Ann Martin - Kristy's Mystery Admirer

feel. You're really special, Kristy." (I know I blushed.) Then he asked, "What about the other letters?"

"Why did I keep them, too?"

"No, I mean what about them? Where did they come from? Who sent them? What do they mean?"

I was relaxing. Even though I didn't have the answers to Bart's questions, I felt as if things were falling into place. Bart had written the love letters. That made sense. Then someone else had written the scary letters.

"I don't know," I told Bart. "Shannon and I have read the letters a million times and we can't come up with a thing."

Bart leaned over. Just as I had done so often, he read all the horrible letters to himself again. He even murmured the poem aloud, shivering at the "I'll remember you when you are dead" part.

"See why I'm afraid they're from a lunatic?" I said.

"Well, I can see why they frighten you, but a /wnatic? I don't know, Kristy. That sounds like — "

"Don't say, That sounds like something you'd see on TV.' "

"Okay, I won't. . . . But it does."

I sighed. "I know. Still, I don't have any better ideas."

"Got any enemies?" asked Bart.

I shook my head slowly. "I don't think so. Not unless you count Alan Gray, but he's too much of a dweeb to think up something like this."

"Who's Alan Gray?"

"A jerk. A boy at school who's been a pest all his life and probably will remain that way into adulthood."

Bart laughed. "But he wouldn't do this?" He pointed to the letters.

"No. I don't think so. It takes brains to do that."

"What about Sam?"

It was my turn to laugh. "Poor Sam," I said. "Everyone fingers him as a likely suspect. He's going to have trouble living down his reputation. Shannon thought the notes were from Sam, my friends at school thought they were from him. Even I thought the first ones were from him, before I could believe that any boy would like me enough to send me lo — to send me notes like those," I said.

"Hmm," said Bart, looking deep in thought. "Kristy, how many people know about the notes?"

"Well, let's see. Just Shannon, my friends in the Baby-sitters Club, and now you. Oh, and David Michael was here when Shannon brought the first letter over. It was in her mailbox for some reason."

"Oh," said Bart. "That was Kyle's fault, I guess. He must have gotten the mailboxes mixed up. I, um, I sent him to deliver the notes. I was afraid to go myself. I thought someone might see me on your street and you'd figure out who was sending the notes."

I giggled. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"So," Bart went on, "pretty many people know you've been getting notes."

"I guess so," I replied. "But what — ?" I was interrupted by David Michael yelling up the stairs. "Kristy? Phone for you!"

"Just a sec," I said to Bart. I answered the second-floor extension. It was Shannon. I told her what was going on and invited her over. I figured that with three people, we could do some real brainstorming.

So Shannon came over. After she apologized to Bart for having given him the silent treatment, she sat on my bed, being careful not to disturb the notes. "Any theories about the notes?" she asked us, sounding like a detective.

"No theories/' I answered. "But we know there are two people responsible for them. Bart did write the first notes, the nice ones, just like you thought. But somebody else is writing the others. The question is who? And don't say Sam," I said quickly.

"Kristy doesn't have any enemies," Bart added.

"Maybe someone is trying to sabotage the Krushers and make them lose the World Series. Can either of you think of anybody who would want to win so badly that they'd do all this?" Shannon waved her hand across the bed, indicating the notes.

Bart and I shook our heads, and Bart added, "None of the Bashers is old enough to do something like that. And I'm sure none of their parents would do it." He paused. "You know what's weird, though? The scary notes look just like the ones / wrote. Who could have seen me writing the notes? I did that privately."

Neither Shannon nor I had any suggestions. Kyle was too little to think up awful letters, and Bart doesn't have any other brothers or sisters.

"It's got to be a crazy person, then," I said. "There's no other answer. He'd been watching our house, he saw Kyle delivering the notes,

and he opened a couple before I did. You didn't always seal them," I said to Bart. "Sometimes you just stuck the flap down with a sticker. The stickers peeled off easily." I put my head in my hands. "Oh," I moaned, "there really is a kidnapper after me."

"I still think that's farfetched," said Bart firmly. "There's another answer. I just don't know what it is."

"Me neither," said Shannon.

"Me neither," I said.

I went to bed that night thinking only of being kidnapped. Every creak or rustle in our old house made me jump. A car honked and I nearly fell out of bed. It took me forever to drift off to sleep . . . after I thought I'd seen a face at my window.

Chapter 12.

On Saturday, a week before Halloween, and six days before Bart and I would go to the Halloween Hop, I woke up without a pit in my stomach for once; without a worry about being kidnapped.

It was the day of the World Series and I could think of nothing but softball and the game that was to be played. It was going to be a big event. Both the Krushers and the Bashers had been practicing hard and were geared up for the game. Parents and brothers and sisters would be sitting in the bleachers. So would friends, and of course, the members of the BSC. And The Three Stooges would be present to cheer the Krushers on.

There was an awful lot of excitement at my house that morning. Karen and Andrew were not spending the weekend with us, but they had come over early, and both they and David Michael (all Krushers) were racing around in

a state of ... I'm not sure what. They were certainly keyed up.

"Our T-shirts have to be clean!" I could hear Karen say as I put on my robe and went downstairs for breakfast.

"And we have to bulk up," added David Michael, whom I found seated in front of an enormous bowl of cereal and a stack of toast. "I need starch," he was telling Mom matter-of-factly. "So do you," he added to Karen and Andrew.

"I can't eat all that!" exclaimed Andrew. "Besides, I already ate breakfast."

"You guys, calm down," I said. They were practically bouncing off the walls, just like they'd been on the morning of the first game we ever played against the Bashers. "Eat what you feel like eating," I said. Then I turned to Mom. "Is everything ready for the refreshment stand?" I asked her. (We were going to have a Krushers refreshment stand, just like we'd had at our first game against the Bashers. The parents had chipped in with cookies and lemonade to sell to the fans. We were trying to earn enough money for team baseball caps. We'd almost earned enough the last time, but then Jackie Rodowsky had managed to knock over the refreshment stand with a flying bat,

so we'd lost a few things. In the end, we'd earned some money for our team, but not enough for hats for everyone. We were hoping we could accomplish that today.)

"Everything's set," replied Mom. "Sam and Charlie will bring the tables in the station wagon. Oh, and I made brownies for you to sell."

"You did?" I cried. "Thanks, Mom! You were only supposed to supply the tables. Boy, our refreshment stand is going to be great."

"Well," said Mom, "I figured you might need some extra food — in case your walking disaster has another disaster."

"Thanks," I said gratefully.

And then, just like before any big game, the phone calls started. Kids were nervous. Kids had lost their T-shirts. They'd forgotten tips that I'd given them. Jake Kuhn's younger sister was sick and wouldn't be able to play. I tried to remain calm, mostly for the sake of Karen, Andrew, and David Michael, who were, by then, at about an eleven on an excitement scale of one to ten.