Ann Martin - Claudia And The Sad Goodbye

I dashed up the steps two at a time, ran to our front door, and peered out the side window. Was I ever surprised to see Mrs. Addison standing there! The art class wouldn't be over for another fifteen minutes. I opened the door. "Hi," I said. (I know I sounded as surprised as I felt.)

"Hi," replied Mrs. Addison. "I'm sorry I'm so early. My husband's waiting in the car." (She turned and gave a little wave toward a blue Camaro parked crookedly in our driveway, as if the Addisons were in a big hurry.) "I forgot to tell Corrie this morning that we have tickets to the ice show in Stamford. I mean, tickets for Scan and Corrie. They'll meet a baby-sitter there, and then Mr. Addison and I can enjoy an afternoon to ourselves."

I could feel my temper rising. An afternoon to themselves? Wasn't that all they ever had?

Time without their children? Dumping them at lessons, with friends, with sitters? I counted to five before I said slowly and deliberately something that both Mary Anne and I had been wanting to say to the Addisons for a long time. Mary Anne really should have been the one to say it, since she's better with words than I am. But, oh well. There was Mrs. Addison, and there I was. It might be our only chance.

"Mrs. Addison," I began, trying to think of ways to be tactful, "this is the first time you've picked Corrie up early."

"Yes, I — " she began.

But I kept on talking. "Did you know that Corrie is always the last one to leave my house after class is over? And that she's always the first to arrive?"

Mrs. Addison checked her watch impatiently and glanced over her shoulder at the car waiting in our driveway.

"I love having Corrie around," I went on. "She's a terrific kid. But, well, she feels pretty bad about being left here…left here longer than any of the other children, I mean."

Mrs. Addison's expression changed. She looked at me curiously.

"Did you notice," I started to ask, "that Corrie hasn't brought home any of her art projects?"

"Well," (Mrs. Addison cleared her throat), "I noticed that just, um, just this morning. And I did wonder why."

"It's because she's been giving them away," I said.

"Giving them away?"

I nodded. "Yes. To me, to Mary Anne Spier, to the other kids. I think," I began (and oh, my lord, I hoped I wasn't butting in where I didn't belong), "that Corrie is a little bit mad at you and Mr. Addison." (What an understatement.) "She wants to please you, but she gets angry and scared when she feels like," (I tried to think of a nice way to say that Corrie felt her parents didn't care about her), "like … sometimes other things are more important to you and Mr. Addison than she is."

There. I'd said it. I waited for the fireworks.

But Mrs. Addison merely looked at me with tears in her eyes. She rummaged around in her purse for some Kleenex.

"All Corrie wants," I dared to say, "is to spend more time with you."

Mrs. Addison began to sniffle. "Excuse me," she said hurriedly, and ran out the door and back to her car.

Uh-oh, I thought. Now I've done it. I stood at the door on rubbery legs. A few minutes later, Mrs. Addison returned. I was still at the door.

"I think," Mrs. Addison began, "that the baby-sitter probably wouldn't mind if I attended the ice show with Sean and Corrie today. I can pass up my free afternoon."

"You can?!" I grinned. And you should have seen the look on Corrie's face when her mother and father not only gave Corrie the news about the ice show, but took a tour of our makeshift art room. Corrie even presented her parents with her newly finished collage.

"This is for you," she said proudly, hastily scrawling

across the back.

A few moments later, the Addisons and Corrie climbed the basement steps.

I watched them go. I knew that Corrie's life wouldn't magically change, that it wouldn't be perfect from then on. But I thought maybe it would be better. And I realized that Mimi was the one who had shown me how it could

be better. Because Mimi had always been there when I needed her. I never had to fight for her love the way Corrie had to fight for her parents' love. Now Mimi might be gone, but I knew that before she died (died, not left me), she had made me a strong person, strong enough to stand up to Mrs. Addison for Corrie.

Chapter 15.

I will now reveal my secret.

My secret was a tribute to Mimi. It was a piece of art. Mimi had always appreciated my art. She liked anything I did, but she especially liked my paintings and collages. And so, since the kids and I seemed to have collage fever, I made a collage for Mimi.

It was not very big — only about twelve inches by twelve inches, and I filled it with small but important things. Maybe I did that because Mimi had always seemed small but important to me. She was tiny — birdlike — but she could help me to solve any problem or make me feel better even when I was at my lowest of lows.

So the collage contained small pictures cut from magazines — of a tea cup and saucer to represent our "special tea"; of a family eating a meal, since Mimi had always cooked for us

and insisted that we eat together; and of a woman knitting, since Mimi liked to do needlework before she had her stroke. Then I drew a picture of a Japanese woman cradling a Japanese baby. I added that, too, plus yarn and ribbon, thread and lace. I even glued down tiny charms — scissors and a thimble — and tea leaves and flour.

I hoped the collage was impressive and meaningful, but I wasn't sure. Even so, I backed it, matted it, and had it framed. That cost a lot of baby-sitting money, but I didn't care. It was for Mimi..

And now it was time to unveil it. As far as I knew, nobody had any idea about my secret. I decided to show it to my friends first, then my family. If my friends didn't like it, or thought it was stupid, they would tell me so. I could count on them for that. Then I could change it, or start over, before I showed it to my family. I wanted my family to see the polished, perfect tribute, not something silly or full of mistakes.

So at the next meeting of the Baby-sitters Club, when we were gathered in my room and Kristy said, "Any club business?" I raised my hand tentatively.

Kristy looked at me curiously. Mallory andJessi are usually the only ones who bother to raise their hands. In fact, Kristy has never, asked us to do that. It's just that Mal and Jessi are younger, and the sixth-grade teachers still drill that stuff about hand-raising into your head at their age. By eighth grade, the teachers have pretty much given up.

"Claud?" said Kristy.

"I — I know this isn't club, um, club business," I stammered, "so if you don't want to hear about it right — right now, that's okay.. I guess. I mean, this is Mimi business, and you all knew her, and you know how im-important she was to me." (To my horror, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.) "I want to — to show you something."

I could feel every single person in my room, even Kristy, melting.

And Kristy was the one to say, "Of course we want to see … whatever it is. Don't we, you guys?"

The others agreed without hesitating.

I drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Okay," I began, "what it is, is a tribute to Mimi. I wanted to do something in her memory. Having memories is one thing, but I wanted to do something for her. Even though she's not — not here, I think she'll know I did