Ann Martin: Baby-Sitters Club 056

BSC056 - Keep Out, Claudia! - Martin, Ann M.

Chapter 1.

"Claudia? Do you think Shea is playing that song right?" Jackie Rodowsky wanted to know. He gazed at me from under a fringe of red bangs.

I listened carefully to the piano music drifting from the living room. "What's he supposed to be playing?" I asked.

Jackie shrugged. " 'A doggie-o.' " " 'A doggie-o'?" I repeated. I had never heard of "a doggie-o." Then again, I don't know much about music, except that I like certain groups and singers. And that I have recently started to like Bach. No kidding. His music is awesome, if you really listen to it.

From the other room I heard plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. (Oops.) Shea started over. Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam.

"Bullfrogs!" Shea yelled.

"I guess he isn't playing it right," said Jackie.

"I guess not." "Duh," added Archie, who is Jackie and Shea's little brother.

It was Monday afternoon and I was babysitting at the Rodowskys' for three freckle-faced redheads. Shea is nine, Jackie is seven, and Archie is four. Shea was practicing for his upcoming piano recital. I hoped he would be ready.

Blam. "Bullfrogs!" Jackie and Archie giggled.

Then Jackie looked up from the enormous rocket ship he and Archie were building with Legos. The Rodowsky boys have a Lego supply bigger than what you could find in most toy stores. "I wish I could play the piano. Or some instrument," Jackie said. He reached for a handful of Legos - and knocked a fin off the spaceship. The fin fell to the floor and split into pieces just as Bo, the Rodowskys' dog, tore into the rec room. He skittered on the Legos and crashed into the table on which the spaceship was being built.

"Cowabunga!" shrieked Archie, as the table collapsed and the rocket ship slid to the floor and smashed.

Jackie looked at me balefully. "Was that my fault?" he asked.

I tried to smile. "Not really," I told him. "Bo helped. Maybe Bo needs some exercise. Why don't you take him outside? Archie and I will try to put the spaceship back together." Jackie sighed. "Okay," he replied. "But don't be surprised if I ram into the toolshed or wreck up the lawn or something." Jackie is the teeniest bit accident-prone. Sometimes this bothers him - but mostly he is pretty happy-go-lucky.

Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. "Bullfrogs!" "You know what I wish, Claudia?" Archie said when Jackie and Bo were safely out the door. "I wish I could be in a play. Or in a show. I want to stand on a stage in front of a lot of people. I want the people to clap for me, and laugh at my jokes." "You want to be an entertainer?" I said. "Hmm. And Jackie wants to play an instrument, and Shea is getting ready for his recital. You guys must like show business." "Yup," replied Shea. "Don't you?" To be truthful, I hadn't given it much thought. I have other interests. Like art and baby-sitting. And junk food.

My name is Claudia Kishi. Claudia Lynn Kishi, to be exact. I'm thirteen years old. I live here in the small town of Stoneybrook, Connecticut. I have a mom and a dad and an older sister. I don't have any pets, but I do have lots of friends. My best friends are the members of a business called the Baby-sitters Club. I happen to be the vice-president of that club (which us members call the BSC).

I've been the vice-president of the BSC ever since the club started, which was back at the beginning of seventh grade. Now I'm in eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I'll tell you a secret about school and me. I am not a very good student. I am especially not a good speller. It isn't that I'm dumb, although sometimes I feel dumb. It's just that I don't think school is very interesting. Except for art class. And when I'm at home I can usually find about a dozen things to do that are more exciting than homework. My parents say I have to learn discipline and responsibility. I say I am disciplined and responsible . . . but who needs to know about hypotenuses (hypotenusi?) or what letter "psychiatrist" begins with? (Anyone with half a brain would spell that word "sikiatrist." It would make much more sense. Furthermore, if you really think about it, in general, you hardly need the letter "c" at all. You could spell most "c" things with an "s" or a "k." You only need that "c" for spelling "chocolate" or "cheesecake," which by the way, could be spelled "choklit" and "chezkak." Just a thought. But is it any wonder I'm a bad speller?) I'll tell you something. I bet I wouldn't feel dumb sometimes if my sister Janine wasn't so smart. Janine is a genius. She is sixteen and basically a junior at Stoneybrook High, but already she takes courses at the local college. She did that last year, too. Can you imagine? She was fifteen and going to school with students who were, like, six years older than she was. Well, some of them were. And Janine's grades were as good as theirs. Or better. I think I'm just dumb by comparison. What I mean is I'm not dumb. But next to Janine I look dumb.

Maybe if I got glasses and dressed in frumpy, dowdy clothes like Janine - no. I could never do that. I hope this doesn't sound conceited or shallow, but clothes and fashion are very important to me. Well, they are. They're almost as important as art and children and baby-sitting. I like to look good, and I'm good at looking good. All my friends say so. Sometimes they even copy my style. I wear pretty trendy clothes, and I like to be imaginative and try new things. I have to admit that the money I earn baby-sitting goes for art supplies (first) and then for jewelry and accessories and stuff. I have not saved much at all. (Unlike my friends Kristy and Jessi who hoard their money like squirrels hoard acorns.) As Archie and I knelt on the floor and picked up pieces of the rocket ship, I thought about the upcoming meeting of the BSC. My friends and I hold our meetings in my bedroom, and we were due for one later that afternoon. Mrs. Rodowsky had said she would be home before five, and the meeting would begin at five-thirty. Perfect. That would give me just enough time to fly home and straighten up my room. Ordinarily I don't bother. (My friends are used to my messes.) But that day my room was extra messy because I'd been experimenting with making ceramic mobiles, and little figures and pieces of wire were every-where. (Along with Snickers bars and M&M's and Neccos and Fritos and ranch-style potato chips and crackers and popcorn . . .) The back door opened and Bo bounded into the room, followed by Jackie. "The toolshed is still standing," Jackie announced. "If I broke anything out there, I don't know about it." I smiled. "Don't worry. You didn't mean to bump into the rocket ship. It was just an accident." "Another accident," Jackie corrected me.

"Well, anyway, Shea and I have already put most of the spaceship back together. See? It broke into big pieces." Jackie the walking disaster grinned. "Good," he said.

Plink, plinkety, plink, plink, blam. "Bull- frogs!" yelled Shea. (This time even he giggled.) "Hey, Shea! You can stop practicing now!" I called. "Time's up." "Okay!" he called back. But he didn't stop. I think he was getting worried about the recital.

"Lucky-duck Shea," said Archie as we lifted the spaceship back onto the table. "I could put on a show, too, you know. I can play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' on the piano." "With one finger," murmured Jackie. Then he hurried on. "I bet I could play the . . . the, um, the . . . well, I could play something." "And I could dance," added Archie, "and sing. I could be a star." Mrs. Rodowsky came back promptly at 4:45 that afternoon. As soon as she had paid me, I climbed onto my bicycle and pedaled home. As I rode along, I thought about Jackie, who wished he could play an instrument, and about Archie's words: "I could be a star." It was time for my friends and me to cook up a musical project for the kids we sit for. Obviously the Rodowsky boys would want to be involved in something like that. And I was sure other kids would, too.