Ann Martin - Stacey's Emergency

"You take the job then, Stace," said Kristy.

"You live much closer to Char."

So I got the job. Mary Anne penciled it into the record book, and Dawn phoned Dr. Jo-hanssen to tell her who the sitter would be. That's how we always schedule jobs. Diplomatically. (Okay, usually. But we hardly ever have fights at meetings.)

The rest of the half hour passed busily. The phone rang a lot. (Twice, though, the calls were from Sam Thomas, goofing on us.) At six o'clock, Kristy jumped to her feet, announcing, "Meeting adjourned!"

We all stood up. Mal and Jessi took out their Cootie Catchers again. Kristy looked out the window to see if Charlie had arrived to pick her up. Dawn and Mary Anne hurried toward the door, and Claudia followed them. It was her turn to help with dinner that night.

Since no one was watching, I stuck my hand in the dresser drawer where I'd seen Claudia rehide the Ring-Dings.

I pulled out a package and snuck it into my purse.

Chapter 4.

Ring, ring.

I could hear the telephone in my mother's room. Why doesn't she answer it? I wondered, feeling cranky. Then I remembered that Mom had run over to the Pikes'. (Mallory's house is behind ours. Her back windows face our back windows.) Mom had said she'd be home in fifteen or twenty minutes.

So I would have to get the phone.

"Yuck," I said as I sat up. It was a Wednesday evening. I was lying on my bed, trying to find the energy to start my homework. I hadn't found it yet.

Ring, ring!

The telephone actually sounded impatient. I struggled to my feet and hurried into Mom's room.

"Hello?" I said, placing the receiver to my ear.

"Hi, Boontsie." It was Dad, using his awful baby name for me.

"Hi, Dad!" I tried to sound perky rather than dead tired.

"How are you doing? Are you ready for the weekend?"

"Sure," I replied. The upcoming weekend was a Dad Weekend. (I had conveniently forgotten to call my doctor.) I would leave for New York on Friday afternoon, missing a BSC meeting. (Dawn would get to be the treasurer that day.)

"What train are you taking?" asked Dad.

"The one that gets in at six-oh-four," I replied.

"Great. I'll meet you at the Information Booth at Grand Central then."

"Oh, Dad. You don't have to meet me," I said. (We have this discussion practically every time I go to New York.) "I can get a cab to your apartment."

"You won't have time. I made six-thirty dinner reservations."

"But I'll have all my stuff with me," I pointed out, trying not to whine. "I don't want to lug it around some restaurant."

"Don't worry. You can check your things with our coats. Then we'll have a nice leisurely dinner before we go home."

"Okay." Inwardly I sighed. I had a feeling

that Dad had made lots of plans for the weekend. Sometimes that's okay. But not when I'm so tired. And not when I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. I'd been planning to do some of it in New York. Oh, well. I could work on the train. (I'd be spending three and a half or four hours on the train that weekend.)

Dad did have a lot of plans. It turned out that he'd bought tickets to a Broadway musical for Saturday night. He knew about special exhibits at practically every museum in New York. And he'd made reservations for about sixteen hundred meals. (I don't think my father ever cooks for himself. His refrigerator looks like a hole: empty.)

"Will I get to see Laine sometime?" I asked.

"Sure. She can come to the MOMA with us." (The MOMA is the Museum of Modern Art. It is not Laine's favorite place.)

"Dad? Maybe we could skip the MOMA on Saturday afternoon? Then Laine could come over and we could just hang out and talk."

"Is that really how you want to spend Saturday?" asked Dad.

"Just the afternoon." I yawned.

"You sound awfully tired, honey."

"I guess I am, a little. I've got a lot of school-work." I almost said to Dad then, "Couldn't we cancel this weekend so I could stay at home

and rest and catch up on things?" But I knew I'd hurt his feelings if I did that.

"Well, try to get some extra sleep/' said Dad matter-of-factly. "We've got a big weekend ahead of us."

Tell me about it, I thought. "Okay," I said.

"So I'll meet you at Grand Central at a little after six."

"Right." I stifled another yawn.

There was a pause. Then Dad said, "Is your mother there?"

"No." I didn't mean to sound evasive. I was thinking about the weekend that lay ahead, mentally trying to conjure up some energy.

"Where is she?" asked Dad suspiciously.

Uh-oh. He was going to do it again.

"She's at the Pikes'."

"At this hour?"

"Dad, it's eight-thirty."

"Well, what's she doing over there? And why are you at home alone?"

Oh, brother. I tried to sidestep what was coming by saying, "I've been able to stay at home alone for several years now. Sometimes I even baby-sit."

"Anastasia," said Dad. (Yikes, my full name.) "You know what I mean. Why is your mother at the Pikes' on a weeknight without you?"

"Because she and Mrs. Pike are friends."

Why did I always end up defending my parents to each other? And what if Mom were out on a date? She's allowed to date. She and my father are divorced, for heaven's sake.

"What does that mean?" asked Dad.

"It means that Mrs. Pike got a new dress and she wants Mom's opinion."

"Why?"

"Because she wants to get a hat to go with it or something. 7 don't know." I felt extremely exasperated.

"You're sure she's at the Pikes'?"

"Da-ad."

"Okay. Just wondering."

And I was wondering what would happen if one day I said to my father, "Mom's out with someone. A man. He's taking her to dinner. He's really handsome, he has a very important job, and he's never been married. He's saving himself for the perfect woman, and that perfect woman is Mom." Or what would happen if I said to my mother some Sunday night when she was grilling me about my weekend in New York with Dad, "Mom, you should see who Dad's dating. She's this sophisticated, beautiful, younger woman. She's terribly wealthy, she has a penthouse apartment in the city and a horse farm in the country. And she can cook and handle a jigsaw."

If I ever said anything like that, would my

parents be mad at me? I didn't want to find out.

"Stacey?" Dad was saying.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't answer me. I asked how school was going."

"Oh, it's fine."

"And the Baby-sitters Club?"

"Fine." I heard a door downstairs open and close. "Hey, Mom's home!" I exclaimed. Now I could show Dad that I'd been telling the truth.

"Can you put her on for a minute?" he asked.

"Sure. Oh, and I'll see you on Friday. 'Bye, Dad. Hold on for Mom." I went to the head of the staircase and yelled, "Hey, Mom! Dad's on the phone. He wants to talk to you!" Then I dashed back to her bedroom. I didn't give my mother a chance to whisper frantically to me that she didn't want to talk to my father. If I had to get back on the phone and make an excuse for her, Dad would be sure something was going on.

In Mom's bedroom, I did the first of two things that I really should not have done that night. I listened to my parents' conversation.

When Mom picked up the phone in the kitchen, Dad greeted her with, "Did you decide on a hat?" He thought he was being

cagey. If Mom didn't know what he was talking about, then Dad could assukne she'd been out somewhere with Wonder Date.

"A hat?" Mom repeated. "For Mrs. Pike? Yes. Why?"

"Oh, never mind." Dad didn't really have anything to say after that, so'he and Mom just went over the plans for my weekend in the city. I waited until they'd said good-bye. After each of them had hung up the phone, I hung up the extension I'd been listening in on. Then I crept back to my room.

I lay down on my bed. My stomach was growling, and I desperately wanted, something to drink — even though Mom anq I had finished our dinner not too much earlier. I didn't want to go to the kitchen, though. I had a feeling Mom would be mad at me for having called her to the phone. Plus, did she know, somehow, that I'd eavesdropped?