Ann Martin: Claudia And The Sad Goodbye

Anyway, after some searching around my room on that Wednesday afternoon, I found a new package of Double Stuf Oreos and handed them to Kristy in the director's chair. While she was opening them, Jessi, Dawn, and Mary Anne came in. Mallory moved off the bed to sit on the floor with Jessi, while Mary Anne and Dawn and I settled ourselves in a row on my bed. These are our usual spots for club meetings.

No sooner had Kristy asked if anyone had club business to discuss, than the phone rang.

"I'll get it!" exclaimed Kristy. "First call of the meeting!" Kristy picked up the phone. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club… Yes? … Yes?" She sounded puzzled. Then she handed the phone to me and said, cupping her hand over the receiver, "It's Mrs. Addison. Remember her? And she wants to talk to you."

This was not standard club procedure. Usually, whoever answers the phone (and it isn't always Kristy), takes down the information about the job, and then hangs up to give Mary Anne a chance to study our schedule. When we've found someone who's available for the job, we call the client back to tell him or her who the sitter will be.

But our club had baby-sat for the Addison

kids only a couple of times, so maybe Mrs. Addison had forgotten the procedure.

I took the phone from Kristy, feeling curious. "Hi, Mrs. Addison?" I said. Then I listened to her for a long time. When I hung up the phone, I turned to the other girls and said, "Guess what? She doesn't want a baby-sitter, she wants an art teacher."

"Huh?" said Kristy.

"Oh, don't tell me. For Corrie. Or Sean. Right?" spoke up Dawn, who's the only one of us who has sat for the Addisons.

"Yeah, for Corrie," I replied. "How did you know?"

"Because all Mr. and Mrs. Addison want is time for themselves, so they shuttle poor Corrie and Sean from class to class on weekends and after school. Corrie's only nine, and Sean is ten, and I bet they've both already taken basketball, dance, drama, creative writing, football, baseball, and anything else the Addisons can think of."

"Well, now Mrs. Addison's thought of art, and she knows that I'm pretty good at artandthat I like kids, so she's wondering if I'd give Corrie an art lesson once a week. I guess that would be sort of like a baby-sitting job… Wouldn't it?"

"Sure,” replied Kristy. "You'd have to charge more than usual because you'd need to provide materials, but I don't see why — "

"Hey!" I cried, interrupting Kristy. I couldn't help it. For once,I'dhad a great idea. "Maybe I could start a little art class. Like on Saturdays in our basement. Gabbie and Myriah Perkins love art projects. So does Jamie Newton. That would be fun. And good experience for me, in case I ever want to be an art teacher."

"And," said Kristy slowly, "it would show people that our club can do more than just baby-sit. I think it would be good for business."

"I'd need some help, though," I said slowly. "I don't know if I could manage a class alone."

"If you hold the class on Saturdays, I could help you," spoke up Mary Anne. "We'll split the money sixty-forty, since you'll be in charge."

It seemed like a great arrangement. If Mrs. Addison agreed, then all systems would be go.

Mrs. Addison did agree. The meeting ended on a happy note.

Chapter 3.

Sometimes when my friends leave after a club meeting, I feel a little let down. Suddenly my room is quiet again. And it's funny, but that's when I miss Stacey the most. Knowing that my onlybestfriend is all the way in New York City makes me feel bad — but just for a few moments. Then I remember that Mimi is home and I can run downstairs and help her fix dinner.

That was just what I did after the meeting when Mary Anne and I decided to hold art classes. Only lately I haven't been just helping Mimi fix dinner, I've pretty much been doing it for her, or at least directing her, if she insists on doing things herself. She's just not too trustworthy in the kitchen anymore. Her hands shake, so I worry when she's using knives or the vegetable peeler. And (I know this is gross, but it's true) she's not very sanitary anymore, either. She's always forgetting to wash her hands before she begins cooking. She doesn't remember to wash food either, like raw chicken pieces or lettuce. And I'm afraid she's going to give us all food poisoning sometime by thawing out a piece of meat, deciding not to serve it after all, and then re-freezing it without cooking it first. That's a wonderful way to get salmonella. Plus I worry about matches, the stove, the oven, you name it. Of course, I only need to worry on her bad days. On her good days, no problem. Which is why my parents haven't banned Mimi from the kitchen yet. They know it would take away her sense of usefulness and independence — and that on the bad days, I'll cook or supervise.

"Mimi!" I exclaimed as I entered the kitchen. "I've got a good idea! Let's have a fancy candlelight dinner tonight. You set the table in the dining-room with our good china and put out candles and everything."

"Yes. Fine," replied Mimi vaguely.

I was glad she agreed to that. After the business with Mallory that afternoon, I could tell she was having a bad time, and I wanted to make the dinner myself.

During the next hour, my parents came

home from their jobs, and Janine returned from her college course called Advances and Trends in Computerized Biopsychiatry. (Or something like that. I don't know the meaning of any of those words except "and" and "in.")

Everyone was surprised and pleased by our formal dinner. Mimi and I exchanged a secret smile as Mom exclaimed, "Oh, how lovely!" and Janine cried, "Candlelight!" and Dad said, "Chicken and rice, my favorite." (So it wasn't fancy food. At least the meallookedfancy.)

My family took our usual places at the table.

I said grandly, "I will serve the first course."

"First course!" repeated Dad.

"Yup," I replied, and then added casually as I was walking around the table with the soup tureen, "By the way, I got a B-plus on my history composition." (I failed to say anything about the math test.)

"Gosh," said Janine, and I couldn't tell whether she was more impressed by the grade or the pea soup, which she was looking at through her thick, round glasses.

I served Mom, then stepped over to Mimi (whom I probably should have served first, but oh, well). Just as I was dipping the ladle into the tureen, Mimi kind of slithered down in her chair.

"Mimi?" I said, hastily setting the hot tureen on the table where it left a mark that we've never been able to get off.

"Do not... do not... no feel well." Mimi slumped sideways and Dad and Mom both jumped out of their chairs. Dad caught Mimi just before she hit the floor.

"Call the paramedics, Claudia," said Mom in a tone you don't ignore.

I didn't even look back at Mimi. I just raced for the kitchen phone and made the call. The paramedics reached our house in ten minutes. I was waiting outside for them and led them into the dining room, where Mom and Dad had laid Mimi on the floor and covered her with a blanket.

"Is she dead?" I whispered to Janine, who was hovering nearby, not knowing what to do.

"No," replied my sister, sounding surprised. "Listen."

I tried to, over the commotion of the paramedics and their equipment. Mimi wasn't dead. She wasn't even unconscious. She wastalking.But she was all confused. I heard her mention everything from "the old country" to shopping with Mallory. Sometimes her eyes were closed, sometimes open. She was disoriented and probably embarrassed.