Ann Martin - Jessi's Wish

"Hey!" cried a girl whose name I'd forgotten. "Maybe they'd like pictures of us. You know, so they can see who the letters are from."

"Do you still have your Polaroid camera, Mr. Katz?" asked Bruce.

"It's in the cabinet," he replied.

"Goody!" exclaimed Nicky. "We can take funny pictures, too."

The kids were moving around now. Some were trading letters, some had followed Mr. Katz to the cabinet, some were getting out paper and pencils.

"We could decorate the paper and make beautiful stationery," I heard Charlotte say to Becca, and I knew they were going to work together.

I started toward them, but their heads were bent as they whispered together. They didn't look as though they needed help.

Don't favor Becca, I told myself. And remember that the Kids Club is her club. This is her territory. Don't interfere.

I took my own advice.

Anyway, other kids needed me. "Jessi?" said Wendy. "How do you spell 'hospital'?"

Bruce pulled at my hand as I walked by. "Can you take my picture?" he asked.

"I'll take your picture," said another boy. "We're partners."

"How about if I take a picture of you together?" I asked.

"Yes!" cried Bruce. "No, wait! Take two. A silly one and a nice one."

"Photo limit!" said Mr. Katz then. "One per person. The film is expensive."

"We better be careful, then," said Bruce.

"Jessi, you can only take two. No do-overs. Okay. This will be the serious one."

The boys posed, as if for a school picture. Then they stuck out thek tongues and crossed their eyes. But they didn't laugh. - "I wonder if he'll like these pictures," said Brace's friend.

"I wonder if you can get well from cystic fibrosis," said Brace.

Chapter 6.

I think Kristy had something of a shock on her first afternoon at the center. She'd visited it recently, of course, but sitting in an armchair in the director's office is a little different from trying to entertain a bunch of cranky three-year-olds, or trying to read to a group of wiggly five-year-olds, or trying to feed eight babies at the same time.

The day-care center is big. There's a room full of high chairs and toys for the babies, and another room for them to sleep in. There's a nap room for the older children, a playroom for the toddlers, another for the preschoolers, another for the five- and six-year-olds, another for the seven- and eight-year-olds, and a study room for the oldest kids, and anyone else who needs it. There's a small gym, an arts-and-crafts room, a kitchen, a nurse's office, and outdoors, a playground. Until about three o'clock, when the older children are in school, the center is less busy. Just after three, though, the school kids begin to come by for the afternoon program. They can work on art projects, do their homework, play with their friends or their brothers and sisters, play on the playground, or help out with the younger children.

Wednesday was Kristy's first day at the center. She arrived as soon after school as she could. She went straight to the director's office.

"Kristy. Hi. I'm so glad you're here," said Mrs. Hall. "We've got a full house today, but we're a little understaffed. Where would you like to work?"

"Well ..." Kristy was unprepared for the question. She'd thought Mrs. Hall would assign her to an age group or to a certain room.

"Would you like to float around today?" asked Mrs. Hall. "You could help out wherever you're needed and also get acquainted with the children and the various programs. Maybe by the end of the day you'll choose an area you'd like to stay in. I think every teacher could use another pair of hands."

"Okay," replied Kristy.

She stepped out of the office and into the hallway. Directly across from her was a doorway. A sign next to it read "Study Hall." Kristy peeped inside. She saw several long tables with chairs, a bookshelf holding a set of encyclopedias, a cabinet labeled "Supplies," and walls lined with children's pictures and art projects. Several kids were seated sloppily at the tables, surrounded by open books, lined paper, assignment pads, jackets, sweaters, gym bags. . . .

Kristy entered the room.

The kids perked up.

"Can you help me?" a boy called out immediately.

"Sure," replied Kristy. "I mean — probably. What do you need help with?"

"Spelling."

"Oh, okay. I'm good at that." Kristy glanced around. A teacher was busy with a little girl who was reading aloud, sounding out each word. The teacher nodded to Kristy, and went on working.

Kristy settled herself at a table, across from the boy.

"My name is Oliver," the boy whispered.

"Hi, I'm Kristy."

"Okay." Oliver smiled. "Do you know how to spell Leonardo and Donatellol"

Kristy raised her eyebrows. Oliver couldn't have been more than eight. "What are you working on?" asked Kristy. "A report?"

"No, a writing paragraph."

"About famous artists?"

Oliver shook his head. "I'm writing about my heroes, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," he whispered.

Kristy succeeded in not laughing. She spelled the words for Oliver, helped another boy with his math homework, and settled a squabble between two girls over an eraser. Then the teacher stood up.

"Snack time!" she announced. "Anyone who needs a break, go on into the kitchen." The room emptied as the children scrambled into the hallway.

Kristy followed them partway. She paused at the doorway to the room where the babies were napping in their cribs. She walked on. Halfway to the kitchen, she ran into Mrs. Hall.

"The three-year-olds need some help," Mrs. Hall announced. "Why their teacher picked today to finger paint is beyond me."

Kristy headed for the playroom used by the three- and four-year-olds. She opened the door and was greeted by a harried-looking young man who said to her breathlessly, "I don't know who you are, but whoever you are, thank goodness you're here . . . Stephen! The paint goes on the paper, not in your hair. Aimee! Oh, for heaven's . . . Christopher!"

"Have they ever finger painted before?" Kristy wanted to know.

"Yes, but never on a day when they missed their naps."

"Their naps?"

The man nodded. "Both of them. We took a field trip this morning — "

"To the farm, to the farm, to the FARM!" sang Aimee, giggling.

Her teacher tried to pull himself together.

"Yes, to a farm. And this afternoon, the kids were still keyed up, and naptime came and went and . . . Oh, by the way, I'm Randy Walker."

"I'm Kristy Thomas. What can I do to help you?"

"Supervise that table?" said Randy. He pointed to the table around which were standing Stephen, Aimee, Christopher, and two other children. "I'll watch the kids at this table. We're going to paint for about ten more minutes, then I think I'll read to the kids and try to calm them down before their parents arrive. Grab yourself a smock."

Kristy noticed that Randy and the children were each wearing a smock, an oversized shirt buttoned down the back. She found an extra, hanging by the sink, and put it on. Then she approached Aimee's table.

"Hey, look!" exclaimed Aimee. "Red and blue and green and yellow and purple make brown."

Her painting was a big muddy blob. (Her hands were the same color.)

"That's, um, lovely," said Kristy. "Hey, Stephen, how about making designs on- your paper?"

Stephen was marching spiritedly around the table, making squiggles on everyone else's paintings.

Christopher burst into tears. "You wrecked it!" he cried.

"Did not!" (Stephen began to cry, too.)

"Whoa, you guys," said Kristy. She separated them (glad she was wearing the smock) and began to sing the first song that came to mind, which happened to be "Rock Around the Clock."

Christopher and Stephen stopped crying. Aimee wrote AIMEE in her brown painting and announced that she was finished.