Ann Martin - Mary Anne Saves The Day

"I'm sorry I'm late. The Pikes got stuck in a traffic jam. They couldn't help it. . . .I couldn't help it."

"That's all right. It's only five minutes after nine. I know things come up."

I was so relieved he wasn't upset, that I decided to bring up a touchy subject again. "You know, Dad," I began, "it would be a lot easier on my clients if I could baby-sit just a little later — say until ten. Or even nine-thirty. That would do."

"Mary Anne," Dad said gently, "we've been through that. If your clients need someone who can stay out late, then they should look for an older sitter."

"But Kristy and Claudia and Stacey — "

"I know. They're all allowed to stay out later, and they're the same age as you."

"Right."

"But they're not you. And their parents aren't me. I have to do what I think is best for you."

I nodded.

"And the next time it looks as though you're going to be late — for whatever reason — give me a call to let me know, all right?"

"Okay."

Was Dad trying to tell me something? Was he saying that I hadn't been responsible? Maybe if I was more responsible, he'd let me stay out later. Maybe he made decisions based on responsibility, not age. It was something to think about.

I began thinking right away, on my way upstairs to bed. I felt that I was already fairly responsible. I always did my homework and I got good grades in school. I was usually on time for things. I usually started dinner for Dad and me. I did almost everything my father told me to do. Still ... I supposed there was always room for more responsibility. I could have called Dad from the Pikes' instead of panicking. I could start facing up to things I was afraid of.

One of my biggest fears is confronting people

and dealing with people I don't know — like picking up the phone to get information, or talking to sales clerks, or asking for directions. Dad knew all that. Maybe when I stopped avoiding things, he would notice.

Even though my father didn't know about the fight everyone in the Baby-sitters Club had had, I decided that it was really time to do something about it. Whether the fault was mine or somebody else's (or everybody's), I was going to fix things. Now that was taking on responsibility.

I realized that the evening at the Pikes' could have been a disaster. If the kids had noticed that Kristy and I were fighting, it would have looked bad for our club. Luckily for us, the Pike kids are easygoing and have a sense of humor.

Luckily.

What if one of the kids had gotten hurt, and Kristy and I hadn't been able to agree on what to do about it? What if the kids had realized what was going on? They might have blabbed to their parents, and our club might have lost some of its best clients.

Besides, trying to run a club without meetings was stupid.

It was time to put the club back together before it fell apart completely. Since Kristy is

the club president, I thought that the best way to do it was to make up with her. That was going to be a real challenge. It would take plenty of responsibility.

How to make up with Kristy? Long after I'd turned out my light, I lay in bed thinking. I could try to write her a note — one I could actually send her:

Dear Kristy,

I'm really sorry about our fight. I'd like to make up and be friends again.

Your best friend (I hope), Mary Anne

That was good. Short but sweet.

And it was truthful. I really was sorry about our fight, no matter who had started it or whose fault it was. And I really did want to be friends again.

The next morning was Saturday, but I woke up early anyway. I ate breakfast with my father. Then I went back to my room and wrote the note to Kristy.

And then — how was I going to get the note to her? If I took it over personally, she'd close

the door in my face. Maybe I could leave it in the mailbox, or give it to David Michael to give to her.

No. How could I be sure she'd read it? Maybe a note wasn't a good idea. But I couldn't think of another way to make up with Kristy.

I was still stewing about it when I heard the phone ring. A few moments later, my father called up the stairs, "Mary Anne! It's for you!"

"Okay!"

As I ran to the phone, one teensy little part of me thought it might be Kristy, calling to apologize to me.

No such luck. It was Dawn. But I was glad to hear from her.

"Hi!" I said.

"Hi! What are you doing today?"

"Nothing. What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Want to come over?"

"Sure! Right now?"

"Yeah. I don't know what we'll do, but we'll think of something."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

"Good," I said. We hung up.

Dawn rode over on her bicycle, and she reached my house in record time.

I met her at the door and we ran up to my room. The first thing Dawn said was, "Mary

Anne, I was thinking as I rode over here, and you know what we forgot to do?"

"What?" I asked.

"Find out if your father and my mother knew each other when they were young."

"Oh, that's right!" I exclaimed. "Did your mom go to Stoneybrook High?"

"Yup," replied Dawn. "Did your dad?"

"Yup! Oh, this is exciting!"

"What year did your father graduate?" Dawn asked.

"Gee," I said slowly, "I don't know."

"Well, how old is he?"

"Let's see. He's forty-one. . . . No, he's forty-two. Forty-two. That's right."

"Really? So's my mom!"

"You're kidding! I bet they did know each other. Let's go ask my father."

We were racing down the hall and had just reached the head of .the stairs when Dad appeared at the bottom. "Mary Anne," he said, "I've got to go into the office for several hours. I'll be back this afternoon. You may heat up that casserole for lunch. Dawn is welcome to stay, all right?"

"Okay. Thanks, Dad. See you later."

Dawn nudged me with her elbow. I knew she wanted me to ask Dad about Mrs. Schafer, but it wasn't the right time. Dad was in a

hurry, and he doesn't like to be bothered with questions when he's rushing off somewhere.

As soon as he left, Dawn said, slightly accusingly, "Why didn't you ask him?"

"It wasn't a good time. Believe me. Besides, I have another idea. His yearbooks are in the den. Let's go look at them. I used to go through them all the time when I was little, but I bet I haven't opened one since I was nine."

"Oh goody, yearbooks!" said Dawn.

In the den, we stood before a bookcase with a row of heavy old yearbooks in it.

"Why are there so many?" asked Dawn.

"They're my mother's and my father's — high school and college. So there are sixteen in all. Now let's see. Here are the Stoneybrook High yearbooks. These are Dad's, since my mother grew up in Maryland. Which one should we look at first?"

"His senior yearbook," Dawn answered immediately. "It'll have the biggest pictures. What year is this? Oh, this is the year my mom graduated, too! So they were in the same class. I bet they did know each other."

Dawn pulled the book off the shelf, and I blew the dust from the cover. "Yiick," I said. We stopped for a moment to look at the book. The year Dad had graduated was printed across the cover in large, white raised numbers.

We opened it gingerly, as if it would fall apart.

"Here are the seniors," said Dawn, turning to the front of the book. We peered at row after row of black and white photos, the students looking funny and old-fashioned. Under each picture was a little paragraph, words that meant nothing to Dawn and me. Inside jokes, I guessed. I wondered if the people who had composed them would know what they meant twenty-five years later. Under one boy's photo was written: "Thumpers . . . Apple Corps . . . Arnie and Gertrude . . . S.A.B." Under a girl's was written: " '61 White Phantom Chevy . . . 'Broc' junior homeroom . . . 'Rebel Rousers' & George." And one boy had written something that Dawn and I decided must be a code: E.S.R., A.T., DUDE, FIBES, G.F.R. ... ALRIGHT.