The Truth About Stacey Read online

  “Yup. He and his wife had tickets to see his wife’s brother perform in a concert in Stamford. When Leslie didn’t show up, he called her house, but no one was home. The Kellys had to scramble around trying to get someone to watch their kids. At last, they left them with a neighbor, but by the time they reached the concert hall, they’d missed twenty minutes of the concert.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Claudia.

  “Why didn’t they just call one of us?” I asked.

  “Simple,” snapped Kristy. “They didn’t trust us, and why should they? Mr. Kelly was only calling now to make sure we knew what Leslie had done. I have a feeling the Kellys won’t be calling the Baby-sitters Club again.”

  “Oh, great,” I said, letting out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. “Wait’ll word gets around about this.”

  The phone rang again. Nobody made a move to answer it. Finally, I picked it up on the third ring. “Hello, the Baby-sitters Club,” I said glumly. “Stacey McGill speaking…. Yes? … Oh, no, you’re kidding! I mean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. We had no idea. Maybe you’d like to talk to our president…. Okay, hold on.” I handed Kristy the phone, whispering, “I don’t believe it. This is Ms. Jaydell. You know, the other new client? The woman Janet was supposed to sit for? Janet didn’t show up, either.”

  It was Kristy’s turn to be furious. She jerked the phone to her ear, eyes flashing, and had to unclench her jaw before saying (fairly civilly), “Kristin Thomas speaking.”

  I’d seen Kristy mad before, but never that mad.

  She carried on pretty much the same conversation with Ms. Jaydell that she’d had with Mr. Kelly a few minutes earlier. The only difference was that Ms. Jaydell and her husband hadn’t been able to find another sitter and had missed out on a cocktail party.

  When Kristy hung up the phone, she burst into tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry.

  “Well, that does it,” I said, handing her a tissue from the table by Claudia’s bed. “What’re Janet’s and Leslie’s phone numbers? I’m going to call them right now. They’re really hurting us.”

  “No,” said Kristy, wiping her eyes. “Don’t call them. I want to confront them face-to-face. We’ll talk to them in school tomorrow. This wasn’t any accident. They missed those jobs on purpose. I’m sure of it.”

  “But why?” asked Claudia.

  “Beats me,” said Kristy. “Who’s going to help me face those traitors tomorrow?”

  “I am!” I said.

  “I am!” said Claudia.

  We looked at Mary Anne. “Couldn’t we confront them over the phone?” she asked.

  “Over the phone is not a confrontation,” I said firmly.

  “We have to be face-to-face.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “All of us,” added Kristy. “The whole club. United.”

  “All right,” said Mary Anne at last.

  None of us was looking forward to school the next day. We walked together in the morning, traveling about as fast as snails.

  “When are we going to confront them?” I asked Kristy as we reached Stoneybrook Middle School.

  “Yeah,” said Claudia. “We don’t have any classes with them.”

  “We’re going to confront them right now,” Kristy replied. “I know where their homerooms are. We’re going to wait for them.”

  “An ambush,” said Mary Anne.

  Janet and Leslie were not in the same homeroom, but the rooms were just across the hall from each other. Kristy and Mary Anne waited by Janet’s room; Claudia and I waited by Leslie’s.

  After about five minutes of standing around, I spotted them down the hall. “Psst! Kristy!” I said. “Here they come. Both of them.”

  “Hey,” Claudia whispered to me. “Look who’s with them.”

  I looked. It was Liz Lewis. “I thought they didn’t like Liz,” I said.

  “I know.” Claudia frowned.

  We watched the girls stop for a moment, talking earnestly. Then Liz waved to them and disappeared into a classroom.

  Janet and Leslie saw us before they reached their homerooms. They nudged each other, laughing.

  The members of the Baby-sitters Club converged on them.

  “Where were you yesterday?” Kristy demanded.

  “Hey (snap, snap), what kind of a greeting is that?” asked Janet. She must have had twelve pieces of gum in her mouth.

  “I’m not kidding,” said Kristy. “I want to know where you were, and I want to know why you didn’t show up for your Saturday sitting jobs. Our club is known for responsible baby-sitters.”

  “So what?” said Leslie.

  “So what!” exclaimed Kristy. “You’re giving us a bad reputation. We’re going to have to ask you to leave the club.”

  “Fine with us,” replied Janet. “We,” she added with a smirk, “are members of the Baby-sitters Agency.” She and Leslie burst into hysterical laughter.

  “But—but—” stammered Kristy.

  “We had you completely fooled!”

  “You’re rats!” I cried suddenly. “Both of you. You did this to make us look bad! That’s—it’s—it’s dirty. It’s not fair.”

  Janet and Leslie couldn’t stop laughing. And I couldn’t stop accusing. “You’re liars! And—and dirty businesswomen!”

  “Whoa,” said Leslie. “Get that. Dirty businesswomen. Pretty high-class talk.”

  “And probably rotten baby-sitters,” Kristy added.

  Leslie took some offense at that. “We are not rotten baby-sitters,” she said, bristling.

  “Well, what do you call a baby-sitter who doesn’t show up for a job and doesn’t call the parents to explain why?”

  “Hmm,” said Leslie. “Janet, what would you call that sitter?”

  “I’d call her anything except late for dinner!”

  Leslie and Janet doubled over with laughter at their stupid joke.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” cried Kristy. “I hope you realize you’re in big trouble.”

  “With who?” said Janet, still laughing.

  “With … with the parents. I’m going to call them and tell them exactly what happened. Then they’ll call their friends, and their friends will call their friends. Word will get around. You’ll be sorry.”

  At last, the girls stopped laughing. “You wouldn’t dare,” said Janet, at the same time that Leslie said, “No, you’ll be sorry, tattletale.”

  “Me? Why should I be sorry?” asked Kristy.

  “Because,” replied Leslie, “Liz and Michelle will be interested in your plans. They’ll just have to work a little harder to be the best sitting agency in town. But they won’t mind that.”

  “You—” exclaimed Kristy, simmering “—you are pigs!”

  Janet snapped her gum. “Sorry, kids.” She and Leslie separated and walked into their classrooms.

  Kristy, Claudia, Mary Anne, and I were left standing in the hall. For the second time in two days, Kristy began to cry. The rest of us surrounded her and walked her into the nearest girls’ room. It was pretty crowded, but we huddled in a corner and no one paid much attention to us.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” Kristy wailed. “It isn’t fair. That was a really rotten trick. Besides, a babysitting club was my idea, not Liz’s. We worked so hard on our club. And even when the agency started up, we never tried to hurt them. We just tried to protect what we had.” She blew her nose on a paper towel. “Now they’re purposely trying to beat us out.”

  “So Liz put Janet and Leslie up to what they did,” I said slowly.

  Kristy nodded. “Yes. And it’s all my fault for being so stupid about taking on new members. Mary Anne was right. I should have checked on them.”

  “Well,” said Claudia, “I agree that what the agency is doing to us is really mean. But I think what we have to do is just keep going—the four of us. Okay, so we can’t stay out late. So we’re only twelve years old. Most of our clients like us a lot. We’ll just go on being
as responsible and good with children and—and—what’s that word that means you sort of adjust yourself to whatever people need?”

  “Flexible?” suggested Mary Anne.

  “Almost,” Claudia replied. “That’s not the word, but it’s close.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Kristy. “I guess you’re right. Anyway, I am going to explain things to Mr. Kelly and Ms. Jaydell.”

  “And,” I added frantically, “there’s always lower rates and housework and special deals.”

  “No,” said Kristy. “I’ve decided that’s not the way to go. The club will survive, but we don’t want to become slaves. Besides, I can’t deal with any of that stuff right now. We’ve got to think of ways to prove that we’re better than the agency.”

  With that, the bell rang, and the Baby-sitters Club silently left the girls’ room.

  The agency had lit a fire under Kristy. She did call the Kellys and the Jaydells to explain what had happened. They were interested and seemed somewhat friendlier, but Kristy still wasn’t sure whether they’d call on the club again. At least the truth had been told.

  Then Kristy made plans for us to advertise our club out at Washington Mall. She was already at work on new sandwich boards. Each one would carry a different slogan. We helped Kristy make them up. They were:

  YOUNGER IS BETTER!

  RESPONSIBILITY + PUNCTUALITY =

  THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB

  THE FIRST AND FINEST BABY-SITTING SERVICE

  QUALITY CARE FOR KIDS

  The first trip to the mall was scheduled for the weekend, but I wouldn’t be able to go. I’d be suffering torture at the hands of Dr. Barnes.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I baby-sat for Jamie. Something was bothering him. He moped around as if he’d lost his best friend. He had greeted me cheerfully enough when I’d arrived, but as soon as Mrs. Newton carried a bundled-up Lucy out the back door, his face fell. He wandered into the rec room, flipped on the TV, and flung himself onto the couch. He didn’t even check to see what was on the channel the television was tuned to. Usually, he wouldn’t watch anything except Sesame Street or Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

  I thought I knew what was wrong. “It must be kind of tough having a new baby at your house,” I suggested.

  Jamie shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “I bet she cries a lot.”

  “Not too much. If Mommy rocks her, she stops.”

  I thought for a moment. “I remember when my friend Allison’s baby sister was born. Allison hated her.”

  Jamie looked surprised. “I don’t hate Lucy,” he said.

  “Everything is A-OK with the baby?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “You seem kind of sad,” I said after a while.

  Jamie let out a sigh that indicated he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. “Baby-sitters used to be fun,” he said.

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Baby-sitters used to play games with me and push me on the swings and color monster pictures and read me stories.”

  I couldn’t get away from the Lucy angle. “And now they’re too busy taking care of the baby?”

  “No. Too busy watching TV…. What are you going to watch this afternoon?”

  “Me? I’m not going to watch TV. I was going to ask you if you wanted to read Where the Wild Things Are and draw pictures of Max’s monsters.”

  Jamie perked up.

  “Plus, I brought the Kid-Kit with me.”

  “You did?! I didn’t see. Where is it?”

  “It’s in the living room. But wait a second, Jamie. Tell me more about your baby-sitters. Are you saying that all they do is watch TV?”

  “And they” (he leaned over and began to whisper) “they have accidents.”

  “Accidents?” I whispered back.

  “Yeah.”

  “What kinds of accidents?”

  He got up and led me across the room to a chair. “Like this,” he whispered. He poked at something on the cushion.

  I looked at it closely. It was a burn mark. In fact, it was a hole. My eyes widened. “One of your sitters did that?” I asked.

  Jamie nodded. “With a—a cigarette.” He said “cigarette” as if it were a dirty word. Neither of his parents is a smoker.

  “Gosh,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Sometimes they talk on the phone. They talk longer than Mommy and Daddy do…. Stacey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s a boyfriend?”

  I gulped. I hadn’t been prepared for that question. “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “it’s, um, it’s a friend who’s a boy.”

  “Am I your boyfriend?” asked Jamie.

  “Not exactly. Listen, Jamie. Who baby-sits for you now? Do you know their names?”

  Jamie scrunched up his face. “Tammy,” he said. “And Barbara. And a boy.”

  I didn’t know Tammy and Barbara or any boy sitters. Maybe they were in high school.

  “Well, you know what?” I said. “If you don’t like your sitters, you should tell your mommy. Tell her what you told me, that all they do is watch TV and talk on the phone. And show her the chair. Okay? Can you do that?” I wanted to help the Baby-sitters Club, but I also truly hated to see Jamie so sad.

  “Yup.”

  “Good boy. Now—you don’t really want to watch the news, do you?” I said, looking at the blaring television set.

  “Yuck.” Jamie jumped up and switched it off.

  “What’ll it be?” I asked. “Wild Things or the Kid-Kit?”

  “Kid-Kit!”

  “You got it.” I retrieved the Kid-Kit and pulled out the things that would interest an almost-four-year-old. Jamie played happily until Mrs. Newton and Lucy returned.

  When I got home that afternoon, I heard the phone ringing. Apparently, Mom was out. I dashed into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Stacey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, hi, hon. It’s Dr. Johanssen. I was about to hang up.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just got home.”

  “Well, listen, I know your Baby-sitters Club meets in a little while, but I thought I’d try to catch you now. I need a sitter tonight. It’s last minute, but it won’t be too late, and Charlotte’s been asking for you.”

  “She has?” I said, feeling very pleased.

  “Endlessly,” said Dr. Johanssen cheerfully. “Can you come over at seven?”

  “Sure!” I replied. (Ordinarily, I’m not allowed to sit both the afternoon and the evening of a school day, but I didn’t have much homework, so I knew it would be all right.)

  “Terrific. We’ll see you then,” said Dr. Johanssen.

  “Bye.” We hung up.

  I was pleased for two reasons. Not only was I delighted to have a night job at the Johanssens’ (I hadn’t had one in quite a while), but I was working on a plan regarding the New York trip, and I needed to discuss something with Dr. Johanssen. I also needed her to answer some questions.

  My plan was this: I’d let Mom and Dad take me to their “doctor” on Saturday. I knew what that visit would be like: a lot of questions, especially about my diet and insulin and my medical history, and then maybe a few quick tests, followed by plans for the workup in his clinic on Monday and Tuesday. Just preliminary stuff. I’d been through it all before. Then I would tell my parents I’d been researching diabetes on my own and that I knew of a doctor I wanted to see. That was where Dr. Johanssen came in. I needed her to recommend someone sensible to me. Someone who would think that we were handling my disease just fine. Someone like Dr. Werner. Furthermore, the someone needed a fancy office and lots of diplomas.

  After supper that night, I got the Kid-Kit and a flashlight and took the shortcut through our neighbors’ backyards to the Johanssens’. Dr. Johanssen met me at the front door.

  “Hi, Stacey,” she said. “I’m glad you could come.” She closed the door behind me and took my coat. Then she glanced over her sh
oulder at Charlotte, who was doing her homework at the kitchen table. Dr. Johanssen lowered her voice. “Charlotte has been in a funny mood lately,” she told me. “Very quiet, and slightly listless. She says she feels fine, so something’s going on that she’s not talking about. I have a feeling it’s school related, and I’ve arranged a conference with her teacher. I just wanted you to know so that you won’t worry if she seems out of sorts tonight.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “Mr. Johanssen is working late tonight,” Charlotte’s mother continued, “and I have a PTA meeting. We’ll both be back before nine.”

  “All right…. Dr. Johanssen, when you come home, could I talk to you? We’re leaving for New York on Saturday, and I have an idea.”

  “Certainly, hon. There’s something I wanted to tell you anyway.” Dr. Johanssen headed into the kitchen. “Well, sweetie,” she said to Charlotte, “I won’t be late. Finish your homework, and then you can have fun with Stacey until Daddy and I get home…. Okay?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Bye, honey.”

  “Bye.” Charlotte barely looked up.

  I sat down next to her as her mother left the house. “Gosh, homework in second grade. That’s pretty important. I didn’t have homework in second grade.”

  “It’s just two dumb work sheets,” said Charlotte.

  “Do you need any help with them?”

  She shook her head. “They’re easy. It’s dumb, dumb homework.”

  “Well, if it’s easy, it won’t take you long to finish, right?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Charlotte!” I exclaimed. “Why are you talking to me like that? If you’re mad, you better tell me what I did wrong, because I’m not a mind reader.”

  Charlotte slouched over her work sheets. “I’m not mad.”

  “Well, you sound mad.” I felt as if I were having a fight with Laine Cummings. “I only wanted to know, because when you finish, we can read some of The Cricket in Times Square.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically.

  “Charlotte, what is the matter with you? Your mother said you wanted me to sit for you.”

  “I wanted you to come over. I didn’t want you to baby-sit.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”