Ann Martin: Baby-Sitters Club 059

BSC059 - Mallory Hates Boys (and Gym) - Martin, Ann M.

Chapter 1.

"Pandemonium!" I cried as I stepped into our rec room. "Utter pandemonium!" None of my brothers and sisters even turned around. They were all too busy creating pandemonium.

Pandemonium was a new word in the vocabulary builder section of my English textbook. We'd just learned it in class that afternoon. The minute I saw the word, I knew it was one I'd have many chances to use. (I love it when 1 find a really great new word.) Pandemonium means: wild uproar and noise.

That's the Pike house, all right! Uproar and noise. I'm used to that, though. 1 don't have much choice since I have seven younger brothers and sisters. In fact, "uproar and noise" is the general state of things on most days.

Today was no different than usual. I was the last one home from school, and the kids were spread all over the rec room. Vanessa was lying on the rug watching a rock video. Claire had strewn pieces of her picture puzzle across the floor. Mar go was loudly practicing a cheerleading cheer (even though she is not a cheerleader). The triplets were having a game of monkey-in-the-middle with a small orange Nerf ball. And Nicky was making weird noises with a speaker he'd just bought. (The speaker has three settings: loud, robot voice, and baby voice. When you speak into it, the speaker changes your voice any way you want. If s actually kind of cool.) "This place is complete pandemonium!" I repeated, mostly because no one had paid any attention to me the first time.

"A panda?" inquired five-year-old Claire, looking up from her puzzle.

"No, not a panda. Pandemonium/' I told her as I wiggled out of my backpack. "It means - " "It sounds like a sickness," eight-year-old Nicky chimed in, putting down his speaker. He clutched his throat and bulged his eyes. "Help! I've got pandemonium. Call a doctor!" He spun around the room a few times before flinging himself on the floor.

"Very funny," I said, smiling despite my efforts to look unamused.

Vanessa, who is nine, glanced away from her video. "I think pandemonium sounds more like something you clean pans with." She rolled onto her back and held up her hands. "I no longer have rough, dry hands because now I clean my dishes with Pannnnn-demonium!" she said, as if she were an actress on a commercial.

"No, it's not dishwashing stuff." I laughed. "Pandemonium means - hey!" The Nerf ball had bounced off my forehead. "Watch it! You're not supposed to be playing ball inside, anyway." I picked up the small, spongy ball which had dropped to my feet and squished it into the pocket of my jeans.

"Aw, come on, give it back," said Adam, annoyed. He's one of the identical triplets, who are ten.

"It's just a Nerf ball. It's not going to hurt anything." Jordan backed up Adam. (As usual.) Byron didn't look like he minded, though. I think he was relieved not to be the monkey-in-the-middle anymore. He's not as athletic as Adam and Jordan. When he's the one trying to get the ball away, he can get stuck as the monkey for a long time.

Some people have trouble telling Byron, Adam, and Jordan apart. But to me, they are each so different that I never have a problem. I could pick Byron out just from the way he slouches. Besides, they don't dress alike. I'm always surprised when people confuse them.

At that moment, my mother came downstairs from the kitchen. "Hey! Hey! What is all this?" she scolded mildly. "Vanessa, turn off that TV. And did I hear something about a ball in the house?" The triplets' guilty expressions gave them away. "Well, take it ouside. Margo, you can do your cheering outside, too. It's a gorgeous day." "We - must - go - outside. We - must - go -outside," Nicky chanted with his speaker set to robot-voice as he moved mechanically out of the rec room.

"Claire, pick up those puzzle pieces, please," Mom requested. Then she looked at me. The moment she did, I knew what was coming. I was tipped off by the way she glanced quickly at Claire before she spoke.

"Mallory," Mom said, "could you please watch Claire for a little while?" Just as I'd expected.

Don't get me wrong. I love to baby-sit. I love it so much that I'm even a member of a club called the Baby-sitters Club (which I'll tell you about later). But one thing I don't like about being the oldest of eight kids is that I'm always being asked to take care of one or more of them. (The other thing I don't like is the privacy problem. There's practically no privacy in my house.) Sometimes Mom and Dad ask me to baby- sit when it's not convenient; like when I want to read, or write in my journal, or just be alone. When 1 go on a baby-sitting job for the BSC (Baby-sitters Club) 1 know exactly when and where I'll be sitting. (The club is super organized.) But at home, baby-sitting assignments can pop up unexpectedly.

Most of the time I just sigh and say okay. (Or smile and say okay, depending on my mood.) But today 1 really couldn't do it.

"I would, Mom, but Ben is coming over," 1 told her. "We're going to do our homework together." Mom opened her mouth as if she were about to argue with me, but then she seemed to change her mind. "Okay," she said, kneeling and tossing the last of the puzzle pieces in the box. "I just wanted to make some phone calls. I can make them after supper." "I'll watch Claire after supper," I offered.

Mom smiled. "It's a deal." When Mom and, Claire went outside, I was alone in the rec room. The clock on the wall said 3:15. "Oh, no!" 1 cried. Ben was coming over at 3:30. That left only fifteen minutes for me to get ready.

1 raced up the stairs and into the room I share with Vanessa. "I have to get ready," I panted. Only 1 wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. I mean, it wasn't like 1 could take off my braces and my glasses. The braces are on for at least another year. (Thankfully, they're the clear plastic kind. I still hate them, though.) And I can't see without my glasses. I have begged - begged - my parents for contacts, but they say I'm too young. That makes no sense to me. An eleven-year-old is plenty old enough to take care of a pair of contact lenses. At least this eleven-year-old is.

It wasn't as if I could do anything with my hair, either. My longish red hair is curly and does whatever it wants - not what I tell it to.

And then there's my nose. All my relatives say I got it from my grandfather. Well, if it were up to me, he could have it back! Just about the only thing I could change was my shirt. So I did. And my jeans, too, for the heck of it.

I looked at myself in the mirror and sighed hopelessly. I don't consider myself very pretty. But it never used to matter to me. Then I met Ben Hobart.

All of a sudden, for the first time in my life, I wished I were gorgeous. But to my surprise, Ben seems to like me just the way I am. (Talk about a lucky break! Then again, Ben isn't shallow, like some boys who only care about looks.) Liking a guy is so weird. There's just no way to explain why suddenly you're so crazy about someone. By movie-star standards, Ben isn't a hunk or anything. (Even though I think he's totally adorable.) He has reddish-blond hair, sort of a round face, and freckles. He's tall. And he wears glasses. (Which makes me feel less self-conscious about my glasses.) Oh, and there's one thing that's very cool about Ben. His accent. His family is from Australia. When the Hobarts first moved to Stoneybrook, Connecticut (thaf s my town), some of the kids in school made fun of Ben's accent. I'm sure they were just jealous. Now everyone is used to it and no one teases him anymore. Personally, I would love to have an Australian accent. (I used to long for a French accent, but, since meeting Ben, I've switched to longing for an Australian accent.) In a few minutes the bell rang. I bounded down the stairs and pulled open the front door. "Hi," I greeted Ben. "Come on in." Ben stepped into the living room and looked around. "Kind of quiet in here, isn't it?" he observed.