Ann Martin - Logan Likes Mary Anne !

"What?" they said.

"The game is over."

Kristy's patience had worn thin, although she kept her temper. A half an hour later, the three children were in bed, and Dawn and Kristy were seated side by side on 10181/8 big bed. Louie was sacked out at the end. The portable color TV that Watson had given Kristy was on, but neither Dawn nor Kristy was paying attention.

"Clothes?" Dawn was saying.

'Tapes, maybe," Kristy suggested. They were trying to decide what to get me for my birthday.

"It has to be something she wants, but that she won't be embarrassed to open in front of boys."

"I really wish Stacey hadn't decided on a boy/girl party," said Kristy woefully.

"How come?" asked Dawn.

"Well, who are you going to invite?"

Dawn's eyes widened. "Gosh, I hadn't thought about it."

"Even if I could think of a boy I wanted to go with, I wouldn't know how to ask him," confessed Kristy.

"You know who I like?" Dawn said con-spiratorially.

"Who?"

"Bruce Schermerhorn. He's in my math class. You know him?"

"I think so."

"He's really cute."

"I could ask Alan Gray," said Kristy. "He's a pest, but we always end up doing stuff together. At least I'd know what to expect from him ... I think."

Kristy and Dawn looked at each other, sighed, and leaned back against their pillows. Louie sighed, too. Eighth grade came complete with problems nobody had counted on.

Chapter 12.

"Ring, ring, ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mary Anne."

"Logan! Hi." (I was always surprised to hear his voice on the phone.)

"How're you doing?"

"Fine. How are you?" (It was four o'clock on a weekday afternoon. We'd just seen each other an hour earlier.)

"Fine. Guess what's on TV tonight."

"What?"

"Meatballs. Have you ever seen it? It's really funny."

"I don't think so. I mean, I don't think I've seen it."

"It's on at eight. Try to watch it."

"I will."

"So? What's going on?"

"I'm going to baby-sit for Jackie Rodowsky tomorrow. The last time I sat for him, he fell

out of a tree, fell down the front steps, and fell off the bed. But he didn't get hurt at all."

Logan laughed. "That kid should wear a crash helmet," he joked.

"And carry a first-aid kit," I added.

There was a pause. I had no idea how to fill the silence. Why did this always happen with Logan? There were hardly any pauses when I talked to the members of the Babysitters Club. I knew I was blushing and was glad Logan couldn't see me.

"Want me to tell you about Meatballs?" asked Logan.

"Sure," I replied, relieved. A movie plot could take awhile to explain.

And Logan took awhile. In fact, he took so long that we reached my phone conversation limit. My dad still has a few rules that he's strict about, and one of them is that no phone conversation can last longer than ten minutes. Even though Dad was at work, I felt I had to obey the rule. For one thing, what if he'd been trying to call me for the last ten minutes?

Logan reached a stopping place, and I knew I had to interrupt him.

"Urn, Logan?" I said.

"Yeah?"

"I hate to say this, but — "

"Your time's up?" he finished for me.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"That's okay. So are you going to watch Meatballs?"

"I'll try. If I get my homework done."

"Great. Well ... see you tomorrow,"

"See you tomorrow."

We hung up.

Whewwwww. I let out a long, slow breath. I love talking to Logan, but it makes me nervous.

Ring, ring.

Aughh! Dad had been trying to call! And I'd been on the phone for over twelve minutes.

"Hello?" I said guiltily. Excuses began flying around in my head: I'd needed a homework assignment explained. Someone else had needed homework explained. The phone had accidentally fallen off the hook.

"Hi, Mary Anne!" said a cheerful voice.

"Oh, Stacey. It's only you!" I exclaimed.

"Only me! Thanks a lot."

"No, you don't understand. I thought you were Dad. I mean, I thought you were going to be Dad. See, I've been on the phone for — Oh, never mind."

"More than ten minutes?" asked Stacey,

giggling. "Yeah." "Well, listen. I just wanted to make sure

you were coming to my party — and that you'd invited Logan."

"Well . . ." The thing is, I'd been putting that party off a little. I was nervous about asking my father if I could go to a boy/girl party, and even more nervous about inviting Logan. How do you go about inviting a boy to a party?

"Mary Anne?"

"What?"

"Are you coming and have you invited Logan?" she repeated.

"I don't know, and, no, I haven't."

"Mary A-anne."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Really I am." (I didn't know then why Stacey sounded so exasperated. I was the guest of honor at her party, but I had no idea.)

"Get off the phone and call Logan."

"I, um, have to call my father, too. I have to get permission to go to the party first."

"So call him, then call Logan."

"I've been on the phone since four."

"The rule is ten minutes per call. Just keep these calls short. It's the easiest rule in the world to get around. My mother put a five-minute limit on my calls to Laine Cummings in New York. So I just keep calling her back. If I call six times we can talk for half an hour."

I laughed. "All right. I'll call Dad."

"Call me back after you've talked to Logan."

"Okay. 'Bye."

I depressed the button on the phone, listened for the dial tone, and called my father at his office.

His secretary put me through right away.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

"Oh, hi, Mary Anne. I'm in the middle of something. Is this important?"

I was forced to talk fast. "Sort of," I replied. "Stacey's having a party at her house. It's for both boys and girls. We're supposed to ask guests. Can I go? And can I invite Logan?"

"Will Mr. and Mrs. McGill be at home during the party?"

"Yes," I said, even though I hadn't asked Stacey about that. I was sure they would be at home, though.

"What time is the party?"

"It starts at six."

"You may go if you'll be home by ten, and if you meet Logan at the party."

"Oh, thanks, Dad, thanks! I promise I'll be home by ten! I promise everything!"

I called Logan with a bit more enthusiasm than I'd felt before. I punched his phone number jauntily — K-L-five-one-zero-one-eight.

Logan answered right away.

"Hi," I said. "It's me again. Mary Anne Spier."

"I know your voice!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't apologize."

The call was already going badly. I wished I could rewind time and start over.

"Urn ..." I began.

"Hey," said Logan, more softly. "I'm really glad you called. You never call me. I always call you. I'm glad you felt, you know, comfortable enough to call."

(This was better, but still not the conversation I'd imagined.) "Well, I have to ask you something. Not a favor. I mean . . . Stacey's having a party. I wanted to know if you'd — you'd go with me. If you don't want to, that's okay," I rushed ahead. "I'll understand."

"Slow down, Mary Anne! Of course I want to go. When is it?"

I gave him the details.

"Great," he said. "I can't wait."

As long as I was doing so well, I decided to ask Logan one more question. "Have you thought anymore about joining the Baby-sitters Club?"

Pause. "Well, I said I didn't want to join."

"I know, but ..."

"I'll think about it some more, okay?"

"Okay." (After all, the rest of us hadn't decided that we wanted Logan to join.)

There was some muffled whispering at Lo-gan's end of the phone, and then he said, sounding highly annoyed, "Mary Anne, I have to get off the phone. I'm really sorry. My little sister has a call to make that she thinks is more important than this."

"It is!" cried a shrill voice.