The Baby-Sitters Club #109: Mary Anne to the Rescue (Baby-Sitters Club, The) Page 9
Rrrrrinnnng!
We burst into laughter. You know what? It was Logan.
And by five o’clock, he had called four times.
First he decided he didn’t want me to come over. Then he decided he wanted me to do all the talking. Then he wanted to postpone it a day.
Finally we decided to go ahead just the way we’d planned. I walked over to his house at 5:15. Logan was waiting for me at the front door, wearing his football jersey.
“Hi,” he said. “Come on in.”
Logan’s younger brother and sister, Hunter and Kerry, came running in. “Are you really getting married?” Hunter asked.
“Arrrgggghhh!” Logan growled like a tiger.
The kids went squealing through the house and out the back door.
“Some refreshments!” Mrs. Bruno called out, bringing in a platter of crackers, cheese, and juice.
“Thanks,” I said.
Logan picked up a slice of Brie and grimaced. “Smells like old sweatsocks.”
I glared at him. “Lo-gan.”
Mrs. Bruno was chuckling. “Try some. It builds character.”
Logan kind of choked up then.
At first I thought he’d taken the remark as an insult. Then I saw him looking outside. His face seemed to lose color.
Mr. Bruno’s car was pulling up the driveway.
I tried to send Logan a telepathic message: Be brave.
A moment later, Mr. Bruno bounded in the front door. “Afternoon, everybody!”
Crash! went the back door.
“Daddyyyyyy!” screamed Hunter and Kerry.
Hugs, kisses, squeals — and out they ran.
Crash! went the back door again.
Chuckling, Mr. Bruno sat on the sofa. His nose began to twitch. “What smells?”
“The cheese, dear,” Mrs. Bruno replied dryly.
I don’t know how I kept from cracking up.
Poor Logan. He wasn’t seeing the humor in any of this. He was biting his fingernails. His forehead was shiny from sweat.
“So, when’s the big date, and how much is the cake going to cost?” Mr. Bruno asked with a big laugh.
I could feel myself blushing. Logan was turning red, too.
His mouth opened and quickly shut. He glanced at me, his eyes wide and unsure.
He’s not going to do it, I thought.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Bruno asked.
Well, if Logan wasn’t going to break the ice, I would. I cleared my throat and began, “Logan would like to —”
“Dad, Mom?” Logan blurted out. “I don’t want to go to Conant.”
Ta-da. Nothing like the whole truth upfront.
“Logan,” his dad said sternly. “You know we’ve discussed this —”
“And I don’t want to go to leadership camp, either,” Logan barreled on. “I want to play in the summer baseball league and stay in the Stoneybrook public schools, and that’s that.”
I sat back. He was doing it. He was doing it all by himself.
“Dear, I know you’re reluctant to go away,” his mother said. “It isn’t easy to leave home.”
“Conant is a special world,” Mr. Bruno said. “I was a lazy, uninterested student before I arrived there. I’d never played a sport in my life. Well, the moment I set foot on that extraordinary campus, my life turned around. The academics, the sports, the activities — it was a whole new experience. I want that for you, too, Logan.”
“I have it all already, Dad,” Logan said, “in Stoneybrook! I mean, if Stoneybrook were so awful, I could see what you mean, but it’s not.”
Mr. Bruno looked perplexed. “I’m a little surprised at you, Logan. A lot of boys would be thrilled at this opportunity.”
Logan sat back and sighed deeply. “I know what Conant meant to you, Dad. I’m sure it changed your life. But I just don’t see how you think it’ll change mine. I’m a different kind of person. I mean, I’m not trying to sound conceited, but my grades are already good. And I played three sports this year.”
“He has a point, Lyman,” Mrs. Bruno said.
“But you’ll meet boys from all over the country,” Mr. Bruno pressed on. “Interesting, bright, friendly …”
“That’s cool, but I like my friends. Guys and girls.” Logan gave me a quick look, then glanced back to his father. “Dad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really. But you’re laying out all this money for stuff I don’t need. For stuff I already have. I’m happy here. I like Stoneybrook. I like living at home with you guys. I don’t want to come here only for visits and see my brother and sister growing up without me. I don’t need to leave home.”
“Well,” Mr. Bruno said with a frown, “you realize I’ve already put down a deposit. If you’d really felt that strongly about this, you could have mentioned it earlier.”
“Oh, honey, it’s been clear that Logan is miserable,” Mrs. Bruno spoke up, “ever since we told him the news. You’ve noticed it yourself.”
“I’ll pay back the deposit,” Logan volunteered eagerly, “out of my earnings from the Rosebud. Even if it takes all year.”
“I’ll pay from my earnings if I have to,” Mrs. Bruno declared. “I like having my son around the house.”
Wow. Logan and I both turned to her with big grins.
But her jaw was set solid. And she was glaring at her husband.
Mr. Bruno cleared his throat and picked up a cracker with cheese.
No one said a word as he fiddled with it, then popped it in his mouth. Slowly he chewed, looking vaguely in the direction of the window.
Logan gulped.
I could feel perspiration clamming up my blouse. The silence was killing me.
Finally Mr. Bruno swallowed. He scowled darkly at Logan and said, “Do you think you could bring back a better-tasting hunk of cheese from the Rosebud this summer?”
“I beg your pardon?” Logan’s mom said, with a look of mock horror.
Mr. Bruno was trying hard not to crack a smile — but not hard enough.
Logan’s jaw dropped open. He was looking at his father as if Mr. Bruno had just sprouted corn behind his ears. “You — you mean —?”
Mr. Bruno burst out laughing. “You’re a Bruno! You make a good argument, son. What can I say?”
Then Logan did something I never dreamed I’d see him do. He leaped at his dad and wrapped his arms around him.
I was almost positive he said, “I love you, Dad.” But I couldn’t be sure.
The sound of my sniffles blocked out the words.
Or maybe they were Mrs. Bruno’s sniffles.
Right then, we kind of sounded the same.
* * *
Dear Reader,
In Mary Anne to the Rescue, Mary Anne must deal with an unexpected emergency — with an accident. And that’s just the thing about accidents, they’re unexpected. You never know when one is going to happen, or what is going to happen. When I was a baby-sitter, I dealt with typical emergencies — bee stings, skinned knees, and so forth. Fortunately, I never had to deal with big emergencies, like Mary Anne’s. Still, you never know what to expect. There was a time a sitting charge got his hand stuck up the vacuum cleaner. Another charge got his foot caught in the spokes of a moving bike. It was gross, but I had to deal with it. So it’s good to be prepared for anything.
Lots of organizations offer first-aid courses and safe sitting courses. You might also want to take a baby and child care class. The important thing (and something that Mary Anne found out) is that the more prepared you are, the more confident you’ll be when you’re sitting. And a confident baby-sitter is a good baby-sitter.
Happy reading,
* * *
The author gratefully acknowledges
Peter Lerangis
for his help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1997 by Ann M. Martin
Cover art by Hodges Soileau
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, June 1997
e-ISBN 978-0-545-79319-3