Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 032

"Name-calling isn't very nice at all," Claire finally said in a small voice.

"No. It isn't," agreed Mal. "It hurts people's feelings." " 'Silly-billy-goo-goo' doesn't hurt people's feelings, though," said Claire. "I'm not being mean when I say 'silly-billy-goo-goo.' " (Claire just loves to call people that name.) "No, you're just being a jerkhead - just being silly," Nicky corrected himself.

"How about going over to the Hobarts' to play with the boys?" suggested Mal. "I bet they'd like to know that not every kid around here is going to be mean to them. We could go as friendly neighbors." The younger Pike kids glanced at each other. Jessi and Mal could tell they felt guilty about having called the Hobarts the "Crocs." "Okay," said Byron. "Let's go." "I think you'll have fun. Maybe you'll learn something about Australia. It's not that different from the United States, you know. The kids speak English and they do lots of the same things you do," said Mal.

"Like what?" asked Nicky, as Jessi and Mal led the kids out of the house and Mal locked the door behind them.

"Like ride bicycles," replied Mal, "and go skateboarding and take ballet lessons and collect stickers and listen to music. They even dress the way we do. Jeans and stuff." "Oh!" said Vanessa, looking surprised.

"Just remember," added Jessi, "not to call them the Crocs. They won't like that." "What about silly-billy-goo-goos?" asked Claire.

"Better not," replied Mal. "I don't think they'd understand." Jessi, Mal, and Mal's brothers and sisters walked to the Hobarts' and found the boys playing in front of their house. The oldest one was whizzing along the sidewalk on a skateboard. His hair was red, and he wore glasses like Mal. The two middle boys were riding their bikes, and the youngest one was on the front lawn with a brand-new toy truck.

When the Pikes and Jessi stopped in the yard, the boy with the truck began to cry. His oldest brother ran over to him.

"It's okay, Johnny," he said. "Don't worry." He looked at Jessi and Mal.

"We come in peace," said Mal, smiling. "Have no fear." The boy grinned back at her. "Don't I know you?" he asked.

"Well. . . I'm in sixth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School," Mal replied.

"Oh. So am I. I must have seen you at school." Mal and the boy looked at each other for so long that finally Jessi said, "I'm Jessi Ramsey. I'm in your grade, too." The boy shook himself, as if he'd been daydreaming. "Sorry," he said. "I'm Ben Hobart. Over there is James. He's eight." "He's in my class at school," spoke up Nicky.

"And that's Mathew," Ben went on. "He's six. And this is Johnny. He's four. He's a little upset. Some of the kids around here have teased him. Well, us, really." "I know," said Mal. "We're sorry." She wanted to say something else, but all she could think of was that Ben was gorgeous. His red hair was much nicer than hers (she thought), so were his glasses, and he did not have braces on his teeth.

"Well," said Mal.

"Well," said Jessi.

"Well," said Ben.

Jessi was about to figure out how to get the younger kids to play together, when she realized they'd already figured it out on their own. James and Mathew had abandoned their bikes, Johnny had abandoned his truck, and the kids were standing in the front yard in a tight group. Vanessa was saying, "We'll teach you guys how to play Statues. It's really fun." "I'll, urn, I'll just go help them," Jessi said to Mal and Ben.

They barely heard her. "Okay," Mal managed to reply. She and Ben wandered over to the Hobarts' front stoop and sat down.

If they sat any closer, Jessi thought, smiling to herself, Mal would be in Ben's lap! Jessi supervised the game of Statues. She had to give the Pike kids credit. Not one "Croc" slipped out of anybody's mouth, and Claire didn't call a single person, not even one of her brothers and sisters, a silly-billy-goo-goo. Jessi wasn't too surprised, though. The Hobarts might not have sounded "American," but they certainly looked it. They were all wearing jeans (James's were ripped fashionably at the knees), both James and Mathew were wearing Swatch watches, and their shirts were oversized and baggy. Johnny was even wearing a little pair of Reeboks.

Just when Jessi was congratulating herself and Mal on getting the kids together so happily, five other kids from the neighborhood - three boys and two girls - rode by on their bikes, stopping at the Hobarts'.

"Uh-oh," said Johnny.

"Hey, baby!" yelled one of the boys to Mathew, "whadja eat this morning?" "For brecky? Weetbix and toast with Vegemite." The five kids burst into laughter. "Brecky! Weetbix!" James pretended not to notice. He swaggered over to the kids. "Great bike," he commented, touching one. "Hey, are you a head banger?" he asked, eyeing the boy's punk hair.

"No," said the boy sarcastically. "I'm a ... Croc." "Funny as a funeral," muttered James.

He might have gone on, getting deeper and deeper into trouble, but he was rescued by Mal, Jessi, and Ben.

"Get on out of here, rev heads," said Ben. The kids were about to say something about "rev heads" when Ben, who is tall, stepped close to them. The kids hastily rode off.

But one called over his shoulder, "See you later . . . Crocodiles!" Jessi and the younger Pike kids went home that afternoon feeling both triumphant and embarrassed.

But Mal barely felt a thing. Her mind was in outer space.

Chapter 6.

"Hello, Baby-sitters Club. How may we help you?" I was at another BSC meeting. It had just begun and I had just taken the first call of the day.

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Prezzioso," I said. I rolled my eyes at my fellow dub members. Jenny, the Prezziosos' only child, is not exactly our favorite kid to sit for. We like almost all of our sitting charges - a lot - but when Mrs. P. calls, most of us moan and groan. That's because Jenny is a spoiled brat. "Saturday?" I repeated. "From ten until three? Okay, I'll check it out and get back to you. 'Bye." I hung up.

"Mrs. P. needs a sitter on Saturday," I told my friends.

"I hope I'm busy," said Stacey, who was sitting on the bed this time, while Dawn sat in the desk chair.

We laughed. Then Mary Anne checked the appointment pages in the record book. "You are," she told Stacey. "So are Jessi, Claud, and Kristy." Stacey, Jessi, Claudia, and I breathed sighs of relief.

Mal, Dawn, and Mary Anne looked pained.

Then they all started saying things like, "You take the job, Mal. You're saving up for that set of books." Or, "You take it, Dawn. Babysitting for Jenny will be ... character-building." "Thank you," said Dawn, "but I have enough character already." Finally Mary Anne said, "Oh, I'll sit for Jenny. I usually end up with the Jenny-jobs. I can handle her." So I called Mrs. P. back to tell her Mary Anne would be sitting. Then the seven of us waited for the phone to ring again. It didn't, and finally Claud said, "Tell us more about Susan, Kristy." I had sat for Susan twice since I'd first met her on Friday, so there was a fair amount to tell my friends.

"Autism," I began, "is so strange. It's like Susan is keeping a secret from the world. Mrs. Felder describes Susan as retarded but says she isn't retarded, strictly speaking. I mean, she doesn't have Down's syndrome or anything. Her IQ is very low, but that's because her teachers can't test her. She won't talk. Why? She looks right through people as if they're not in front of her. She acts blind and deaf, even though she can see and hear. Why? And how can you test a person who doesn't talk and is so dosed off? You can't. That's why Mrs. Felder says Susan is retarded - because she's eight, yet she acts like a two-year-old - a slow two-year-old. But if her teachers or doctors could reach her, who knows what she could learn." "Anyway, what about the piano-playing and the calendar stuff?" said Jessi.

"Well, that's another thing that's so strange," I said. "Most of the time Susan acts like she's two - she doesn't dress herself very well or talk or anything - but how many two-year-olds do you know who can play classical piano?" "None," said Mal.