Ann Martin: Dawn's Big Move

Jessi, by the way, is really into ballet. You should see her perform. Incredible! She practically glides in the air. She takes lessons in Stamford and has danced major roles in various productions. Someday she's going to be a pro. And you heard it here first.

I can't mention Jessi without mentioning Mallory Pike. They're best friends, and our junior members. Junior because they're eleven years old and in sixth grade, two years younger than the rest of us. They both have early curfews, so they mainly take on afternoon jobs. Here's what they have in common: they love to read (especially horse books), they're convinced their parents treat them like babies, they're the oldest kids in their families, and they're extremely creative. Mallory's talents are writing and illustrating. She wants to be a children's book author someday.

Here's what they don't have in common: Jessi's black and Mal's white, Mal wears glasses and braces (Jessi doesn't), and Jessi has a much smaller family than Mal's. There are eight Pike kids altogether (yes, eight). Jessi has only two siblings: an eight-year-old sister named Becca and a baby brother named John

Philip Ramsey, Jr. (Squirt, for short).

We have two associate members, Logan Bruno (yes, Mary Anne's boyfriend) and Shannon Kilbourne. They're our backups when we get busy. They don't come to most meetings, but they're both excellent sitters. Shannon is the only member who doesn't go to SMS. She goes to a private school, Stoneybrook Day School.

Then there's me. I'm the alternate member. That means I take over whenever anyone can't make a meeting. I became the club treasurer when Stacey moved back to New York. (Boy, was I glad she returned to Stoneybrook.)

Back to the meeting. The more Jessi talked about seeing her old friends, the more my heart sank. Don't get me wrong. I was glad she was so excited, but it made me think of my old friends in California.

Then Stacey talked about how much she loves to visit her old friends.

I kept picturing a map of the United States in my head. I saw a dot marked STONEYBROOK with three lines sticking out from it. One short line connected it to New York City, another short one connected it to Oakley, New Jersey — and a humongously long one stretched clear across to my dad's house in Palo City, California.

"You guys are lucky to be so close to your old neighborhoods," I finally said. "I miss mine so much."

Clunk. That stopped the conversation flat.

Kristy spoke up first. "Well, what can you do about it?"

Change the subject, that's what. And hope that someday Kristy would develop plans for a magic carpet or something. "Oh, I'm going there for Thanksgiving," I replied with a shrug. Then I said, "Anyone read about Run for Your Money?"

"Our family already entered!" Kristy said.

"I read that athletics can be harmful for your health," Claudia remarked, stuffing a Ring Ding in her mouth. "But we're going to go anyway. Probably just to watch Janine win all the IQ games." (Claudia's sister, Janine, is a certified genius.)

"I hope they have pinball machines," Mal-lory said.

"I hope they have foosball," Stacey added.

Claudia looked at her. "What?"

"You know, a table with these long poles attached to players, who kick a ball when you rotate the pole."

"Table hockey!" Mallory said.

"Whatever," Stacey replied.

"Well, you can all cheer me and Charlie in

the three-legged race," Kristy added.

It turned out all my friends' families were going to enter. That was cool. It gave me something to look forward to in the long trudge toward Thanksgiving.

Chapter 3.

"Oh, this is absurd!" Richard was struggling with his zipper on his pants. "And where am I supposed to drop this?"

None of us could answer. We were sick with laughter, sprawled out on the grass of our yard.

It was Saturday morning, and we were practicing for Run for Your Money. Now, if you told me an alien had landed in my backyard, I probably wouldn't believe you. But if you told me Richard Spier would agree to participate in an underwear race in Run for Your Money, I'd think you were crazy.

Well, that was exactly what Mom had managed to do — convince Richard. Don't ask me how. She had even bought him a Simpsons tank top undershirt and an oversized pair of boxer shorts with red hearts on them, just for the occasion.

The hearts showed through his pants, which made us laugh even more. Plus his belly jiggled beneath his undershirt.

"I'm really not sure about this. ..." Richard was now hopping on one foot, trying to pull his pants over his big, clunky shoes. His face was redder than the hearts.

"You look so sweet, Richard!" Mom blurted out, still clutching her stomach.

She was wearing lightweight long Johns. I was down to a two-piece bathing suit. Mary Anne was wearing a modest one-piece with a skirt.

I should probably explain. In an underwear race you peel off your clothes as you run. The first person to get to the finish line in his or her underwear wins. (It doesn't have to be actual underwear. Mom says people sometimes wear outrageous things. It's the spirit that counts — the spirit of silliness and fun.)

"Oh, honestly, I give up," Richard finally said in a huff. He was standing there in his heart boxers, with his pants gathered around his ankles and his clodhopper shoes poking out. We were screaming. We couldn't help it.

Richard was not amused. He started trying to walk back to the house — and you can imagine what that looked like.

That was when he gave up. He just sat on

the ground and started chuckling. "You don't suppose there's another event we might try to enter instead?" he asked.

"No!" Mary Anne and I replied.

"Waaaaiit!" said Mom. "What about tug-of-war? We have a rope, don't we?"

"Oooh, great!" Mary Anne said.

"I'll get it," I volunteered.

As I ran into the barn, Richard stood and began hiking up his pants in a major hurry. So fast, in fact, that he pushed the heart boxers upward so they bunched over the top of his belt.

I found a rope on the barn wall, grabbed it, and ran out. "How should we do this?" I asked.

"Girls against boys," Mom said.

Richard looked at her blankly. "Girls against — "

"Or is that going to be too tough for you, dear?"

"Too tough? We'll see about that!" Richard took one end of the rope and walked away from us, his boxers billowing over the top of his pants.

I don't know how we kept from cracking up. Instead, we all dug in until the line was taut.

"Ready?" Mom announced. "Set? Go!"

"Wait, I — " Richard seemed suddenly un-

comfortable about something, but it was too late. We girls had already begun pulling.

Richard pulled back. He's stronger than I thought. His biceps were bulging.

It was unfair, I know. We had caught him off guard. And there were three of us. He began staggering forward, losing his balance. And it soon became clear why he'd been uncomfortable. His pants were slipping down again.

"Heave . . . ho\" Mom grunted. We gave a strong yank, and — whompl — down went poor Richard.

He landed on his hands and knees, his pants down around his thighs.

"Mr. Spier?"

We all turned to see Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold staring at Richard. They're identical twins who live around the corner from us. They were dressed in tennis whites, on their way home from a lesson. Their parents were behind them, gently nudging them onward. I could tell the grown-ups were trying hard not to laugh.

Well, you have never seen a grown man spring to his feet faster. He pulled himself together, trying to look nonchalant. "Hello, there," he called out. "The girls sure are giving me a workout. This Run for Your Money is quite a lot of fun."

Oh, was his face red. Mr. Arnold nodded and said, "Yep. Looks like a good time. Maybe we'll enter, too."