Nicky dropped his backpack on the ground. “Give me one!” he shouted, practically grabbing a potato from Matt.

  “Me first!” Vanessa cried.

  “Nickyyyyyy,” Margo said, pulling a bunch of bananas from the backpack. “You bruised them!”

  Making loud pig snorts, Claire ran into the yard among the potatoes. “I’m hunting truffles!” she yelled.

  She was beaned from behind by a flying spud.

  “Owwwwww!” Claire fell to the ground, whimpering.

  Stacey ran to her. Potatoes rained around them like mutant hailstones.

  “Out of the way!” shouted Nicky.

  “Waaaaahhhhhh!” wailed Claire.

  “Can I take my shoes off?” asked Margo.

  Stacey’s head was spinning. She scooped up Claire and took her out of the line of fire.

  As she stood in the driveway, examining Claire’s head for bumps, she spotted Carolyn and Marilyn Arnold barreling into the backyard. (They, by the way, are eight-year-old identical twins.)

  “Us next!” Carolyn screamed.

  Eight kids. One baby-sitter. A sack of potatoes. An injury.

  And a whole afternoon of record-setting ahead.

  Stacey’s stomach was sinking fast.

  Wild laughter rang out from across the yard. Margo Pike was now sitting against the house, peeling a banana with her bare feet.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Stacey asked.

  Margo shrugged. Claire and the twins were doubled over, howling. Holding the peeled banana between her toes, Margo offered it to Carolyn.

  “Gross!” Carolyn cried.

  “I’ll eat it!” Nicky volunteered.

  But Margo squeezed too hard, and the banana fell into the grass in two pieces.

  More screaming.

  “I’ll do another one,” Margo offered. “I’m going to do three whole bunches. A world record!”

  “Let me try!” Marilyn said.

  Stacey girded her loins. (That was another phrase I read during my weekend of punishment. I’m not sure what it means, but soldiers did it before battle.)

  Still in mid-gird, she spotted Mrs. Prezzioso and Mrs. Newton walking up the driveway. They were carrying their babies in Snuglis, and they were hand-in-hand with their four-year-olds — Jenny P and Jamie N.

  “Stacey,” Mrs. Prezzioso said, “we’re so grateful you agreed to take care of Jenny and Jamie for the afternoon. Mrs. Newton and I have been meaning to coo over our babies with a cappuccino for such a long time.”

  Squealing with delight, Jamie and Jenny ran into the backyard.

  Agreed?

  Stacey was dumbfounded. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled.

  She forced her gaping mouth shut. She managed to smile. She waved to the moms as they left for their coo-and-cappuccino date.

  But inside her head, a major temper tantrum raged.

  “Watch ooooout!” shouted Nicky.

  A skateboard shot by Stacey. On it was a wrapped-up single roll of toilet paper, which tumbled off. Nicky and Matt, the launchers, were giggling in the garage.

  “It’s a race!” Nicky said. “Whoever lets it go the longest without dropping the toilet paper wins the world record!”

  Stacey stepped to the side. She could see Haley coaching Jamie on the fine art of potato throwing. Marilyn was barefoot now, sitting next to Margo and making mush out of a banana.

  Carolyn and Vanessa emerged from the house with two family packs of string cheese. They dumped the packs on the picnic table and began unwrapping the individual cheeses.

  “Wait a second,” Stacey said. “Why don’t you just take enough to eat?”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. “We’re not eating them.”

  Before Stacey could reply, she heard a bloodcurdling scream behind her.

  She spun around. Jenny had collapsed onto the ground in sobs. “I’ll never throw it far enough!” she screamed. />
  Haley shrugged. “I keep telling her she’s doing great.”

  “It’s not as far as Haley!” Jenny wailed.

  Jamie wound up and threw. His potato went sideways, plopped to the ground, and rolled onto the driveway.

  Right in the path of the skateboard race.

  The skateboard hit it. The toilet paper toppled off. Nicky yelled, “Do-over!”

  And Jamie burst into tears to match Jenny’s. “I can’t I can’t I can’t!” he yelled.

  From the garage, Nicky called out, “We’ll show you how!”

  He and Matt raced over, scooping up potatoes on the way.

  “No!” Haley said. “You’re not allowed!”

  “Why not?” Nicky asked.

  “Because you’ve had your chance,” Haley replied. “Give the younger kids a turn.”

  “You can’t stop us!” Nicky said.

  Matt threw a potato clear into the next yard.

  “Yes, I can, and I say that doesn’t count,” Haley retorted. “I invented the potato throw.”

  “Waaaah!” cried Jenny and Jamie. Stacey lifted them both.

  “Fourteen!” Margo chimed in. “Haley, do you have any more bananas inside?”

  Stacey glanced over and saw Margo and Marilyn surrounded by peels and naked bananas.

  On the picnic table, Carolyn and Vanessa were each tying together strings of cheese, racing against each other to make the world’s longest cheese rope.

  Stacey’s head was spinning. The yard was going to be a trash bin by the time the Braddocks came home. “I know!” she said to Jenny and Jamie. “The Most Banana Peels Tossed into a Garbage Can.”

  “Okay,” Jamie said with a pout.

  Stacey quickly lowered the two four-year-olds to the ground. Then she fetched a can from the garage.

  Jenny and Jamie gleefully picked up peels and started throwing. Jenny managed two and Jamie three. Then Margo and Claire joined. And Marilyn. And Nicky.

  Jenny and Jamie gave up and skulked away. Stacey chased after them. Matt ran inside to get more bananas. A neighbor peeked over the fence, holding a potato, and asked, “Is this yours?”

  Margo shouted, “That was my throw!”

  “Liar!” Nicky yelled.

  “Stacey! Carolyn took one of my string cheeses!” Vanessa said.

  Stacey kind of short-circuited right then. She doesn’t remember much about the rest of the day.

  Except that she went right to sleep after dinner. And vowed never to baby-sit again. Ever.

  Don’t worry. It lasted about three days. She should have added one more record to her request in the BSC notebook.

  World’s Shortest Baby-sitting Retirement.

  Rrrrinng!

  The phone woke me Saturday morning. Yawning, I rolled around and reached for the receiver.

  I quickly stopped myself. I had almost forgotten. Answering the phone was strictly off-limits.

  Any call could be Bart. I would not allow him the satisfaction of reaching me so easily.

  All week I had instructed everyone in my family: If Bart called, tell him I wasn’t home.

  No one ever had to.

  It was now five days after the breakup, and Bart had not called.

  Not once. Not even one suspicious hang-up had occurred (I asked every day).

  “Kristyyyyyy!” David Michael shouted from downstairs. “It’s your boyfriend!”

  My heart stopped. I felt as if a large prehistoric reptile had sat on my chest.

  I ran to the door, flung it open, and whispered down the stairs, “Tell him I’m not home!”

  “He knows you are,” David Michael replied. “He says he loves you and wants to take you out and kiss you and buy you flowers.”

  “Whaaaaat?”

  Oh, this was low. I mean, apologizing is one thing. But giving me the silent treatment for a whole week, then calling out of the blue and saying all those private things to my seven-year-old brother?

  Despicable.

  I ran back into my room. I could hear David Michael scampering upstairs.

  Before picking up the phone, I stopped. I pictured Bart on the other end. Looking all scrunch-eyed at his phone. Missing me. Feeling sorry. Wanting to take me out and buy me flowers. Wanting it so badly that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to David Michael.

  Typical Bart, I thought. Exactly the way he was at the movie theater. And at my house Friday night. Wanting so much to go from sort-of-boyfriend to Boyfriend-with-a-capital-B, but not knowing how to ask.

  Or even realizing he should ask.

  Maybe he wanted to ask now.

  I sighed. It could be worse. He could be calling up to yell at me. Hang up on me the way I’d hung up on him.

  I would listen. Let him speak. At least hear him out.

  I grabbed the receiver. “Okay, talk fast.”

  “Excuse me? Hello?”

  It was a totally unfamiliar, female voice.

  “That’s just my little sister,” Charlie’s voice cut in. “Hang up, dorkface.”

  “Oh! Uh, okay,” I mumbled. “Sorry.”

  David Michael had lied. Sarah had called, to talk to Charlie.

  “Hooooo ha ha ha ha!” David Michael was whooping with laughter outside my room.

  “You creep!” I flew out the door and chased him downstairs. But he had had a big head start. And it’s practically impossible to catch someone in a house our size.

  “You’re not worth it!” I shouted.

  I stormed back upstairs, mumbling under my breath.

  To be honest, I wasn’t really thinking about David Michael. I was thinking about Bart.

  I couldn’t help it. My feelings were like a big bowl of spaghetti with clam sauce, all twisted and mixed up with stuff I couldn’t digest.

  Nothing made sense. Bart was a jerk. I broke up with him. I should have felt great. I should have been able to forget about him. Period.

  So why was I mad at him for not calling?

  And why had I been so excited when I thought he had called?

  Why was I so ready to forgive him for being a jerk?

  I had to talk to someone. Someone who would know what to do. Someone who had a real boyfriend. Like Stacey or Mary Anne.

  Right. Duh. I could just picture the look on their faces. That Kristy-can’t-understand-anything-that’s-not-sports look.

  Then I thought of Jessi and Mal. They’d both had sort-of boyfriends. True, they’re both eleven, but so what? At least they wouldn’t laugh at me.

  I tapped Jessi’s number on the phone. Her dad answered, then went to find her.

  “Hi, Kristy, what’s up?” Jessi asked.

  “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Jessi replied.

  I told her everything that had happened. Everything I was feeling.

  She listened patiently, then let out a deep sigh. “Wow. You sound so upset. But I’m not sure I know what to do, Kristy.”

  “Well, you liked Quint and Curtis, right? And even, you know, kissed and stuff?”

  Ugh. I could barely listen to myself sound so dumb.

  “Oh, it’s so nice that you thought of me,” Jessi replied. “But, you know, Quint was long distance, and we sort of drifted apart. And Curtis and I aren’t that serious or anything. Why don’t you ask Mary Anne? She’s your best friend.”

  “She’s had a boyfriend for a million years,” I said. “I feel so stupid asking her.”

  “Asking Mary Anne? No way!” Jessi reassured me. “She’d be upset if she found out about this and knew you didn’t talk to her.”

  “Yeah … I guess you’re right.”

  I said good-bye and put my finger on the receiver hook. Thomas, do not be a chicken, I told myself. If you can’t count on Mary Anne, you can’t count on anyone. Then I took ten deep breaths and tapped out the Spiers’ number.

  “Hello?” her dad’s voice said.

  “Oh, hi, it’s Kristy. I guess Mary Anne’s not there. Nothing i
mportant. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  “Uh, Kristy? She is here. Hang on.”

  Gulp.

  I did some of my own loin-girding. I was going to present the problem. Coolly. Maturely. In detail, so Mary Anne would know how to help.

  “Hello?” Mary Anne said.

  “Hi, Mary Anne …”

  I couldn’t believe it. Tears were sliding down my cheeks. My nose was starting to run. I had to snuffle like a pig.

  “Kristy, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, Mary Anne, I — I hate Bart but I want him to call me and he wants to be my boyfriend and I guess I want that too because I think he really likes me but I’m not sure because he does the wrong things and sometimes makes me feel weird and I’m not sure I’m ready for what he wants me to be and I feel like such a total stupid nerd!”

  “Whoa, whoa, Kristy,” Mary Anne said. “Say it again, slowly, as if I’m just learning English.”

  I could picture the smile on her face and it was warm and understanding, not mocking. I started again. I told her exactly how I felt, slowly.

  When I finished, I could hear Mary Anne sigh. “That’s a tough one. You and Bart had such a great friendship. Can you just go back to the way it was?”

  “But he wants it to be more, Mary Anne,” I said. “And I don’t know, maybe it should be more. I mean, we’re not little kids. Do you think I’m being babyish?”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re ready for Bart to be your boyfriend,” Mary Anne said.

  “But I’m thirteen!”

  Mary Anne was silent for a moment. “Kristy, how old were you when you learned how to walk?”

  “Nine months,” I replied. “Or nine-and-a-half. I forget.”

  “I was fifteen months old,” Mary Anne said. “My dad said you used to bop Claudia and me with a doll because we could only crawl.”

  I laughed. “I probably stunted your growth.”

  “Don’t you see, Kristy? Claudia and I weren’t ready to walk when you were. But eventually we learned, and now who cares? I never chose my own clothes until seventh grade, and Stacey probably fussed over the style of her diapers. People don’t do everything at the same rate.”

  “Yeah, but how do you know when to start?” I asked. “Maybe you have to just jump in. Like a sport. You can’t hit a baseball unless you pick up a bat and try.”