Ann Martin - Logan Likes Mary Anne !

When Claudia and Logan returned, Logan sat down next to me and handed me a glass

of Diet Coke, while Claudia handed glasses to the others. He smiled at me. "What was your worst baby-sitting experience?" he asked.

I'd had several pretty bad ones, but they all flew right out of my head. "Oh ... I don't, um, know," I mumbled.

Logan nodded. What could he say to that? He turned to Kristy the chatterbox.

"Stacey told me the club was all your idea," he said.

Kristy nodded. "It just sort of came to me one evening," she replied loftily.

Ring, ring.

Kristy reached over and picked up the phone, somehow managing not to take her eyes off Logan. (The things a cute boy did to our club. . . .)

"Hello, Baby-sitters Club." We all listened to Kristy's end of the conversation. From the questions she was asking, I could tell the caller was another new client. When she hung up the phone, she said, "Okay, that was someone named Mrs. Rodowsky. She has three boys. They're nine, seven, and four. They live way over on Reilly Lane. She picked up one of our fliers at the PTA meeting."

"Reilly Lane?" interrupted Logan. "Isn't that near where I live?"

"Yup," said Kristy. "A few streets over. And

I'd like you to take the job. They'd be good clients for you, living nearby with three boys and all. The only thing is — I hope you don't mind — I'd kind of like one of us to, you know, see you in action first. I mean, I know you've done a lot of baby-sitting, but ..."

"That's okay," said Logan. "I understand."

"Oh, good," said Kristy. "Well then, even though there's only going to be one of the Rodowsky boys to sit for next week — the seven-year-old — I want two baby-sitters to go on the job. Logan and someone who's free. Mary Anne?"

For once I was on my toes. I picked up the record book. "What day?" I asked.

"Thursday. Three-thirty till six."

I looked at Thursday. I gasped. Then I cleared my throat. "I'm the only one free," I croaked.

Logan smiled at me. "I guess we've got the job," he said.

I nearly fainted. "I guess so," I replied.

Chapter 6.

Kristy had called Mrs. Rodowsky back and explained why two sitters would be coming for the price of one. Mrs. Rodowsky had been very impressed and said we sounded responsible and mature.

Maybe that's how we had sounded, but I felt like I had spaghetti for bones. I'd felt that way ever since the club meeting. Now it was the day Logan and I were supposed to baby-sit.

I met him in front of the Rodowskys' at 3:25. As soon as I saw him, my legs and arms felt all floppy. The sawdust returned to my tongue. It was like this every time I got within a mile of him. Or even if someone mentioned his name.

"Hi!" Logan called.

I was going to have to shape up. I really was. This was a job. This was business. I

couldn't have spaghetti-bones and a sawdust-tongue while I was trying to baby-sit.

"Hi!" I replied brightly. I smiled. (There. That hadn't been so bad.)

"Ready?" asked Logan. He smiled, too.

"I hope so," I said. "How much trouble can one little kid be?" (Obviously, I wasn't thinking straight. Otherwise, Jenny Prezzioso would have come to mind, and I'd have kept my mouth shut.)

Logan and I walked to the Rodowskys' front door and Logan rang the bell. It was answered by a tall, thin woman wearing blue jeans and a jean jacket. She didn't look like most mothers I knew.

"Hello," she said. "You must be Mary Anne and Logan. I'm Mariel Rodowsky. Call me Mariel. Come on in." She held the door open for us.

Logan and I stepped inside.

"Jackie!" Mrs. Rodowsky called. (I just couldn't think of her as Mariel. It's hard to call adults by their first names.) "Your sitters are here."

We heard footsteps on a staircase, and in a moment, a red-haired, red-cheeked, freckle-faced little boy bounded into the front hall.

"This is Jackie," saidMrs. Rodowsky. "Jackie,

this is Mary Anne, and this is Logan."

"Hi," Logan and I said at the same time.

"Hi," replied Jackie. "I got a grasshopper. Wanna see him?"

"Honey," his mother said, "let me talk to Logan and Mary Anne first. Then you can show them the grasshopper." Mrs. Rodowsky turned back to us. "Jackie's brothers have lessons at the Y today and I have a meeting. I've left the number of both the YMCA and the Stoneybrook Historical Society by the telephone. We should be back at six or a little before. I guess that's it. Jackie's used to sitters. You shouldn't have any problems. Just . . . just keep your eye on him, okay?"

"Oh, sure," said Logan. "That's what we're here for."

"Great," said Mrs. Rodowsky with a smile.

(One point for Logan, I thought. He was good with parents.)

A few minutes later, Mrs. Rodowsky left with two other redheaded boys.

Jackie began jumping on the couch in the rec room.

"Boing! Boing! Boing!" he cried. "I'm a basketball! Watch me make a basket!"

Jackie took a terrific leap off the couch, his knees tucked under his chin as if he were

going to cannonball into a swimming pool. Logan caught him just before he crashed into the piano.

I'm not sure what I would have done if I'd caught Jackie, but Logan raised him in the air and shouted, "Yes, it's the deciding basket, fans! The Rodowsky Rockets have won the Interstellar Championship, and it's all due to Jackie, the human basketball!" Then he carried him away from the couch and the piano. (Another point for Logan.)

I hung back. This was really Logan's job, not mine. I was just along to watch.

Jackie giggled. He squirmed out of Logan's arms. "I gotta show you guys my grasshopper," he said. "His name is Elizabeth."

"You've got a grasshopper named Elizabeth?" said Logan.

"A boy grasshopper?" I added.

"Yup," replied Jackie. "I'll go get him for you. Be right back."

Jackie dashed up the stairs.

Logan glanced at me. "Whoa," he said. "That kid's got energy."

I nodded, feeling shy.

Logan wandered into the living room and waited. I followed him.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rodowsky must have their hands full," Logan commented.

"Probably," I managed to reply.

"Maybe they'll need sitters often," he added. "I wouldn't mind."

I gazed at the walls of the Rodowskys' living room. They were covered with the boys' artwork, professionally framed. Logan wandered over to one of the pictures — a house formed by a red square with a black triangle sitting on top of it. A green line below indicated grass, a blue line above indicated sky. A yellow sun peeked out of the corner.

"Well, what do you know," said Logan. "We've got a painting just like this at our house. Only it says Logan at the bottom, not Jackie. And all these years I thought it was an original."

I giggled. We had one of them, too. Why couldn't I say so? I looked at the other paintings. Logan picked up a magazine.

"It's, um, it's — it's taking Jackie an awfully long time to — " I was stammering, when suddenly we heard a noise from upstairs.

KER-THUD!

The crash was followed by a cry.

Logan and I glanced at each other. Then we ran for the stairs. Logan reached them first. We dashed to the second floor.

"Jackie!" Logan bellowed. "Where are you?"

"Ow! ... I'm in the bathroom."

Logan made a sharp left and skidded to a stop. I was right behind him. Jackie was sitting on the floor. The shower curtain was in a heap around him, and the rod that had held the curtain was sticking crazily out of the tub.

My first thought was to run to Jackie, give him a hug, and find out what had happened. But I hung back. This was Logan's job.

"Are you hurt?" exclaimed Logan.

"Nope," said Jackie. He stood up.

"Well, what happened?"

(So far, so good, I thought. But as far as I was concerned, Logan had made one mistake. After letting Jackie go upstairs alone, he had let far too much time go by. He should have checked on him after just a couple of minutes. Minus one point.)