Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 085

"I love the Beatles!" I blurted out. (Okay, I was exaggerating.) "Since when?" Kristy asked.

"Well, uh, okay, I'll lower it." I turned the knob (slightly) and changed the subject. "Um, anybody want Skittles?" "Me! Me!" a chorus of voices answered.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the Beatles wailed.

I dug the Skittles out of my sock drawer. No one seemed to mind the song much. Soon it was business as usual — munch, gab, gab, munch. I kept quiet, my ears tuned to the radio.

The phone must have rung, because I noticed Kristy snatching up the receiver. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," she said. "Okay. We'll call you right back." Then she hung up and announced, "We need two sitters for the Barrett/ DeWitt kids on Saturday." Mary Anne looked in the record book. "Let's see, Dawn's free, and so are you, Kristy." Kristy called Mrs. DeWitt back. "It'll be me and Dawn, Mrs. DeWitt. . . . Okay, 'bye." Kristy hung up. The radio droned on: "We have a three-mile backup on Route Ninety-Five. . . ." Kristy yawned. Jessi and Mal were playing Hangman on the floor. Mary Anne was scribbling in the notebook. Dawn and Shannon were looking at a magazine.

And I was listening to: "... allow at least a half hour leaving Stamford to the east ..." Kristy reached for the radio. "This is giving me a headache." "No, don't!" I snapped.

Rrrrrrinnnng! Saved by the phone. I leaned over the radio, blocking Kristy, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club!" I said.

"Yes, hello, dear. This is Ginger Wilder, and I was wondering if someone was free on — " "And now we have for you the winner of our Host of the Month contest . . . ontest ... on-test ..." the announcer intoned (with lots of reverb).

"Aaaagh! Mrs. Wilder, can I call you back?" I said.

"Oh, my. Is something wrong?" Mrs. Wilder asked.

"About five minutes, okay? Sorry!" "Fine. I'll be h — " Click.

I hung up. I cannot believe how rude I was. Around me were six dropped jaws and twelve bewildered eyes.

I turned up the radio. "We have read them all," the announcer said. "And they were ter-rrrrri/ic! But we believe we have a winner. The first place essay for the WSTO Ho-o-o-o-st of the Month contest was written by . . ." A drumroll began. I wanted to die. I was sitting there with my stomach inside out, and they were playing a drumrolll "Would you mind telling us what is going on here?" Kristy said testily.

"Sssshhhh!" I hissed.

"Claaaaaaaaudia Kishiiiiiiiiii!" blared the announcer.

I did not react. I did not even smile. I couldn't. My body had frozen and my heart had stopped.

No. It was a joke. He was kidding. Or he was wrong. He read the wrong name. That had to be it.

"Claudia is an eighth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School who likes art, reading mysteries, and fine dining . . ." "Fine dining?" Kristy murmured.

"Aaaaaaaaaaagh!" I shrieked. "I won! I won!" I jumped up and started falaping around the room.

Everyone else was staring at the radio as if it had suddenly grown horns.

"So, Claudia," the announcer went on, "if you're within the sound of my voice right now, please call five-five-five-WSTO. To repeat, that's — " I was already on the W.

The phone rang on the other end — once, twice, three times.

I thought I would faint.

I caught Mary Anne's glance. She was grinning at me. Tears were forming in her eyes.

Finally I heard a male voice say, "WSTO, Radio Stoneybrook." "Huck — heck — hum . . ." Lovely. I'd won the contest of my dreams, and a frog had jumped down my throat.

"Excuse me, could you speak louder?" the voice asked.

"I'm Caudia Klishi!" I stammered.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" "Claudia Kishi! I'm Claudia Kishi! I won the Host Contest!" "Oh! Hey, congratulations! That was some essay!" "Thanks." "Listen, the station manager, Mr. Bullock, would like to tell you about the job in person. Say, tomorrow after school? Four-thirty or so?" "Sure!" He gave me directions. I grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled them down on a candy wrapper.

After blabbering a good-bye, I calmly, quietly hung up.

"Ya-hoooo!" Kristy whooped.

The room exploded. Mary Anne and Dawn threw their arms around me. Jessi and Mal jumped up and down, squealing.

"You're a star!" Dawn said.

"How come you didn't tell us you entered?" Kristy asked.

"I wanted it to be a surprise!" I explained.

For the rest of the meeting we talked about nothing else. I celebrated by digging out a box of Hostess chocolate cupcakes. (We almost forgot to call Mrs. Wilder back.) I could not wait to tell my family the news.

Chapter 4.

You know who's really, really great? My sister, Janine. I mean it.

Here's what happened when I broke the news at dinner: Mom and Dad smiled. Then Mom asked if the show would interfere with my schoolwork. Dad wanted to know if I would be paid.

Janine? She immediately ran into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a bottle of ginger ale and four wine glasses.

"A toast to Claudia, the first media celebrity in the family!" she announced.

"Hear, hear!" Dad said.

Janine was the first to clink glasses with me. She was wearing this huge grin.

I almost cried.

Between dinner and bedtime, every single BSC member called. Dawn gave me a list of songs to play (ecology-oriented, of course). Kristy told me her brother, Charlie, had agreed to drive me to the radio station the next day. Then she asked about seven hundred questions about the show. Shannon, Jessi, Mal, and Mary Anne each had questions of their own. 1 must have said "I don't know" a hundred times.

This distressed me. Was I supposed to know? Was Mr. Bullock really expecting me to come to the meeting with suggestions? Of course he was! I had written in my essay that I had good ideas flying around my brain. I had exaggerated. A lot.

Now what? Should I bring tapes to the interview? A list of talk-show-type topics? A list of people to interview? Or was this supposed to be a call-in show?

What had I gotten myself into?

That night I had nightmares. The entire world was listening to WSTO. Kids riding bikes and wearing headphones. Shoppers in malls. A capacity crowd in a sports arena with enormous speakers on stage, wailing: "And now, WSTO presents what you've all been waiting for — Claudia Kishi!" And then, dead silence.

By morning I must have sweated off ten pounds.

I sleepwalked through school the next day. After last period, I walked to the front door, clutching my directions to the station.

Kristy was waiting for me there. Mary Anne and Dawn joined us soon after.

"Your barrette is crooked/' Dawn said, reaching toward my hair.

"This is exciting," Mary Anne said, squeezing my hand.

"I'll go in with you if you want," Kristy volunteered.

"Uh, I don't think so, Kristy," I said.

"Hold still!" Dawn warned.

"Guys, it's not that big a deal!" I insisted.

HONK! HONK! Saved by the Junk Bucket.

That's the name of Charlie Thomas's car, for exactly the kinds of reasons you'd expect. It is air-conditioned by two holes in the floor. You have to open the right front window with a monkey wrench. The rear floor is carpeted with crushed soda cans.

Kristy opened the back door, picked up an old T-shirt from the floor, and wiped off the seat. "Enter," she said.

"Good luck!" Mary Anne and Dawn shouted.

I climbed in back and Kristy got in front. "Thanks," I called out the window.

"I'll take good care of her," Kristy assured them. Then she yelled to a group of kids standing in front of the car: "Clear, please! Radio star coming through." Bang! Clank! Rrrrroar! The Junk Bucket's noise was enough to scatter everybody.

We were off.

"Where to?" Charlie asked.

I read him the directions, and he clanked away from the school. His radio was turned up so loud, I expected the police to pull us over. The station? WSTO, of course.