Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 060

She was right - sort of. The temperature had gone up to the low forties, which felt like midsummer after the cold spell. "Well, take them along, just in case," I said. "And don't go too far. If you decide to play at a friend's house, let me know. Okay?" "Uh-huh. 'Bye!" " 'Bye!" As she ran out the front door, Marilyn said, "Sit on the sofa and pretend you're the audience." "Okay." I sat down and smiled.

Marilyn stood stiffly by the piano. In a barely audible voice, she mumbled, "Thefopeeis-frayoasebabaswelltenklavy," and quick sat down.

"Huh?" I said.

"I was just introducing the piece," Marilyn replied. "The teacher makes us do that." "But I couldn't understand what you said. Don't forget, the introduction is part of the recital. People will want to know what you're playing. Can you speak more clearly?" Marilyn exhaled impatiently and pulled herself to her feet. "The following piece is from Johann Sebastian Bach's The Well-Tempered Clavichord," she said in a monotone. "Okay?" "Much better," I said, applauding enthusiastically.

Marilyn played away. I'm not much of a musician, but I thought she sounded pretty good. I heard a couple of clinkers, but everybody makes mistakes. Anyway, I sure couldn't have done better. I cheered at the end.

"Encore! Encore! That was great!" Marilyn giggled. "Mary Anne, that stunk." "Stank," I said. "That stank." Her face fell. "It did?" "No! I meant, you were using the wrong word. When you said, 'stunk/ you meant 'stank.' It's like, 'it stinks, it stank, it has stunk1 - you know, like sink, sank, sunk." "Huh?" My explanation stank. And I was sunk.

"Never mind," I said. "You sounded great! I think you have nothing to worry about." "Well, I need to work on the fingerings. I'm going to practice some more. Will you listen to me later on?" "Sure." "Thanks." Marilyn began playing again, and I went into the kitchen. I had brought A Separate Peace with me, and I started reading.

It seemed as if only a few minutes had gone by when Marilyn came into the kitchen. "I'm ready," she said. "Want to listen?" "Sure." I put down my book and looked at the clock. Almost an hour had passed. In the back of my mind, I began wondering where Carolyn was.

Marilyn announced her piece, much more clearly than before. And even I noticed how much better she played it. I clapped wildly.

She sprang up from her seat, beaming. "That didn't stink, did it?" "No way!" I said. "Even Bach couldn't have done better." "Thanks." I looked out the living room window, thinking about Carolyn again. "What do you say we go look for your sister?" - "Okay," Marilyn said.

We put on our coats and went outside. It didn't take us long to track down Carolyn. She was down the street, standing with a clipboard on someone's front lawn. Eight or nine kids were gathered around her.

"Time?" she asked one of them.

He shrugged. "I can't tell time." Carolyn exhaled. "Haven't you been listening? I want you to tell me what time you want to travel to in my time machine - you know, like to ancient Greece, or to the year you were born, or to the future ..." "I want to go to now!" one kid blurted out. "Dzzzzzit! Hey, it worked!" He laughed loudly.

I guess there's an Alan Gray in every bunch.

"This is serious!" Carolyn insisted. "The first flight leaves on Thursday night, at the full moon. Be there or be square." She turned to the nearest girl, pencil in hand, and asked again, "Time?" "Um . . . when my grandma was a girl," she said.

"Can you be more exact? Say, 1930?" "Okay." "Place?" Carolyn asked.

"Brooklyn," the girl answered. "That's where she grew up." Carolyn scribbled furiously on a legal pad that was attached to the clipboard. "That'll be one dollar, in today's currency." The girl dug into her jeans pocket. "That's expensive," she muttered.

"It would buy a lot in 1930," Carolyn said. "Things were much cheaper then. Think of it that way." "Me next!" a boy shouted.

"Time?" Carolyn asked.

Marilyn shook her head. "What is she doing?" "Taking reservations for her time machine," I replied.

"Does she really believe that thing works?" It was a good question. If she did, she was going to be in for a big shock. And so were all the kids who had paid her money.

If she didn't, then she was cheating them.

I didn't know what to do. I stood there like a fool, watching Carolyn scribble away and rob those poor kids. Her pocket was stuffed with dollar bills and the kids seemed awfully excited.

Kristy came to mind. She was so practical about things like this. So was Stacey. What would they do?

Normally I would have called them and asked their advice. But I couldn't do that now. Not while I was a BSC pariah.

I thought I'd managed to go a whole day without feeling frustrated and upset about the Baby-sitters Club.

I was wrong.

Chapter 12.

I thought Sabrina was going to burst. Her eyes were wide open and her fingers were clenching and unclenching her books. "So?" she asked.

I stuffed my book in my locker. "So?" I repeated.

"So . . . wasn't I right?" "Right about what?" "Carlos!" "Oh, Carlos!" "So he did call you - and you're going, right? Oh, I knew it! You are soooo lucky!" "Wait, wait!" I protested. "Sabrina, I don't know what you're talking about." "Mary Anne," said Sabrina seriously, "are you trying to make fun of me? Because if you are - " "Oh, no!" I said.

"I mean, it's all over school. You accepted Carlos's invitation. It's a little silly to try to keep it from me when - " "Um, Sabrina, I'm supposed to see a teacher before lunch. I'll -I'll talk to you later, okay?" I hated lying like that, but this conversation was completely dumb. I wanted to put an end to it.

"If you say so," Sabrina replied with a shrug. "Bye." " 'Bye." I walked through the maze of hallways, pretending to head to a classroom.

Imagine! The week before, Carlos had asked me to the dance. This week, I had accepted. I supposed next week we'd be engaged. What a story.

But it was no longer amusing. And I was having second thoughts about Sabrina as a friend.

After awhile I turned around and walked to the cafeteria. I wasn't going to let this silly rumor upset me. There was too much else on my mind.

For one thing, it was Monday, and I was about to see my ex-friends for the first time since Friday. Once again I'd go through the daily ritual: Pretend not to notice them, try not to be depressed that they weren't noticing me, stick with Logan.

For another, I was still confused about Carolyn Arnold's scam and what I should do about it. Also, I was starting to think about the BSC record book, whether the other girls were keeping it up properly. I was sort of insulted they hadn't come crying to me about how difficult it was to fill my shoes.

Carlos was not on the top of my worry list.

I sat in my usual spot at the opposite end of the cafeteria from the BSC table. I could see Claudia and Stacey laughing hysterically about something as Dawn sat down next to them.

They looked so happy. And I felt as if I were exiled in Siberia.

Well, it didn't matter. As soon as Logan arrived, I'd feel less lonely. I looked toward the lunch line and then the door, but he wasn't either place. I wondered if he had a math test in the afternoon. When he does, sometimes he takes a study hall at lunch.

I dug into my Chicken Kiev. (Do you ever wonder how they come up with these names? I guess if they called it "Unidentified Leftover Gristle with Lumpy Brown Sauce," no one would go near it.) As usual, it tasted like burned flour over rubber bands. But I managed to eat most of it and get the taste out of my mouth with some salad.

I kept glancing around for Logan. By the time I finished eating, he hadn't showed up. Bored out of my mind, I stood up to return my tray. I figured I'd spend the rest of the lunch period in the library. At least it would be peaceful, and away from the BSC members. And maybe Logan was there, cramming. It would be nice to see him, even if he was busy.