Ann Martin - Mary Anne Saves The Day

"He spelled 'all right' all wrong," Dawn remarked.

Then we started laughing. "Look at that girl's hair!" I shrieked. "It looks like she blew it up with a bicycle pump!"

Dawn rolled over on the floor, giggling. "It's called a bouffant or a pompadour or something."

"My dad has tons of old records," I said, pulling albums off of a shelf and showing them

to Dawn. "They're all girl singers. He's got Connie Francis, Shelley Fabares, and Brenda Lee, and here are some groups — the Shirelles, the Marvelettes, and Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. Look at that girl in the yearbook — her hair looks just like Shelley Fabares' hair on this album!"

Dawn started laughing again. "Now let's find your dad," she said at last.

The seniors were in alphabetical order. We flipped through until we reached the S's.

"There he is!" I cried, jabbing at the picture in the upper lefthand corner of a page. "There he is! Oh, wow, I forgot how weird he looks! He doesn't look like my father at all. He looks . . . like an alien!"

"He was only seventeen, I guess, but somehow he looks a lot older," Dawn pointed out.

"He had a crewcut! Let's see what's under his picture. . . . This is weird. It says: 'To S.E.P. : Don't walk in front of me — I may not follow. Don't walk behind me — I may not lead. Walk beside me — and just be my friend. — Camus.' Who's Camus?" I asked.

"Beats me," Dawn replied, "but S.E.P. — those were my mother's initials before she got married."

Dawn and I looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Quick!" exclaimed Dawn. "Turn to the P's! We're looking for Sharon Porter."

Frantically, we flipped the pages back.

"Stop! We're in the M's!"

We went forward a few pages.

"There she is!" shouted Dawn. "Sharon Emerson Porter. That's all it says under her picture. Just her name. No quotes or silly stuff."

"But she signed Dad's yearbook," I said, looking at the scrawly message in blue ink that covered Sharon Porter's face.

We leaned over.

" 'Dearest Richie/ " Dawn read.

"Richie!" I cried. "No one calls him Richie."

Mystified, Dawn read on." Tour years weren't enough. Let's start over. How can we part? We have one more summer. Hold on to it, Richie. (Love is blind.) Always and forever, Sharon.' "

"I guess they did know each other," said Dawn at last.

"I'll say," I said. "I'll say."

Ill

Chapter 11.

Dawn and I practically suffered dual heart attacks after reading what was written in my dad's yearbook. We agreed not to mention our discovery to our parents, although we weren't sure why we wanted to keep the secret.

We spent the rest of the day hashing it over. Then on Sunday we went through Dawn's mother's yearbook. The book was hard to find, since it was still packed away. We finally located it at the bottom of a carton labeled

KITCHEN.

"Kitchen?" I said to Dawn.

She shrugged. "Don't ask."

We opened the book, knowing exactly where to look. Written across my father's picture in round, familiar handwriting was, "For Sharon, who knows what this means." (An arrow pointed to the quote from the person named

Camus.) "Remember — the summer can be forever. Love always, Richie."

"People sure get poetic in high school," Dawn remarked. "What does 'the summer can be forever' mean?"

I didn't know. But far more interesting than what Dad had written was what was pressed between the "S" pages of Dawn's mother's book. It was a rose, brown and dried, with a stained, yellowing ribbon tied to the stem.

Although I had vowed to find a way to get the Baby-sitters Club back together, things kept coming up to take my mind off of it. First, of course, was the discovery about Dawn's mother and my father. Dawn and I talked about it all week. We had a million questions, and we could only guess at the answers to them.

"What do you think the rose is from?" asked Dawn.

"A prom?" I suggested. "I bet they went to their senior prom together. I wonder what they wore."

"Hey," said Dawn. She crunched loudly on a piece of celery. Dawn refused to buy the school lunches, saying they were starchy and gross. As soon as her mother had gotten their kitchen in order, Dawn had insisted on bringing her own healthy lunches to school each

day. "Don't parents always take pictures of their kids just before they go off to their proms?" she asked. "I mean, even back in those days, it was like a rule of parenthood. Your daughter's date arrives to take her to the prom. He's wearing a tux and your daughter is wearing her new gown and carrying a shawl. Then the parents have to make them pose in front of the mantelpiece in the living room for the ceremonial prom pictures, which they send to the relatives and to the boy's family."

I giggled. "But what does that have to do with our parents?"

"Well, there must be a prom picture of them somewhere. If we could find a picture, we could see if my mother was wearing a rose with a satin ribbon tied to it."

"Oh! Great idea," I said. But we couldn't find any prom pictures.

Another day we tried to guess what their notes to each other meant.

" 'Just one more summer,' "I repeated sadly. "I wonder why they knew they would have to break up at the end of the summer. Or maybe that's not what they meant at all."

"It must be what they meant. But why?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder what your mother meant by 'love is blind,' " I said to Dawn on Friday.

"Maybe someone disapproved of their relationship, but my mom and your dad were too much in love to see what was wrong."

"But what could have been wrong?"

"I don't know," Dawn replied. "But I bet someone disapproved of them."

"But we don't know for sure," I pointed out.

"No, that's true."

On Saturday, something else happened to keep my mind off the club. It was what turned out to be my scariest baby-sitting experience ever. Earlier in the week, Mrs. Prezzioso had called needing a baby-sitter for Jenny all Saturday afternoon. Even though the Prezziosos are weird, I sort of like Jenny. So I took the job.

I arrived at the Prezziosos' house promptly at 11:30. I rang the bell.

A few moments later I could hear little feet run to the door. Then I heard the locks being turned. "Hey, Jenny!" I called. "Ask who it is first."

"Oh, yeah," I heard her say. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Mary Anne Spier, your baby-sitter."

"Are you a stranger?"

I sighed. "No. I'm Mary Anne. You know me."

The door was opened.

"Hi, Mary Anne," said Jenny. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a white collar and cuffs. Her tights were white. Her shoes were white. Her hair ribbon was white. I could tell it was going to be a long day.

Jenny's mother appeared behind her. "Well," began Mrs. Prezzioso, smoothing away a nonexistent wrinkle in her black silk cocktail dress, "Mr. Prezzioso and I are going to be up in Chatham for a basketball game." (Mrs. P. was wearing a cocktail dress to a basketball game?) "My husband's college is playing their biggest rival. It's some sort of important championship or something. He's very excited about it, so we're going to drive up there, meet some friends, go to the game, and go out for an early dinner. We should be home by seven at the very latest.

"I'm a, bit nervous, though, about being so far away," she added. (Chatham is an hour north of Stoneybrook.)

"I'm sure everything will be fine," I said.

"Well, I've left you a lot of phone numbers — Jenny's doctor, the number of the gymnasium where the game will be held, our next-door neighbors, and the usual emergency numbers."

"Okay," I said. I realized Jenny was being

awfully quiet. I wondered what she had up her sleeve.

But I didn't have much time to dwell on it. At that moment, Mr. P. ran down the stairs. He was wearing blue jeans and a striped polo shirt. I was willing to bet that there had been some battle over his clothing that morning. Maybe that was why Jenny was so quiet.