Ann Martin: Claudia And The Genius On Elm St.

Our meetings are fun. But, as Kristy says, "We're not only a club, we're a business." Each of us is an officer with special duties. Kristy, as president, runs the meetings. She also makes sure we write down our baby-

sitting experiences in the club notebook. That way we can tell each other about new clients, describe how we solved problems, stuff like that. Kristy was the one who thought up the idea of the notebook, and I have to admit it's really helpful. But it's sort of like brushing your teeth — a good thing to do, but not a whole lot of fun. Especially if you have horrible handwriting and can't spell, like me! I always think the other girls are going to laugh at my entries, even though they say they never do.

Another one of Kristy's great ideas is Kid-Bats. These are boxes we sometimes take on our jobs. They're filled with simple things kids can play with, like Magic Markers, paper, books, and small toys and games. They're not fancy but they really save the day sometimes. Kids love them.

Now, when a call comes in to the BSC, the first person we turn to is Mary Anne. She's our secretary, and she has to keep track of everyone's schedule. This is not easy, considering our club has seven members. You should see the record book she keeps. It's marked off in grids, with color-coded entries in this tiny, neat handwriting. She carefully writes down every one of Jessi's ballet classes, Mallory's orthodontist appointments, my art classes, Kristy's softball games. She also keeps an up-

to-date record of client information — names, addresses, phone numbers, special likes and dislikes, allergies, you name it. It's a lot of work, but you know what? Mary Anne never makes mistakes. I don't know how she does it. If I had her job, the club would fold in a week.

And it would fold in a day if I had Stacey's job. Stacey, the math whiz, is our treasurer. She keeps track of the club money. No, we don't hand over our earnings to her or anything like that. We get to keep whatever we make. So what does Stacey keep track of? Well, here's the only not-so-fun part about the BSC. We have to pay dues. Every Monday. No one likes to do it, but that's life. The money goes to our "overhead," as Stacey calls it. That means paying Charlie to drive Kristy to and from meetings, keeping the Kid-Kits stocked, and helping to pay my phone bill. If there's ever any leftover cash, we sometimes have a sleepover or a pizza party.

Dawn is our alternate officer. That means she substitutes for anyone who misses a meeting — for sickness, family vacation, babysitting appointment, whatever. She was our treasurer for a long time -while Stacey was living in New York, but she gladly gave that job back when Stace returned.

Jessi and Mal are our junior officers, since

they're not allowed to baby-sit late at night (unless they're watching their own brothers and sisters). They keep busy, though, sitting on weekend days and afternoons, which frees the rest of us to take nighttime sitting jobs.

Me? I'm the club's vice-president, which mostly means answering the phone during nonclub hours and keeping everyone's sweet tooth satisfied. That's fine with me!

Okay, getting back to Friday. I didn't eat the other half of the Kit-Kat, and it wasn't long before the phone rang.

I picked it up. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," I said cheerfully.

"Uh, hello dear, Ginger Wilder here," a voice answered. "I got your number from the Barretts."

Ginger Wilder here? That was a strange greeting, I thought. Was I supposed to know who she was or something?

"Right," I said warmly, "we've all sat for the Barrett kids: Buddy, Suzie — "

"And dear little Marnie," Mrs. Wilder said, cutting me off. "Yes, Mrs. Barrett has mentioned that you girls are quite lovely and talented. Now, I'm looking for a sitter on a regular basis. Is this something you handle?"

"Regular?" I repeated. "You mean like a permanent job?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Ginger Wilder said with a chuckle. "You see, my mother has become awfully ill. She's seventy, never been sick a day in her life, and now all of sudden, bam! Thursday she tripped and broke her ankle, then she came down with the flu, and now shingles, of all things. She really needs someone to look after her for a few weeks, and my sister and I have worked out a caretaking schedule."

I noticed she pronounced schedule "shed-yool." Up till then, I'd only heard English actors on TV say it that way. And what on earth did she mean by shingles!

"My days," she continued, "are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. My husband doesn't come home till eight, eight-thirty, so I'll need someone those three evenings to sit for my daughter, Rosie. She's seven."

"I think we can handle it — "I began.

"It will be frightfully easy," Mrs. Wilder barged on. "Rosie is quite occupied with her lessons after school. We've found the most marvelous private teachers who come to our house. Makes things very convenient. You know, it's tough enough to manage a daughter's career and be a good mother without having to traipse around town from teacher to teacher. . . . Anyway, I don't mean to chew

your ear off. Can you girls help me?"

"I'm sure we can," I said. "Would you please hold for a moment?"

"Of course."

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Looking up, I noticed everyone staring at me with puzzled expressions. I must have been making faces into the phone. "Is something wrong?" Mary Anne asked.

I shook my head and told them what Mrs. Wilder wanted. (I was dying to describe her in detail, but she might have heard me.)

Mary Anne carefully checked the record book. "Tuesday, Thursday, Friday . . . hmm, well, for the next two weeks you're free all but one of those days, Claud," she said.

I took my hand away from the receiver. "You're all set, Mrs. Wilder," I said. "I'll be your sitter."

"Super!" she replied. "You don't happen to have an interest in dance or music, do you?"

"Uh, no ..." I replied, "but I'm sure — "

"Or science and math?" she asked. "Are you in one of those clubs at school?"

I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. "No. I'm mostly interested in art."

"Oh, an artist, a budding Georgia O'Keeffe," Mrs. Wilder said. "Yes, well, Rosie likes to draw a bit when she has a few moments. So!

I shall see you on Tuesday, then? Three-thirty on the nose? We live at 477 Elm Street, near Locust Avenue."

"Okay, see you then!" I said.

As soon as I hung up the phone, Stacey gave me a big grin and said, "Luckyyyyy ..."

"This is great, Claudia," Kristy added. "Three days a week, a new client . . . what was the mother like? She seemed to talk a lot."

"Yeah," I agreed. "She's . . . friendly."

"You should have seen the expression on your face," Jessi said. "You were giving her this look ..."

I smiled. "She has this funny kind of voice. Like actresses in those old black-and-white movies. Mahvelous, dahling — you know, like that. And she said the strangest thing, something about managing her daughter's career."

"Maybe the daughter's like Brooke Shields," Dawn said. "Her mom managed her full-time from when she was a baby."

"I'm sure it'll be fun whatever it is," Kristy said.

"I guess," I replied.

"But it's only temporary?" Mallory asked, looking a little confused. "Is Mrs. Wilder taking a class or something?"

"No, her mom's sick," I said. "Rosie's grandmother. A broken ankle, flu — and something to do with . . . shingles."

"Ohhhhh," Mary Anne said with a pained expression. "My grandfather had shingles. It's some kind of virus that older people get, and it hurts like crazy. Your body just itches and itches for weeks, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Ew," I said, but that was as far as I got before the phone rang.

As I reached for it, I remember having this strange feeling. Like something was wrong about this job. Like it wasn't going to be easy at all. Was it something Ginger Wilder had said? Was it the tone of her voice?