Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 085

Besides, I didn't want to catch a snide remark on the way out.

Dressed in jeans and a button-down men's shirt over a stretch top, I walked to the Pikes'. I brought a Kid-Kit with me. (Well, sort of.) Kid-Kits are supposed to be boxes full of toys, games, and activities for kids. (Kristy thought of the idea, and kids really do love them.) Mine, though, is filled with art supplies. It's more of an Art-Kit.

Slate Street was silent. This is unusual, because the Pikes live there. The neighbors must have been in shock.

Claire Pike, who's five, answered the door.

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" she squealed, jumping up and down.

"Come on in, Claudia!" Mallory Pike shouted from the den. Mal's the oldest Pike (eleven). She's the BSC member I mentioned. "We're having story time." Claire raced into the den ahead of me. She sat on the floor next to her triplet brothers, Adam, Jordan, and Byron Pike.

Yes, ten-year-old boy triplets. Yikes! Can you imagine? And that, of course, is just the beginning of the Pikes. The others are Vanessa (nine), Nicky (eight), Margo (seven), and Claire the Jumping Bean.

And they were all, all, staring quietly at Mal-lory and a hairy monster.

The hairy monster looked suspiciously like Ben Hobart, with a mask. (Ben is Mal's boyfriend, more or less.) "And so the horrible Oogly Oogly Beast searched high and low for his missing toothbrush," Mal read from a spiral notebook. "He had not brushed his teeth for days. ..." "Ewww," Byron Pike said. "Bad breath!" Behind Mal, Ben the Beast put his hands on his hips and tried to look angry.

Mal went on, and I listened. With her reddish-brown hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, and her big, round glasses, she looked older than eleven. Her story was about a monster who was obsessed with being clean. (Mal is a great writer, and she wants to be a children's author/illustrator someday.) I sat on the floor and started doodling. I tried to make some illustrations for Mallory's story, but they looked kind of stupid. So I watched.

"... So the Oogly Oogly Beast slooooowly approached the campers. Drool dripped from his mouth and onto his white fur. Then, bursting into the campsite, he shouted — " Mallory paused. Ben froze in an attack position.

"What? What?" Vanessa demanded.

Mallory's eyes widened threateningly. Then she said, " 'Uh, excuse me, does anybody have a Wash'n Dri?' " The kids cracked up.

Mallory grinned at Ben. I could hear him laughing behind his mask.

The two of them were very cute. And all of a sudden I had another reminder of why I was feeling rotten.

Boylessness.

Mary Anne had Logan. Mallory had Ben. Kristy (sort of) had this boy named Bart. Sta-cey, my ex-best friend, had a boyfriend named Robert.

Claudia? Zilch.

Not that I'm boy-crazed. It's no great tragedy not to have a boyfriend.

But, hey, it's no great honor either.

I've tried. I even placed an ad in the personals column in the Stoneybrook Middle School newspaper. I was running the column at the time, but that didn't help. The only people who answered my appeal for the "Perfect Boy" were Alan Gray (the class geek) and Stacey McGill. (Yes, Stacey. She was feeling sorry for me.) Sometimes I wish I were still working on the newspaper. At least I'd be meeting people.

"Waaaaahhhhh!" Ben was crying now.

"Poor, poor Oogly," Mallory said. "All those teeth and nothing to brush with . . ." Poor, poor Claudia, I thought.

"No bathtub, no towel . . ." No boyfriend, no best friend, no activities . . .

"So sad and lonely . . ." So sad and lonely.

Puh-leeze. Get a grip, Kishi.

I stood up and left the room. I tried to look nonchalant about it.

But boy, was I feeling sorry for myself.

By the time I reached the kitchen, I had made up my mind. I needed a change. I was going to do something new with my life. Something interesting. Fun. Different.

By the end of the day, I, Claudia Kishi, was going to turn my life around! Chapter 2.

I lied.

My life was exactly the same, right through to the next day, Wednesday.

But I'd been trying. After I left the Pikes, I mentioned my problem at home. Janine suggested taking computer programming. Dad brought up stamp collecting. Mom's response was, "Don't you have homework?" Big help.

So I sat down and made a list of possible choices — the first things that came to mind, no matter how strange.

1. Tuba 2. Tap Dancing.3. Cooking.

4. Chorrus 5. Swiming.

6. Dramma Club.

The next morning, I began testing the waters.

I tried making an omelet in the microwave. It tasted like plastic with cheese sauce.

Scratch number 3.

At school I took a look at a tuba. It was love at first sight. Sooo cool. Then I imagined taking it home to practice.

Ugh. Number 1 was out. (I'd have to take weightlifting first.) I asked the music teacher about chorus, and she told me I needed to come in after school and sing for her. Alone.

I said thanks but no thanks. Flush number 4.

I was going to talk to the captain of the SMS swim team, until I took a look at her chlorine-damaged hair. NFM! (Not For Me.) Number 5 bit the dust.

That left tap and drama. I was once involved in a production of Peter Pan, but only as a set designer. And I knew nothing about tap. Fortunately one of my BSC friends, Jessica Ram-sey, is an excellent dancer. Several BSC members have sung and acted in shows. (Kristy played the lead in Peter Pan, and Shannon Kilbourne has starred in summer camp musicals.) I figured I'd bring up choices 2 and 6 at the Baby-sitters Club meeting.

So after school, I went home and waited.

That's the nice thing about living in the exclusive headquarters of your club. Everyone comes to you. (Plus you are almost never late.) What makes the Claudia Kishi bedroom so special? My scintillating personality? My superior art? My confectionary collection?

Well, yes, of course. But mostly my phone. I'm the only BSC member with a private line, which is crucial to our business.

Yes, business. We all have titles and duties. (I'm the vice-president and official off-hours phone answerer.) Our clients are Stoneybrook parents, who call us during out meeting times — five-thirty to six, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. With one phone call, they reach six great baby-sitters. That's the way the BSC works.

I mean, duh, what a simple idea, right? Wrong. No one had thought of it before Kristy Thomas.

Kristy is an Idea Machine. I mean it. She is not normal. If she put her mind to it, she could figure out how to de-stripe a tiger. She dreamed up the BSC one afternoon when her mom couldn't find a sitter for her little brother, David Michael.

Times were tough for Kristy's family back then. Mrs. Thomas was raising four kids by herself — Charlie (who's now seventeen), Sam (fifteen), and David Michael (seven and a half). Kristy's dad had walked out on his family not long after David Michael was born, just left them flat, no explanations, no nothing. Can you imagine?

Boy, have things changed. Mrs. Thomas married this nice, quiet guy named Watson Brewer, who is a millionaire. Now Kristy and her family live in a real mansion on the wealthy side of town, along with an adopted little sister, Emily Michelle, who's from Vietnam; Nannie, Kristy's grandmother; Watson's two kids from his previous marriage (seven-year-old Karen and four-year-old Andrew, who are there every other month); and several pets.

Now that Kristy lives so far away, she has to be driven to meetings by her brother, Charlie. Even so, she has hardly ever been late to a meeting. In fact, she's usually the first one there.

That day, she arrived at 5:24.

"Hey, Claudia, what's up?" she said.

"Ohhh, uptown, upstate ..." I answered cheerfully. (Not bad, huh? I had just thought of it.) "Groan." Kristy rolled her eyes and sat in the director's chair near my desk. That's her usual spot. (Mine is on my bed, sitting cross-legged.) "Kristy," I said, "I need an activity, something really interesting and fun. And don't tell me to take a sport — " "DON'T WORRY, I WON'T UPSET YOU." Kristy spoke in this exaggerated, loud voice, then started laughing and slapping her knees.