Ann Martin - Hello, Mallory

Hello, Mallory

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

Spectacles. Eyeglasses. Bifocals. Trifocals. No matter what you call them, glasses are glasses, and I have to wear them.

Hello. I'm Mallory Pike. I'm eleven. Apart from the glasses, this is the thing you need to know about me: I have seven younger brothers and sisters. That's right, seven. And three of them are triplets, identical boys. If you think it's easy to blend in when you come from an eight-kid family, wear glasses, and furthermore are the only one you know with a head of curly hair, you're wrong.

The triplets are ten years old. Their names areAdam,Jordan , and Byron. Occasionally, they make me crazy, but mostly they're all right. The good thing about triplets is that they always have each other. Built-in friends.

The next kid in my family is Vanessa. Vanessa is nine and hopes to become a poet. Sometimes she goes around for days on end

speaking in rhyme. Talk about making me crazy. But Vanessa is all right, too, and in a lot of ways we're very much alike.

My eight-year-old brother is Nicky. I feel kind of sorry for Nicky because he has trouble making a place for himself in our family. He wants to play with the triplets most of the time, since they're boys, but the triplets think Nicky is a baby. That leaves Nicky with us girls, and Nicky is going through this phase where he hates girls.

Margo is seven. She's going through a bossy phase, even though she's almost the youngest in the family. She bosses everyone and everything, even my parents, her dolls, and Pow, this dog that lives down the street. It's always "Do this," and "Do that." Mostly, we ignore her. I mean we ignore the bossiness, not Margo herself.

Last in our family is Claire. Claire is five. I guess being the baby in a big family isn't always easy, but you'd think she wouldn't exactly need to draw attention to herself. That's just what Claire does, though, by being extremely silly. Over the summer, she started calling our parents Moozie and Daggles instead of Mommy and Daddy, and she attaches "silly-billy-goo-goo" to people's names. Like, if she wants a drink, she'll say, "Can I have some

juice, Mallory-silly-billy-goo-goo?" Sometimes she'll add, "Puh-lease, pun-lease, with a cherry on top?" It's annoying, but at least she doesn't do it as often as she used to. Besides, Claire is huggable and affectionate, so it's easy to overlook the "silly-billy-goo-goo" stuff.

Then there are my parents. My mom doesn't have a job. I mean, a job outside of the house, like being a doctor or an insurance salesperson or something. She says us kids are her job, and that with eight of us it's a big job.

My dad is a lawyer, but not the kind you see on TV, making wild speeches in a crowded courtroom. He's what's called a corporate lawyer. He's the lawyer for a big company inStamford,Connecticut . (We live inStoney-brook,Connecticut , which isn't far away.) Mostly, he sits at a desk or attends meetings. Once in awhile, though, he does go to court, but I bet he doesn't make speeches. I think he just stands up a lot and says, "Objection!" and things like that.

Every single one of us Pikes, even my parents, has dark brown hair (Mom calls it "chestnut brown" to make it seem less ordinary) and blue eyes. Nicky and Vanessa and I wear glasses (all the time — not just for reading, unfortunately), but as I mentioned earlier, I am the only one with curly hair. I'm also the

only one with freckles across my nose. I really stick out. If only Mom would let me get contacts. But she won't. Not until I'm fifteen. And she won't let me get my ears pierced until I'm thirteen.

Being eleven is a real trial.

I will admit one thing, though: No matter what age you are, being the oldest of eight kids sure teaches you responsibility. And it taught me a lot about baby-sitting. I love sitting, even though I haven't done much of it on my own yet. But guess what? These girls I know asked me if I'd be interested in joining their baby-sitting club! And they're not just any girls, they're older girls! No kidding. There are four of them and they live in my neighborhood. (Well, most of them do.) Their names are Kristy Thomas, Claudia Kishi, Mary Anne Spier, and Dawn Schafer. They used to have a fifth member, Stacey McGill, but she moved away. That's why the girls need me — to take Stacey's place. The way they know me is that they sit for our family all the time. Although lately, instead of being sat for, I've helped with the sitting. And as I said, I know a lot about kids.

I am so flattered that the girls want me to join their club. But I'm nervous, too. What if they decide I'm not good enough or not grown-up enough or something? Oh, well. I'll know on

Monday. That's when I go to my first club meeting.

Right now it's Saturday. Two days to wait. But I've got plenty to do. I'm reading three books — Dr. Dolittle, The Incredible Journey, and this really funny one called Freaky Friday. I love to read, and I don't believe that you have to finish one book before you start another. I like to write, too. I keep journals, and I write stories, stories, stories. Sometimes I illustrate them.

Plus, this afternoon, I have to baby-sit. In fact, I better go downstairs now. Dad is taking the triplets to the barber for haircuts, and Mom is taking Margo and Vanessa shopping for sneakers. That leaves me in charge of Nicky and Claire. I guess I'm lucky that my parents pay me for taking care of my own brothers and sisters.

It was time to hide my journal (not easy, since I share a room with Vanessa). I put the book in its usual spot under my mattress. (I bet Vanessa knows where I keep it.) Then I ran down the stairs.

"Oh, there you are, honey," said Mom. "Good. Your father and I are just about to leave. Nicky's in the backyard with Buddy Barrett. You know where we'll be, right?"

"At Mr. Gates' and at Bellair's," I replied.

(Mr. Gates is the barber; Bellair's is a department store.)

"Right," said Mom.

"Moozie-silly-billy-goo-goo, I want shoes, too," whined an unhappy voice. It was Claire. She was slogging up the stairs from the rec room, looking dismal.

My mother turned around and took Claire's chin in her hand. "You don't need sneakers, sweetie," she said. "When you've outgrown your red ones, then you can have a new pair."

"Not fair," grumbled Claire, heading back down the stairs. "Silly-billy-goo-goo."

"Don't worry, Mom," I said. "I can handle her."

And I could. Dad drove off with the triplets, Mom drove off with my sisters, and I took Claire into the backyard with a bottle of soap bubbles. Claire blew bubbles and forgot about shoes, and Nicky played volleyball with his friend Buddy (Buddy is Pow the dog's owner) and forgot about us girls, which seemed to be a perfect arrangement for everyone.

"Foo, foo," went Claire, making bubbles stream from the plastic wand. "Look, Mallory-silly-billy-goo-goo!" N

Slam, slam went the volleyball as the boys pounded it back and forth over the net. They

weren't fooling around. Their game was serious.

The boys were still playing when my father came back with the triplets. The car pulled to a stop in the driveway. The doors opened slowly. Claire and I looked on with interest. My brothers hate getting their hair cut.

"You look like a nerd," said Adam, punching Jordan on the arm and laughing riotously.

"Me! You're looking in a mirror," retorted Jordan. "You look just the same . . . only worse."

The boys tried to sneak into the house without being noticed, but Buddy caught sight of them and let out a howl of laughter. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" The volleyball game didn't stop, though.

"Pay attention, Buddy!" Nicky yelled. He slammed the ball over the net.

Since Buddy was laughing at the triplets, he wasn't really ready. But he managed to return the ball. "Oof!" he groaned. "There you are, you show-off. I hit it anyw—"