Ann Martin - Logan Likes Mary Anne !

"That sounds great," I said, mustering a tiny smile, "but this doesn't have anything to do with my birthday. I just want a cat to keep me company. Then I wouldn't feel alone when you're not here."

"I don't know, Mary Anne. We've never had a pet before. We'd need a litter box and a carrier. And what would we do with the cat if we went on vacation?"

"Get Mallory Pike to come feed it?" I suggested.

"Well," said my father, "I'll think about it. Do you know any vets? We'd need a vet, too."

"The Thomases go to Dr. Smith," I told him. "They really like her."

Dad sipped his coffee and stared into space. At last he said, "Okay, I've thought about it. You may get a cat."

All I could say was, "What?" I couldn't believe he'd made the decision so fast.

"You may get a cat," Dad repeated. "If you'll use some of your baby-sitting earnings to buy dishes and toys and a litter box, I'll buy the carrier and pay for food and the vet bills. Consider it an early birthday present. After all, thirteen is an important birthday."

"Oh, Dad! Thanks!" I flung myself at my father, giving him a fierce hug.

"We probably should have gotten a pet a long time ago," he said. "The only two things I ask are that you take care of the cat as much as possible — "

"Oh, I will, I will!"

"And that you get the cat, or a kitten, from the animal shelter. Give a home to a pet that really needs one. Most of the animals in the pet store will eventually be sold, but the animals in the shelter are in a bit of trouble."

"No problem," I said. "I'd rather get a stray, too."

Suddenly I had an excuse to do something I'd sort of been thinking about ever since I woke up. I went into the kitchen, closed both doors, and called the Brunos' house.

Logan's little sister answered, shouted, "Lo-gan, it's for you — a gi-irl!" and giggled nonstop until Logan got on the phone.

"Hello?" he said.

I cleared my throat. "Hi, ifs me."

"Mary Anne?"

"I thought you always knew my voice," I teased him.

"I didn't expect to hear from you, that's all. I thought you were mad at me."

"You did?"

"Well, actually, we all thought you were mad at us. I'm really glad you called." Logan sounded relieved.

I bit my lip. "Is that why no one called me last night?" I asked.

"Well . . . yeah. We were sure you never wanted to speak to us again. We're really sorry about what we did. We should have known better."

"Wow," I said. "I thought all of you were mad at me — for being so, you know, ungrateful. And spoiling the party."

"Oh, boy," said Logan, letting out his breath. "Sorry."

"Me, too. . . . But listen. I have some good news. Dad said I could get a cat! Want to meet me at the animal shelter and help me pick one out?"

"Sure! When? Today?"

"This afternoon. Dad and I have to buy a few things first."

So that morning my father and I went shopping for cat stuff, and that afternoon, we met Logan at the Stoneybrook Animal Shelter. Dad waited in the car so Logan and I could go looking alone.

The shelter was clean and the people were nice, but I sure wouldn't have wanted to be an animal stuck there. It was like an orphanage for pets. Row after row of wire cages, each holding a lost or homeless dog or cat. Most of them looked frightened and nervous.

A woman led Logan and me into the cat area.

"I think I'd like a kitten," I told her.

"Well," she said, "I'm afraid it's the wrong time of year for kittens, so we don't have many. Just one litter. They're over here. Someone left these four kitties outside the shelter a couple of weeks ago without their mother. We weren't sure they were going to make it. But now they're all healthy and frisky."

I peered inside a cage that was larger than most others. The four kittens were snoozing in a relaxed heap on an old blanket. There were two red tabbies, one splotchy, patchy calico, and a gray tiger cat.

"Are they old enough to be separated?" I asked.

The woman nodded.

"Then I want the gray one, please," I said.

Logan nudged me. "Don't you want to play with them first or something? Maybe you'd like one of the others better."

"Nope," I said. "I've always wanted a gray tiger cat, and I've always wanted to name it Tigger after the tiger in Winnie-the-Pooh."

This seemed to make sense to Logan.

The woman opened the cage, gently pulled the sleeping kitten from its litter mates, and handed it to me. "It's a boy," she said.

Dad and Logan and I took Tigger home in his carrier, and he cried all the way. He didn't seem to want milk or kitten chow or anything, and refused to leave the carrier, so Logan and I left him in it and watched him fall asleep.

When Tigger was as limp as a little rag doll, Logan reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and handed it to me. It was the silver-wrapped box he'd had at Stacey's party.

"Happy birthday," he said. "I wasn't sure I'd ever be giving this to you. After last night, I thought we were through. I really didn't think things could work out between us. But you took the first step and called me today. I know that wasn't easy. Anyway, happy birthday."

While Tigger napped, I opened the box and found a delicate silver bracelet.

"Oh, thank you," I breathed.

"You're welcome," Logan said softly. "Want to come to the Fifties Fling with me next month?"

Did he have to ask? Of course I did!

Chapter 15.

Saturday had turned out to be a pretty good day after all, what with Tigger, Logan's birthday present, and Logan's invitation to the dance. But I wasn't through with my apologies. I knew I had to call Stacey, too. So, late in the afternoon, with a now frisky Tigger playing in my lap, I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

"Stacey," I said, a lump rising in my throat, "it's me, Mary Anne."

"Oh."

I couldn't read that "oh" at all. Had it sounded surprised? Annoyed? Sarcastic? But before I could decide what to say next, Stacey mumbled, "I guess you're wondering why I haven't called."

"Well," I replied, "I thought you might be wondering why I hadn't called."

Then Stacey and I proceeded to have the same sort of conversation that Logan and I

had had that morning. Each thought the other was mad, we both apologized, and then we cried a little. I promised to try to be more outgoing (after all, the kids at the party had been my friends), and Stacey promised to try to be more understanding.

"Ow!" I cried as she was finishing her promise.

"What? What?"

"Something bit me!" (Tigger, of course, with his baby teeth, which were like needles.)

I told Stacey all about Tigger then, and she suggested that we hold a special meeting of the Baby-sitters Club at my house the next day so everybody could see him.

It turned out, though, that she had another reason for wanting to hold a meeting at my house, but I didn't find that out until Sunday.

On Sunday afternoon at three o'clock, the doorbell rang.

"Time for our meeting," I told Tigger. I picked him up and carried him to the door so he could meet the first club member.

When I opened the door, though, I found the entire club on our doorstep, along with the remains of my birthday party — a chunk of cake, and all the presents.

"Surprise," whispered Kristy, Dawn, Clau-dia, and Stacey.

I giggled. "Come on in."

Tigger watched my friends with wide, bright eyes as they settled themselves in the living room. Dad stuck his head in the room, said hello to everybody, and then sensibly retreated to the den.

"You sort of missed the birthday part of your party," Stacey explained, "so we decided to bring it over. You can open your presents, and we'll meet Tigger."

"There are so many presents!" I exclaimed.

"Everyone at the party brought one. And they all wanted you to have them, even after you'd left. So here they are."