Dawn and Too Many Sitters Page 6

  We were sold out by lunchtime.

  Richard and Mom were so impressed they donated some of their own treasures. So we spent Sunday hawking leisure suits, polyester bell-bottomed pants, used Birkenstock sandals, twenty or so years worth of National Geographics, and some ancient appliances. (I drew the line at a set of cancer-causing pipes.)

  Some of the stuff was so hideous I considered wearing a disguise to sell it. But you would not believe how much we unloaded.

  Sigh. It just goes to show, you can never account for taste.

  * * *

  The BSC Fund-Raising Machinery was in high gear that weekend, all around town. Abby, Stacey, and Claudia had organized a car wash. Logan worked two busboy shifts at the Rosebud Café and mowed lawns.

  Those ideas worked really well. So, during the week, we expanded. Lawn care became a new BSC sideline. We offered it to all our customers. We even put up flyers. By Friday we were huffing and puffing across lawns all over town.

  Well, I was huffing and puffing. I used Richard’s old manual lawnmower. It wasn’t so difficult once he greased it up a bit. And I kept a lot of fossil fuel by-products from ruining our atmosphere. (Snicker at me if you must. But it’s true.)

  Our new, expanded car wash opened the next Saturday in Kristy’s driveway, and it was a smash. Cars lined up all through the afternoon.

  Slowly but surely, with our schemes and sitting jobs, we were making it.

  Despite the BITs.

  How were they doing? Well, let’s put it this way. We learned a lot about their personalities on our jobs.

  For instance, Jordan was delighted to change Lucy Newton’s diapers. Two points for him. Unfortunately he took even greater delight in turning Jamie Newton’s preschool artwork into paper planes and hand grenades. (I think Jamie is still crying.)

  As for Adam, well, he couldn’t stand the sound of crying babies. His way of quieting them was to yell “STO-O-O-OP!” (Not very effective.)

  Byron found he had a taste for baby formula. He ended up drinking most of the Salem twins’ bottles himself.

  Jeff discovered a good way to overcome his fear of diapers. He wore rubber gloves to his next job.

  They meant well, I guess.

  Weekend Two of the fund-raising blitz was hot and muggy. On Saturday I developed blisters from pushing Richard’s lawn mower. That night Mary Anne and I had a sitting job for the Barrett/DeWitts (seven kids). On Sunday my blisters broke open during our car wash, and I spent the day in agony.

  By Sunday night I was a wreck. As I crashed into bed, all I could think about was how my visit had changed. I had come to Stoneybrook for rest and relaxation.

  Instead, I felt as if I were in boot camp.

  And what was worse, I couldn’t even be sure I was going on the trip. Every time I dozed off with visions of Waikiki Beach, the words Waiting List flashed across my brain.

  I creaked out of bed on Monday morning, my muscles achy, my blisters an attractive shade of red. Outside my window, Jeff was playing the world’s loudest game of catch with the triplets.

  During breakfast, Richard gave us checks for our deposits. We had until noon to bring them to school. That was when Mr. Kingbridge would stop taking money and count up reservations.

  That was also when we’d find out about the waiting list.

  Mary Anne and I had agreed to meet the others at SMS at 11:45. We wanted to be there for the moment of truth.

  I don’t remember much about the morning except that my nerves were jangling so much I could barely eat.

  We left the house at eleven-thirty, our checks stuffed in our pockets. As usual, we picked up Stacey, Claudia, and Logan on the way.

  Abby was already at school, hitting a tennis ball against a wall near the open gym door.

  “Hey, guys,” she said.

  “How does it look?” Stacey asked.

  “Not great,” Abby replied. “Fifty-four people signed up.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Fifty-four?”

  Abby nodded. “Mr. Kingbridge put the last four names on a priority waiting list, since they’re SMS kids. If fewer than fifty bring in their deposits, he’ll use that list first, and then go to the non-SMS list.”

  Ugh.

  “Well, I guess this is ‘Aloha,’ huh?” I murmured.

  We trudged inside. Mr. Kingbridge took my friends’ checks. A group of students was hanging out with him, chattering away. I watched the minute hand on the clock.

  At exactly twelve noon, three kids rushed in with their money. (Grrr.) Mr. Kingbridge then went to the door, looked around for stragglers, and announced, “The sign-up time is over. How many do we have from the priority waiting list, with checks ready?”

  Three kids raised their hands.

  “How many from the regular, non-SMS waiting list?”

  I raised my hand. So did five more kids. Mary Anne grabbed my other hand and squeezed.

  With a pencil, Mr. Kingbridge ran down a list, counting to himself. “Let’s see, looks like we have … forty-four, forty-five, forty-six.”

  He stopped.

  So did my heart.

  “So,” Mr. Kingbridge went on, “I can take all three of you priority-list people, and, uh … now, who’s the first person on the other list?”

  “Me!” I squeaked. “Dawn!”

  “You’re our lucky number fifty,” Mr. Kingbridge said. “Congrats.”

  I made it!

  “Yaaaay!” Mary Anne shouted.

  “Scha-fer! Scha-fer! Scha-fer!” Abby chanted.

  I handed Mr. Kingbridge my folded-up check. Then I exhaled for the first time all day.

  What a feeling.

  “Congratulations, everyone,” he said. “Now, remember, these deposits are nonrefundable. The other half is due on July twelfth. See you then.”

  My friends and I floated out of the school, singing, dancing, screaming.

  Me? I felt perfect.

  Almost. One word was sticking in my head.

  “Stacey?” I said as we crossed the street away from school. “You know when Mr. Kingbridge said nonrefundable? What happens if we don’t raise the rest of the money?”

  Stacey shrugged. “Our parents lose the deposit.”

  Our victory march grew silent. I could see the calculators whirring in everyone’s heads.

  “But that’s okay,” Stacey quickly added. “We’ll make it. Right?”

  “Sure,” said Abby.

  “Uh-huh,” added Mary Anne.

  I nodded weakly. But even I, Dawn, the Cockeyed Optimist, knew the truth.

  We were nowhere near our goal.

  And we were in big trouble.

  I thought Mallory was being very kind to her little brother.

  Byron’s “moments” almost didn’t even happen.

  While we Hawaii travelers were celebrating at SMS, Mal was sitting for her four youngest siblings, Vanessa (who’s nine), Nicky (eight), Margo (seven), and Claire (five). Usually the Pike kids require two sitters, but this was a special occasion. Byron the Sittee had agreed to become Byron the Sitter for a day.

  At least that had been the plan.

  As Mallory turned up her front pathway, she heard Adam’s voice call out, “She’s here!”

  The triplets rushed out the door, dressed in their Little League uniforms.

  “Where are you going?” Mal asked.

  “To the game,” Adam said.

  “ ’Bye,” chimed in Byron and Jordan.

  Mal glared at Byron. “Are you forgetting something?”

  “I’m on the team,” Byron replied.

  “You’re supposed to be a BIT today,” Mal reminded him.

  “But this is an important game,” Byron insisted. “If we win, we go to the playoffs.”

  “You didn’t know about this yesterday, when you agreed to baby-sit?”

  Byron shrugged. “I didn’t look, I guess.”

  “You did, too!” Adam said. “We talked about it —”

  “Adaaaam!” Byron grow
led. He cast a guilty glance at Mallory. “Well, I only realized it yesterday. But I didn’t mention it, because I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Oh,” Mal said. “And I’d be happier if you just didn’t show up?”

  Adam and Jordan were already halfway to the sidewalk. “Are you coming or not?” Adam called out.

  “Yes!” Byron answered.

  “No!” Mallory snapped. “Come on, Byron, an agreement is an agreement. Adam and Jordan haven’t finked out on any BIT jobs.”

  “That’s right,” Adam agreed.

  Byron glowered at him. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “The Rockets! Woooo! Woooo! Woooo!” Adam cheered. “And we’re going all the way!”

  “Don’t make me stay,” Byron pleaded. “I’ll get in trouble if I miss the game.”

  “You’re in trouble now,” Mallory countered.

  Byron’s eyes were moistening. “Mallory, this isn’t fair.”

  Half of Mallory wanted to strangle him. The other half wanted to wipe his tears. (I know the feeling. It’s the Little Brother Trap.) “Look, Byron,” she said softly. “I can’t force you to stay home from the game. But what you did to me was unfair. I was counting on you to help. So were Nicky and your sisters.”

  A smile flickered across Byron’s face. “You know what Claire did when I told her I was sitting? She jumped up and down, like I was suddenly a different person or something.”

  “Yeah, Byron the Sitter instead of Byron the Brother,” Mal said.

  “Kids are funny,” Byron said wisely.

  “Well, I’ll explain to them why you finked out. But you know, Byron, this can’t happen again. If you really want to be a baby-sitter, you have to plan. Either keep your commitments or make other arrangements.”

  “Yeah,” Byron mumbled.

  As Mallory went inside, Adam and Jordan raced down the street. Byron walked slowly after them.

  “Mallory, Pallory, from Wallory!” shouted Claire. “Welcome to my salad house.”

  On the living room table, Claire had set up a small head of iceberg lettuce, three carrots, a turnip, and a green pepper. Crude faces had been carved into all of them. Wet shavings and shreds lay all over the table and carpet.

  Mallory immediately began cleaning up. “Claire, this is a kitchen game, not a living room game.”

  “They were born in the kitchen,” Claire patiently explained. “Now they live here, because it’s the living room.”

  “Did you do this with a knife?” Mal asked.

  “A little. Byron and Vanessa helped.”

  “Vanessaaaaaaa!” Mallory yelled.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. Down the stairs came Vanessa, followed by Margo.

  “Uh-oh,” Vanessa murmured.

  “Why did you guys leave her alone with this?” Mallory asked.

  “Byron was supposed to look after her,” Margo said.

  “Uh-huh.” Mallory nodded curtly. (At that point, she was definitely having a few hackle problems herself.) “Help me clean this stuff up.”

  Together the girls brought the food, the knife, and the debris into the kitchen. Claire reluctantly moved her family to the kitchen table.

  “Yeeeeeooowwww!”

  That was Nicky, from the basement.

  “Are you okay?” Mallory called, running downstairs.

  He was jumping up and down next to Mr. Pike’s workbench, holding his left index finger. “I banged myself!”

  “What were you doing?” Mallory asked.

  Nicky looked at her as if she were totally stupid. “Hammering nails.”

  Mallory spotted a plank of wood with about twenty bent nails in it. “You’re not supposed to be down here unsupervised.”

  “So, supervise me,” Nicky said.

  Mallory took his swollen finger and gave it a close look. “Let’s put that under some cold water.”

  She turned the cold tap on the basement sink and held Nicky’s finger under it. After awhile, hysterical laughter started filtering down from the kitchen.

  “I hate to say this, Nicky,” she said, “but I’m sitting alone today, and I need you to be upstairs.”

  Grumbling, with a dripping wet finger, Nicky followed her up to the kitchen.

  Mallory had to stop in the doorway. She thought she was seeing things.

  Vanessa, Margo, and Claire were gathered around the table. On it, two carrots with faces were propped against each other in a kiss. Watching them with a stupid expression was a cantaloupe wearing a baseball cap.

  Byron’s baseball cap.

  “Yo, carrots!” Byron was saying. “No spitting in each other’s mouths.”

  Claire collapsed into giggles. Vanessa and Margo reached out to reposition the lettuce and tomatoes.

  “What are you doing here?” Mallory asked.

  Byron turned to her with a shrug and a sheepish smile.

  “No big deal,” he said. “I’m pitching on Saturday.”

  “Um … I know they’re here somewhere …” Claudia muttered as she reached behind her bed.

  Her clock clicked to 5:30.

  “I call this meeting to order!” Kristy announced.

  Claudia rose from her bed, empty-handed. “I know. They must be behind my shoes.”

  “Dues!” Stacey called out.

  As Stacey passed around the envelope, Claudia disappeared into the closet. “Maybe they fell on the floor.”

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “My bag of Milk Duds,” she called over her shoulder.

  “You gave that to the BITs the last time they were here,” Jessi said.

  “Oh. Well, I do have some Nestle’s Crunch bars somewhere,” Claudia muttered.

  “You gave them away, too,” Mallory reminded her, “to Adam, on Wednesday.”

  “And the Mallomars and Milky Ways and Heath bars,” Mary Anne added.

  “Ring-Dings and Twinkies, too,” Jessi said.

  “Ta-da!” Claudia turned triumphantly and held up a plastic pretzel bag that was covered with dust bunnies.

  Abby’s lip curled in disgust. “When did you stash those away, second grade or third?”

  “Pretzels don’t become stale,” Claudia insisted.

  She dusted off the bag and passed it around.

  I took a pretzel and bit down on it. I almost lost a tooth.

  “Gross!” Stacey cried out. “These are like salted rocks.”

  “Call the evening news,” Abby remarked. “Claudia Kishi out of junk food! They won’t believe it.”

  “No wonder the BITs aren’t here today,” I said. “No more free snacks.”

  “Sorry,” Claudia said. “I’ll buy more.”

  “Why should you?” Kristy asked. “They should. They’re the ones who ate it all.”

  “They are such pigs,” Jessi said.

  Abby nodded. “Last night Adam cleaned out the cookie cupboard at the Craines’ house.”

  “Jeff drank all of the Gianellis’ apple juice,” Stacey added.

  “Nina Marshall kept telling Byron to spit out all the M&M’S he’d taken from the candy bowl,” Kristy said.

  Claudia sighed. “And we’re paying them.”

  “No offense, Dawn and Mallory,” Stacey said, “I love your brothers. Really. But they aren’t exactly making things easy for us.”

  “Well, they try,” Mary Anne spoke up. “Sometimes.”

  Mallory nodded in agreement. “Byron was very sweet this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, after you read him the riot act,” Abby countered.

  “Jeff wasn’t too bad last time,” Jessi said. “I just wish he would stop holding his nose every time the baby needs a change.”

  “No one said this would be easy,” I said. “We’re training a new generation of sitters.”

  Abby shrugged. “If we have any clients left after their kids have been BIT-ized.”

  “I think maybe the BITs are just too young,” Jessi suggested.

  “They’re definitely too expensive,”
Claudia muttered.

  “Adam told me he wanted a raise,” Abby said. “He spends every penny on baseball cards and gum.”

  “At that age,” Kristy declared, “kids just don’t know enough about responsibility and thrifty … ness — er, thriftity — thriftitious —”

  “Thrift?” Abby offered.

  “That, too.” Kristy looked toward the door. “Not to mention punctuosity. Where are they, anyway?”

  “The baseball coach took them out for pizza,” Mallory informed us.

  Kristy sighed. “Nice of them to give us notice.”

  “They’re not regular BSC members,” Mallory said. “Do they have to?”

  “If they want to be regular members,” Kristy countered, “they should start acting like it.”

  “What are you saying, Kristy?” Claudia asked. “We should fire them?”

  “You tell me,” Kristy replied. “You’re the ones who have to save money.”

  “I call a vote,” I said. “Who wants —”

  “You make a motion,” Kristy corrected me. “This isn’t the We Love Kids Club.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Hrrrrmph. I make a motion we keep the BIT program going for a while longer. All in favor?”

  Mallory and I raised our hands, followed by Mary Anne and Abby. Then Jessi, Claudia, and Stacey.

  Finally Kristy sighed and raised hers, too. “Hey, it’s your trip.”

  Rrrrrring!

  We didn’t have a chance to talk any more about it. For the rest of the meeting, the phone rang nonstop. With each call, our mood lifted.

  By 5:55, we had booked at least five jobs. Five more contributions to the Hawaii fund.

  “BITs or no BITs,” Claudia said, “I think we’re going to make it.”

  “Without junk food, either,” Abby added. “It’s the new BSC, leaner and meaner!”

  Stacey was busily scribbling on her notepad. “Well, we’re on track. With a few weeks left to go, we’ve cleared over a hundred dollars each.”

  “That’s all?” Claudia groaned.

  “That’s just the money we all share,” Stacey explained. “You have to add in the money you’ve raised on your own.”

  “Mm-hm.” Claudia began doing a little math of her own. “Let’s see … if I keep working nonstop, all day, seven days a week, and sell my CD player and art supplies, and then maybe place a painting in a New York art gallery, I may make it.”