Mary Anne Misses Logan Read online

  (Okay, I’ve just realized that I said I have three hands — on one hand, on the other hand, on the other hand. That may be an indication of how confused I felt.)

  I looked at the clock in my bedroom. Almost four. In a little over an hour I would need to get ready for the day’s meeting of the Babysitters Club. I hoped I would be able to pay attention at the meeting. Kristy hates when we don’t pay attention. But my mind was on Logan. And Author Day.

  In my head I was replaying, for about the zillionth time, the announcement Mr. Kingbridge had made earlier that day — when the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” I called, before remembering I was the only one home.

  I ran into Dad and Sharon’s room and picked up the extension. “Hello?”

  “Hello … Mary Anne?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Logan.”

  Was it possible that I’d forgotten the sound of his voice over the telephone? Or had I simply given up hoping to hear it again?

  “Logan!” I said. “Um, hello.”

  “Hi. I was wondering. I mean … Look, I don’t really know how to ask you this, but … All right. The thing is I think we need to work together.”

  “To get ready for Author Day?”

  “Yeah.”

  Well. I couldn’t believe this. Logan had frittered away his time with Cokie and now he was coming to me for help? (And I, who had just been feeling sorry for Logan, was now offended by his behavior, which seemed quite irresponsible? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing.)

  “Logan. I am not going to do your part of the project for you.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s written. But —”

  “You mean you did the reading and the research?”

  “Sure. The project’s due in two days. I better have done the work.”

  “Oh.”

  “What aren’t you saying, Mary Anne?” Logan asked. (That’s how well we know each other.)

  I had to tell Logan the truth. “I wasn’t saying that — that I thought you hadn’t done the project because you’ve been so busy with Cokie,” I admitted.

  I could hear Logan sigh. Then he said, “Well, I have been busy with Cokie, but I still got my work done. Just barely.” He paused. “She didn’t, though.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Logan kept quiet. Finally I continued speaking. “If you’ve finished your section, then what do you need help with?”

  “Don’t you think I should know what you and Pete have been doing?”

  “You know what we worked on.”

  “Yes, but shouldn’t we rehearse together or plan together or something? You and Pete have been working by yourselves —”

  “Because you and Cokie have been busy attending every movie ever made, and every single game at school.”

  “Mary Anne, let’s not fight. We’re supposed to be working as a group — and before you say anything, I know Cokie hasn’t done her fair share, but let’s forget about that, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I want us to look good on Author Day. I especially want us to look good in front of Megan Rinehart. So can’t we please get together?”

  “You and Pete and I?”

  “Or even just you and I. All I need is to see what’s been written up so far. I have to make sure I’m on the right track.”

  Logan was asking for … well, not for help, exactly. But just to work with me. To coordinate with me. Of course I said yes.

  “Great,” replied Logan. “Thanks. When can I come over?”

  “Let’s see. I have a BSC meeting in a little while. But I don’t have much homework tonight. You could come over after dinner. And after school tomorrow, if you want to.”

  “Terrific. Can I come at about seven tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  “See you.”

  I replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.

  Then I stood up and realized I was shaking.

  In just a few short hours Logan and I would be together again. Alone.

  * * *

  “You mean you and Pete wrote up my section for me?” Logan was asking.

  I nodded, my face reddening. “Cokie’s, too,” I added.

  Logan and I had been together for barely five minutes. Were we going to fight again? I hoped not.

  I knew I owed Logan an explanation, but I didn’t want my entire family to hear it. So before I began to speak, I closed off the dining room, where we had spread out our books and papers.

  “Pete and I felt we had to write up your sections,” I told Logan quietly. “You guys didn’t seem to be doing any work. And Cokie implied that she wasn’t going to do any work. We didn’t want to hand in an incomplete project, so we finished it ourselves, just to be on the safe side:”

  Logan lowered his eyes. “I guess I wasn’t very responsible,” he said. “I sort of let myself get swept away by Cokie —”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it sounds funny, but I missed having you around.”

  “You missed having me around, or you missed having a girlfriend around?”

  “You! I missed you!” said Logan, exasperated. “But I didn’t know what to do about it. And then there was Cokie. Obviously, she liked me. And she always wanted to go out and do things.”

  “Unlike me,” I couldn’t help adding.

  “Unlike you,” Logan agreed, to my surprise. “But we overdid it. We were always busy with something. My grades began to slip. And I just barely finished my section of the project. I was going to give it to you or Pete tomorrow. Then Mr. Kingbridge told us about Author Day. I had to break a date with Cokie to meet with you.” Logan said something else then. I couldn’t quite hear him. It sounded like, “Not that it matters,” but I wasn’t sure. “Anyway, I understand why you and Pete thought I hadn’t done the work,” Logan went on. “I never had the time to talk to you about it. Or maybe I never took the time. I don’t know.”

  Logan looked so sad that I softened. “Oh, well. I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’ll work together now. And we’ll get rid of the section of the project that Pete and I wrote for you and replace it with the section you wrote yourself. Look. Here are the other sections that Pete and I did. Why don’t you read them so you know what we’ve done, and I’ll read yours?”

  Logan relaxed. His shoulders had been hunched up around his ears. Now he lowered them. He let out a breath. “Okay. Thanks, Mary Anne.” He slid a sheaf of papers across the table to me as I slid another sheaf to him. In the middle of the table, his fingers brushed mine lightly.

  I had forgotten how soft his touch could be. No. That’s not true. I had missed it so badly that I had let myself forget it. I wondered when Logan’s hand would rest on mine again.

  * * *

  Logan and I worked until almost ten o’clock that night. He was right. We did need to coordinate what we were going to say. For one thing, he had found out some things about Megan Rinehart that contradicted things Pete and I had discovered. So we called Pete, discussed our sources, and tried to get our facts straight. For another thing, Pete and I, working together, had organized our sections in the same way. Logan couldn’t have known that. So in order for his section to fit in better with ours, he had to rearrange the way in which he was going to present his material. That took nearly three hours. By that time, it was Thursday afternoon. Pete and Logan and I had spent our lunch period together, and now Logan was at my house again. We were getting tired. But each time one of us would yawn, the other would say, “Just remember. We are going to meet Megan Rinehart tomorrow. It’s worth all this work.”

  When Logan left my house, just before dinner, we thought we were prepared. We even thought our project was good. Maybe very good.

  “I just hope Megan Rinehart likes it,” I said.

  “Quit worrying,” was Logan’s reply.

  We laughed. He always used to tell me to quit worrying about one thing or another.

  As he was leaving I
called after him, “Keep your fingers crossed for tomorrow.”

  Logan held up crossed fingers. Then he climbed on his bicycle and rode off.

  I turned around, closed the door, and leaned against it. Phew. Logan was going to be okay when we gave our presentation.

  But what about Cokie? Did she know what Logan was doing? Did she know she’d be the only unprepared group member on Author Day? Did she care? Did she assume that Logan would cover up for her? Would he cover up for her? I had no answers to my questions. But I guessed I would by this time the next day. The next day …

  My heart beat wildly in my chest. The next day I would get to meet Megan Rinehart. I would also have to stand up in front of a million people and …

  It was too scary to think about.

  While I was agonizing over the specter of Author Day, Kristy was agonizing over the specter of the Toilet Monster. Well, actually Bill and Melody were doing the agonizing. Kristy was trying to calm them down.

  Mr. and Mrs. Korman left their house shortly after six-thirty on Thursday evening. Melody, Bill, and Skylar were finishing their supper. (Even though Kristy hadn’t cooked it, the supper was hot dogs.)

  Melody ate her last bite of hot dog with a flourish. “Yummy in my tummy,” she said, wiping up a blob of ketchup with her finger.

  “Towabumpa!” cried Skylar for no particular reason, except maybe that she was happy. She grinned at Kristy. (Skylar has, like, eight teeth.)

  “Well, tonight’s the night,” said Bill ominously.

  “What happens tonight?” Kristy wanted to know.

  “Tonight … The Toilet Monster … will … appear,” replied Bill in an eerie voice. He glanced at Melody.

  “Oh! I forgot!” she exclaimed.

  “We better go on a major monster hunt,” added Bill.

  “You guys, you do know that there isn’t really a Toilet Monster, don’t you?” Kristy asked the older Korman kids.

  “If there’s no monster, then what growls?” Melody wanted to know.

  “I … I’m not sure. Maybe there’s a problem with your toilet tank.”

  “There’s a big problem with it,” agreed Bill. “The Toilet Monster lives there.”

  Skylar began banging on the tray of her high chair, a sign that she’d grown bored with eating. Kristy lifted her up, sat her by the sink (supporting her, of course), and began to wipe her off. Cleaning Skylar after a meal is sometimes quite a job since she usually eats with her hands — and then puts her hands on her face, or pats her head, or retrieves something from her lap. Presto! Food on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared onto her clothing. That’s all part of being eighteen months old, I suppose.

  Kristy concentrated so hard on cleaning Skylar that she didn’t notice when Bill and Melody left the room. She set Skylar on the floor, turned around, and saw that the rest of the kitchen was empty.

  “I wonder where your brother and sister went,” said Kristy.

  “Towabumpa,” replied Skylar.

  “Well, let’s go see.”

  Kristy led Skylar into the front hall, then carried her to the second floor which, she noticed, seemed a little too quiet.

  “Melody? Bill?” called Kristy. “Time to put on your pajamas.”

  “Do we have to?” came a plaintive cry from Melody’s room.

  “Eventually, yes.”

  Kristy stood in the doorway to see what Melody was doing. The room looked empty. “Melody? Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind my chair.”

  Kristy stepped into the room and peered behind the armchair. Melody was crouched on the floor, hugging her knees.

  “What are you doing back there?” asked Kristy.

  “Hiding from the Toilet Monster.”

  Kristy sighed. “And where’s Bill? Do you know?”

  “He’s hiding, too. I think he’s in his closet.”

  “Listen,” began Kristy. “I’m going to put Skylar to bed. When I’m finished, I want you and Bill to come out of hiding. I want to talk to you.”

  And that is just what Kristy did. She changed Skylar’s diaper, slipped a fresh pair of pajamas on her, and sang her to sleep. (Skylar happens to be very fond of the song “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”)

  Then Kristy gathered Bill and Melody in the playroom. This was not easy, since in order to get there, they had to pass the bathroom.

  Melody ran by it with her fingers crossed, shouting, “Keep away, Mr. Toilet Monster!” Then she added to Kristy, “It’s a good idea to be polite to the Toilet Monster. That’s why I called him ‘mister.’ ”

  Bill ran by the bathroom, his arms flung up protecting his head, shouting, “Toilet Monster, be gone with you!”

  At last Kristy and the kids were settled (oh, all right, huddled) on the couch in the playroom. “Now,” began Kristy, “I want to tell you something.”

  “We already know,” said Bill, and he parroted, “There’s no such thing as the Toilet Monster…. Right? Is that what you were going to say?”

  “No. I was going to say that lots of people have fears. Especially about going to bed. I have a cousin who gets into bed, but then she’s afraid to go to sleep.”

  “Why?” asked Bill.

  “Because she thinks something is under her bed.”

  “Ooh,” said Melody in a trembly voice. “What?”

  “A red mitten that snores.”

  Melody and Bill burst into laughter. “A snoring mitten!” hooted Bill.

  “Isn’t that silly?” said Kristy. “And I have a friend who used to have to leap way into and out of bed. She wouldn’t let her feet get anywhere near the floor under the bed. She was afraid that if she did, they would get nipped by …”

  “What?” asked Melody, wide-eyed but still smiling.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fox.”

  “Foxes?!” shrieked Bill.

  “Shhh. Yes. They lived under the bed. They were married, I think. And the purpose — the whole purpose — of their lives was to bite people’s feet. Of course, nobody ever saw them, and nobody’s feet ever got nipped. You know why?”

  “Because the foxes were imaginary,” replied Bill.

  “Yeah, pretend,” agreed Melody.

  “Exactly,” said Kristy. “And guess what my mom used to be afraid of at bedtime.”

  “What?” wondered Bill and Melody.

  “The Fur Thing.” (The children’s eyes were great, big question marks.) “My mom wasn’t even sure what it was; just a thing that was furry.”

  “How old was your mom?” asked Bill suspiciously.

  “When she believed in the Fur Thing? Oh, thirty-five or so,” Kristy answered. The kids stared at her. “I’m joking!” exclaimed Kristy. “I think she was seven.”

  “My age,” said Melody. “What did she think the Fur Thing would do?”

  “Run out from under the bed and scream at her.”

  Melody and Bill couldn’t help themselves. They began to laugh again and laughed so hard they nearly became hysterical. When Melody had regained some control of herself, she slid off the couch, scooted under a small table, then scooted out again, got to her feet, and screamed, “Aughhh!” Then she said, “Guess what I am.”

  “The Fur Thing!” cried Bill. And he screamed, too.

  “Okay, quiet down, you guys,” said Kristy. “Skylar’s asleep — I hope.”

  “But the Fur Thing!” exclaimed Melody, still laughing. “That’s so funny.”

  “As funny as the Toilet Monster?” asked Kristy.

  The laughter stopped. Bill and Melody returned to the couch. Uh-oh, thought Kristy. And this was going so well.

  However, a few moments later when she said that it was time to get ready for bed, the kids walked obediently down the hallway. They passed the doorway to the bathroom without crossing their fingers, covering their heads, or yelling. Presently, Bill went into the bathroom and closed the door. Kristy heard water running, and
then the bathroom door opened and Bill returned calmly to his room.

  “Bill, did you flush the toilet?” called Melody.

  Silence. Then, “No … I guess I forgot.”

  “Boys,” huffed Melody, and went into the bathroom herself. Kristy thought she was going to flush the toilet for Bill, but several minutes later, her teeth brushed and her face washed, she headed for her room.

  “Toilet,” Kristy reminded her from the hallway.

  Melody paused. Kristy expected an argument, but instead Melody flushed the toilet — and then raced to her room and leaped into bed.

  “Is the toilet still flushing?” she called.

  “Yes,” replied Kristy.

  “Good,” said Melody. “Then I made it.”

  “Made what?” Kristy furrowed her brow.

  Melody giggled nervously. “I escaped from the Toilet Monster.” She peeked at Kristy from under her covers, then added, “Just kidding.”

  Now, I didn’t say anything to Kristy, but it was this last scene that made me wonder if the Toilet Monster had been banished after all. I had strong doubts. But Kristy thought she’d rid the Korman kids of their toilet problem forever. Especially when both Bill and Melody fell asleep quickly and easily. And stayed that way.

  “We didn’t have to go on any monster hunts,” Kristy told me over the phone that night. “Nobody asked me to check in a closet or under a bed, and Melody stayed in her room. I’ve just been upstairs to look in on the kids. They’re all where they’re supposed to be.”

  “Well … great,” I said. “That’s really terrific. I mean it.” My mind was on Author Day, of course, but Kristy sounded so satisfied with herself that I made a special effort to seem enthusiastic.

  “So,” said Kristy, “the Kormans aren’t going to be home for another hour, and I want to talk to you about Author Day.” (She did?) “But I better not stay on too long. You know.”

  I knew. The members of the BSC make a point of not carrying on long phone conversations while we’re sitting. For one thing, the parents of the children we’re watching might be trying to reach us — to give us an important message — and they should be able to get through. For another thing, if the parents call home and keep getting a busy signal, they’ll think they’ve hired a sitter who spends her time gabbing on the phone instead of being in charge of the kids. (In other words, instead of being responsible.)