Ann Martin: Mallory On Strike

"It's me," Mary Anne said. "Have they come back yet?"

Kristy could tell by the background noises that Mary Anne was in a store. "No, but I wish they would hurry. We're all in bad moods."

"Well, if they come back any time soon," Mary Anne continued, "I'll be at Bellair's — "

Mary Anne's final words were cut off by a scream from Kristy. Boo-Boo was perched on the counter, carefully removing the sliced ham from each sandwich and devouring it.

"Get away from there!" Kristy shouted, dropping the phone.

Boo-Boo's big yellow eyes widened, and he leaped for the kitchen table as Kristy approached him. Meanwhile, Andrew had just finished pouring himself a glass of milk from the refrigerator. Kristy's shout startled him

and he dropped the glass, which shattered as it hit the floor.

"Andrew, don't move!" Kristy shouted.

"Kristy? What's the matter?"

Mary Anne's voice sounded tinny in the receiver, which was dangling by its cord close to the floor. Kristy grabbed the phone and said, "Mary Anne, I'm sorry but I've got to go. We're having a disaster here. I'll see you later." She hung up and carried Andrew out of the kitchen.

"Don't worry, I'll clean this up." Kristy tried to keep her voice calm. "Now, go back into the den and sit down."

"But we're hungry," Andrew complained. "We want our ham 'n' cheese sandwiches."

"Boo-Boo ate your sandwiches," Kristy said. "So we're changing the menu." She set him down by the doorway and declared, "Now we're having PBJs."

"Oh, boy!" Andrew said, running into the den. "They're my favorite."

"Good." Kristy tried to smile but she couldn't. She felt too frazzled. Finally she knelt down and carefully picked the pieces of glass out of the spilled milk.

"Now I know what Mallory's life must be like every day," Kristy grumbled out loud to Boo-Boo, who was hiding under the table. "I don't envy her one bit."

She swept the broken glass into a dustpan and carried it to the trash. Then she wiped up the milk with a sponge. Kristy tried to imagine always having to be responsible for so many brothers and sisters, then trying to find time to work. She murmured, "No wonder Mal is thinking about quitting the BSC."

Kristy squeezed the sponge out in the sink and paused. It was hard to picture the Babysitters Club without one of its members. "I sure hope she doesn't quit. Where would I find another baby-sitter as good as Mallory?"

Chapter 11.

I groped for my glasses on the nightstand and read the numbers on the bedside clock. It was 8:00 on Saturday morning.

"Perfect," I murmured drowsily. "I have the whole day to write."

I'd finished my homework the night before, and I was really looking forward to writing "Caught in the Middle." (That's the title I had chosen.) I lay back against my pillow and thought about the cover that I would design for my story. Mr. Dougherty had told us that the students who submitted a story would also have to make a cover for it. Some kids were going to make theirs out of construction paper, but I had a different idea.

I thought about making a collage of kids doing all sorts of activities, with my main character, Tess, in the middle. I figured I could probably find some good pictures in magazines, but I also knew that we had some terrific

photos in our family album. I thought about the picture of the triplets beaming at the camera from their high chairs, with creamed spinach smeared all over their faces and hair. My dad took a great shot of Margo when she was two, in just a diaper, standing in my mother's high heels and holding a purse. One of my favorites was of Nicky as a baby, sound asleep in the laundry basket.

I lay in bed, smiling to myself and thinking about the photos — deciding that maybe I wouldn't cut pictures from magazines, maybe I would just use photos of my family — when I was suddenly seized by fear. Fear that this weekend with my family would be like all the others.

"Tying shoes, fixing snacks, running errands, settling arguments, searching for Band-Aids!" I said out loud. "I can't do that!"

"What are you saying?" Vanessa asked from the next bed.

"I'm saying no!" I threw back my covers and sat up. "No to everyone. Today is my day. It has to be. I'm running out of time."

"Time?" Vanessa mumbled drowsily.

"Young Authors Day is a week away and — " Suddenly it was as if a light bulb had been turned on inside my head. "I've got an idea." I moved into high gear, tossing off my night-

gown and pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt. Then I dove under the bed.

"What are you doing?" Vanessa sat up, wide awake now.

"I'm . . . oh, ew!" I choked as I nearly inhaled a big dust ball. I made a mental note to clean up my room as soon as Young Authors Day was over. "I'm looking for that yellow poster board I stuffed under here."

Vanessa let me cough for a moment before she said, "I used some of it, remember? And then I put it in the closet."

"Thanks for telling me," I grumbled. I dragged myself back out from under the bed and opened the closet door. Sure enough, the poster board was there, along with my plastic case full of Magic Markers.

"What are you making?" Vanessa asked, as I cut the board in half.

"You'll see." I wrote carefully in big, bold black letters. Then I found my red clip-on suspenders and, attaching them to each poster board, looped them over my head. Finally I faced Vanessa, who read my sign out loud.

" 'Mallory on Strike.' "

"You got it!" I said triumphantly. I marched out of the bedroom and made my way downstairs. It was time to break the news to the rest of my family.

"Look at Mallory!" Claire cried as I marched into the dining room. She pointed a sticky finger at me.

My father lowered the newspaper he was reading just enough to peer over the top. "That's a sandwich board," he said.

Byron read the sign out loud. " 'Mallory on Strike.' What's that mean?"

I slid into my place at the table. Luckily, the poster board was flexible, so I could sit down. "It means that I'm not going to pick up any toys, settle any fights over music, or find any lost pets today."

"What's going on?" my mom asked. She set a bowl of fried potatoes on the table.

Claire licked one gooey finger and said, "Mallory's not going to play with us today."

I spooned some potatoes onto my plate and said, "I'm striking."

"You mean, like in baseball?" Nicky asked. "Three strikes, and you're out?"

"Sort of. Only this is one strike, and I'm out."

"Out of what?" Jordan demanded.

"Patience," I muttered under my breath, then quickly added, "out of commission. I'm going to be in my room and I don't want anyone to disturb me."

"You have to stay in your room?" Margo asked.

"I don't have to," I corrected her. "I want to."

"You want to?" Claire's eyes grew wide. "That's awful."

It was clear that my brothers and sisters had no idea what "on strike" meant. "People go on strike when they want their working conditions to change," I explained, "or when they want higher wages."

Jordan squinted one eye shut. "You mean, like a bigger allowance?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"All right!" Jordan folded his arms across his chest. "Then I'm on strike, too."

"Now, hold on a minute," my father called from behind his paper. "Only one Pike kid at a time can go on strike."

"After breakfast I'm going to my room," I announced, "and I don't want anyone to talk to me, or ask me questions, or call me to the phone, or even touch my door."

"You want to be alone," my father said, folding up the paper and placing it beside his plate. "I think we get the picture."

"Good." I took a sip of milk and smiled at my father. He really seemed to understand.

Margo, who had been watching me closely, suddenly shook her head. "Not fair. Mal gets