Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 085

"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog," sang the voice of Elvis Presley.

"Don't they play any good stuff?" Charlie asked.

"They will on Claud's show," Kristy replied confidently. "Right, Claud?" "I guess," I said.

"Not to mention the guest appearances," Kristy barged on. "You will have kid guest appearances, right?" "Well, I don't know." "Or, like, a comedy hour," Charlie chimed in. "I memorized this Robin Williams routine and — " "Hour?" Kristy shot back. "Don't be a hog, Charlie." I sighed. Already this show was overwhelming me.

The radio station was on the outskirts of Stoneybrook, in a low, tan brick building near the highway. Two tall towers stood next to it, with blinking lights on top. The Junk Bucket chugged noisily into the parking lot.

While Charlie waited in the car, Kristy walked inside with me to a small reception area. A young man sat at a desk, wearing a telephone headset and sipping coffee. His desk was piled with memos. On the walls around him hung photographs and plaques.

"Claudia?" he said, looking up.

"Yes," Kristy answered.

"Hi. My name's Max. I spoke to you on the phone — " "I'm Kristy Thomas," Kristy said with a big grin, reaching out to shake the guy's hand.

He gave her a puzzled look. "You're the assistant?" he asked.

Kristy's eyes lit up. "Sure!" "No!" I exclaimed.

All three of us laughed. I gave Kristy a sharp nudge in the ribs.

Max pressed a button on his telephone console and said, "The first-place girl is here, Mr. Bullock." Then he said to me, "He'll be out in a second. Have a seat." Almost immediately a tall, thin, gray-haired man with glasses and a great smile walked into the room.

Kristy bounced to her feet.

"Claudia, this is Mr. Bullock," Max said.

Mr. Bullock energetically shook Kristy's hand. "Hello, there, Claudia! Congratulations!" "Uh, Mr. Bullock," I said meekly, standing up. "I'm Claudia." Mr. Bullock looked confused.

Ugh. What a great start.

1 shot Kristy a Look. "This is my friend, Kristy. She'll be waiting outside to take me back." "Great," Mr. Bullock said. He gave Kristy a friendly wink, then turned to me. "Okay, this way, Claudia." I could feel Kristy's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as Mr. Bullock led me down a hallway.

We passed three doors, marked Studio 1, Studio 2, and Studio 3. Through two of them I heard muffled sounds of music. The floors were thickly carpeted, and so were the walls (soundproofing, I guess). At the end of the hallway were two other doors, the one on the left marked Conference Room and the one on the right, Station Manager.

"My office," Mr. Bullock said, opening the door on the right. "Believe it or not, it's highly organized." I tried not to laugh. The place was a pigsty. It looked sort of like my bedroom. 1 sat on a chair that was empty (probably just cleared for the occasion).

As Mr. Bullock began to close the door, I heard Max call out, "Mr. Bullock, the other girl's here." Other girl?

"Terrific," Mr. Bullock said. "Send her in." He stood at the door, smiling. "Here's your assistant, Claudia." "Assistant?" Mr. Bullock nodded. "The second-place winner gets to assist you. Contest rules. And believe me, you'll be glad you have one. A radio show is hard work." From my seat I could not see who was approaching. "Hello, there," Mr. Bullock said into the hallway. "Welcome to WSTO, and congratulations.'' As my assistant walked through the doorway, I froze.

Ashley Wyeth was shaking hands with Mr. Bullock.

Ashley Wyeth, the Artist with a capital A. Ashley Wyeth, who moved to Stoneybrook from Chicago, where she had studied at the country's best art school. Who wore peasant dresses and combat boots and had six ear holes. Who liked my artwork and became my friend — then told me I should quit the BSC and devote my life to "my calling." Who al- most single-handedly turned all my best friends against me.

Needless to say, Ashley and 1 did not remain friends. Not that we became enemies or anything (although the BSC members couldn't stand her). 1 just realized that an artist, especially a kid artist, had to have a life.

Ashley was the last person I'd have expected to see at WSTO. Why on earth had she entered this contest? Did she want old wax records to melt for a sculpture? Was she interested in sketching a microphone?

And why was she wearing normal clothes? Her outfit was a plain, button-down shirt and khaki slacks with running shoes. (She still had six studs in her ears, but I guess you can't plug up the holes, can you?) "Claudia Kishi," Mr. Bullock said. "This is Ashley Wyeth." Ashley smiled. "Hi, Claud. How's your art?" "Great," I replied. "Yours?" "Fine." "So you know each other," Mr. Bullock said. "That's terrific." I forced the sides of my mouth upward into a smile.

Mr. Bullock cleared off another chair, and Ashley and I sat. "Now, I want you to know how thrilled we are to have you two aboard," he said, sitting behind the desk. "As you know, your show will be twice weekly, Thursday and Saturday, for a month. The first show will be a week from this Thursday. You'll be planning and broadcasting the shows. How you two divide your duties is completely up to you. We've never done anything quite like this, so we'll be counting on you for ideas." Gulp.

"Do you want a music show?" Ashley asked. "Or, like, call-ins and featured guests?" "Yes." Mr. Bullock laughed. "In other words, anything goes. It's your show. We have facilities for all of the above. I'll just ask that you submit a program sheet the day of the first show, and at least a day in advance for subsequent shows. Remember, the station is at your disposal. And I've assigned one of our interns to help you. His name is Bob At-kinson, and he did a show like this in New York when he was a teenager. Okay?" "Okay," I squeaked.

"Now, come on, let me show you around." Mr. Bullock led us back into the hallway. He pushed open the incredibly thick, padded door to Studio 1. Outside the door was a red light that said On Air. It was unlit.

Inside was a room with electronic equipment crammed in every corner. Shelves of tapes and CDs lined the walls and a rock song was playing loudly.

One wall was glass, from about waist up. Through it I could see a man sitting at a desk. He was young and skinny, and his hair was in a ponytail. He was wearing earphones, bopping along with the song, and scribbling something on a sheet of paper.

"That's one of our engineers, testing the equipment," Mr. Bullock said with a smile. "You'll be sitting in this big room with your guests, and the tech staff will work behind the soundproof glass." Wow. 1 was beginning to tingle. I could not wait to start.

Ashley was beaming, too.

The engineer caught a glimpse of us and waved his pencil. I waved back.

Mr. Bullock took us to a huge stockroom with nothing but shelves of records, tapes, and CDs. "Our library," he called it.

Next we saw the conference room. In there, a bearded, dark-blond-haired guy was putting labels on tapes while eating a donut.

"Bob, meet Claudia and Ashley," Mr. Bullock said.

"Heyyy, the two winners," he said, offering his hand. "Nice to meet you. Did Mr. Bullock manage to scare the daylights out of you yet?" Ashley and I laughed. Neither one of us dared to say yes.

"Well, I'll leave you three," Mr. Bullock said. "Come talk to me if you have questions." We said good-bye, and Bob pulled up a couple of folding chairs for us. I got three cups of water from a cooler in the corner. From under the piles of tapes, Bob pulled out a legal pad.

"Your first dangerous mission, should you accept it," he said, "will be finding two things: a title and a format. By format, I mean, how exactly are you going to divide up the hour? What kinds of features? How long? Will they be continuing? Varying from show to show? Stuff like that." Nod, nod, nod, nodded Ashley and I.