Baby-sitters Club - Mallory On Strike Part 2

"Listen, I'm going to help Margo and the boys set up the badminton net in the backyard," he said. "Would you mind making Claire a PBJ?" (A PBJ is a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich - another Pike family favorite.) "She just ate breakfast," I said, not budging from my bed.

"I know," my father said. "But she wants to have a picnic with her dolls in the backyard."

"Oh, all right."

1 slammed my notebook shut and followed my father. I made Claire a sandwich as quickly as I could, then sliced it into little doll-sized triangles. This time I didn't even get to the kitchen door before my mother called me to do something else.

"Mal, honey, would you help me fold these clothes?"

"Mother!" I blew my bangs off my forehead in exasperation. "1 have to work on my story, you know."

"This will only take a minute. Then I promise to leave you alone."

It didn't take a minute. It took an hour because Margo got hit in the face with a birdie from the badminton set. It didn't break her nose or anything, but it still hurt a lot. Mom had to comfort her and I had to make another set of PBJs for Claire because the neighbors' dog came over and skarfed them all down when her back was turned.

Once I was back in my room, I tried to shut everything out of my mind except writing. But just when I'd have a possible story forming in my head, Dad or one of my brothers would interrupt and I'd have to start all over. This went on all afternoon. I wanted to scream. I took my pen and scratched in big, bold letters on the top of my blue-lined notebook paper: Two may be company, and three may be a crowd, but ten is a mob!

"Mallory!" my mother called at six o'clock. "It's suppertime. Please come down and help me serve."

"Mallory!" I repeated, imitating my mother in a singsong voice. "Wash the dishes, scrub the floors, take out the garbage. Be my slave!"

I wanted to throw my notebook against the wall. Instead, I took a deep breath and tried to calm my temper.

I don't know why I felt so resentful about being asked to do ch.o.r.es. I've been doing them my whole life. I guess I just felt as though I'd wasted a lot of things. Like my quarter. I paid Vanessa to leave me alone, and it was Mom and Dad who turned out to be the problem. And what about the rest of my day. Six hours of work on my story, and I had only written one sentence.

"At this rate," I muttered as I trudged down the steps, "I'll never finish it."

Chapter 5.

Mr. Dougherty's creative writing cla.s.s meets on Tuesdays and Fridays in what used to be a teachers' lounge. I love walking into that room. Mr. D has filled it with plants and bookshelves crammed with books. It doesn't feel like a cla.s.sroom at all. It's more like a comfortable library in someone's home. Every time I step through the door a little s.h.i.+ver of excitement runs through my stomach, as if something wonderful is about to happen. Like maybe I'm really on my way to becoming a writer.

On Tuesday I wore my navy blue wool skirt and knit sweater vest with a white starched blouse and penny loafers, so I would look more studious. It's extremely important to me that Mr. Dougherty take me seriously.

Mr. D was busy writing on the chalkboard, and his back was turned to the room. I took my usual place in the half circle arranged around his desk. Mr. Dougherty says that makes our cla.s.s more like a seminar, a type of cla.s.s you get in college in which students exchange ideas with their teacher. Being in a seminar made all of us feel very mature and special.

Everyone in the cla.s.s - there are ten of us - was at his or her desk long before the bell rang. We sat up straight in our seats, eager for the period to begin.

As the bell rang, Mr. D set down his chalk and turned to face us. He wore a brown corduroy coat with brushed leather patches at the elbows, a red-and-yellow-plaid s.h.i.+rt, and baggy tan chinos. (I personally think all teachers should dress that way. It makes them look very acute.) " 'The Write Stuff/ " he declared, pointing at the words he'd written on the board. He smiled at us. "Have you got it?"

I folded my hands in front of me and swallowed hard. I sure hoped so. The boy sitting beside me shuffled his feet and cleared his throat.

"Now, there's the right stuff in everyday life," Mr. D continued. "That's having the courage to do a physically dangerous job, like flying a s.p.a.ce shuttle, or fighting forest fires." He paused dramatically. "And then there's the Write Stuff - which means having the creativity, the persistence, and the inner strength it takes to do the writing job." I held my breath as he walked in front of us, looking each one of us in the eye. Finally he said, "I think you've got it."

The room was filled with a sigh as the ten of us exhaled with relief.

"However," Mr. Dougherty said, raising one finger, "it's something you have to work at. Being a writer takes a lot of self-discipline. You've got to make yourself work. No one can do it for you."

Boy, that was the truth. Other people always seemed to get in a writer's way. Like my family, who still wouldn't leave me alone long enough to let me write even a page.

Mr. D perched on the edge of his desk. "How many of you will be writing a piece for Young Authors Day?"

Ten of us raised our hands.

"Good." He twirled his mustache. "Let me take down your names so that I can arrange for enough teachers to read and judge your work."

We waited patiently as he scribbled down our names on a pad of yellow paper. When he was finished, Mr. Dougherty looked back at the cla.s.s.

"Today I want to talk to each of you indi- vidually about your entry," he said. "While I'm doing that, I'd like the rest of you to pick an object in this room and make up a one-page history of that particular item. Where it came from, its name - if you care to name it - and how it ended up in this room."

Immediately everyone pulled pieces of paper out of the binders, then sat nibbling on the ends of their pens while they stared around the room for a suitable object. I was trying to make up my mind between the slightly rusty wastebasket and the p.r.i.c.kly cactus on the windowsill, when Mr. D called me to his desk.

"As I recall," he said, twirling his mustache and leaning back in his chair, "you said you were going to enter the Best Overall Fiction contest. Is that right, Mallory?"

"Yes, sir." I felt like I was being tested, and my voice shook a little. It was silly for me to feel that way because Mr. D is so nice. But he's also an author, and at that moment he was talking to me, author to author, about my story.

"Tell me a little about the plot."

That was the one thing I had managed to work on between doing nay ch.o.r.es, babysitting, and working on homework. "My story is about a girl named Tess. She comes from a large family and feels left out. Her mom and dad hardly seem to notice she's there. They're too worried about her older sister, who wants to date a boy they don't like, or her younger brothers, who are always getting into trouble at school. So, even though less is in the middle, she feels the farthest from their affection."

"Nicely phrased," Mr. Dougherty said. "What happens to less?"

"Well, one day, her parents have to go away, and they leave her in charge. That's when Tess finds out how important she is to the family."

Mr. D stroked his mustache as he nodded his head. That made me feel good. But that only lasted a few seconds because then he asked to see what I had written.

I flipped open my notebook and stared down at the first page of my story. The blank spots looked huge and I tried to cover them with my hand, but it was too late.

"Three paragraphs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's all you've written?"

"Uh, I - I really haven't gotten a chance to write it yet," I stammered. "I've been kind of busy at home, and I've mostly been concentrating on the plot." It wasn't a lie. I really had been thinking about the plot.

Mr. Dougherty took a deep breath and sighed. It was a disappointed sound, one that I would have given anything not to hear.

"Thinking about your story is important for any author/' he said quietly, "but until you actually put the words on the page, Mallory, you can't call yourself a writer."

I stared down at my notebook, too ashamed to look him in the eye. "I know that," I murmured. For one terrible moment, I thought I was going to cry. It took every ounce of willpower to stop myself. I just couldn't humiliate myself in front of Mr. Dougherty and the whole cla.s.s. It was too awful even to think about.

Mr. Dougherty stood up, letting me know that our conference was over. He must have sensed how rotten I felt because he patted me on the shoulder and said, "I know you can write, Mallory. I just want to remind you that time is running out. Young Authors Day is only three weeks away."

I shut my notebook and clutched it to my chest. "Don't worry, Mr. Dougherty," I said in a shaky voice I hardly recognized as my own. "I'm going to spend every spare minute working on this. I won't let you down."

My words echoed in my head walking home from school that day. I was afraid that I might actually let Mr. Dougherty down, and then I'd never be able to face him again. As I climbed the steps to my front door, I decided to make a work schedule for myself and stick to it.

The minute I got in the house, I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and headed straight up to my room. I dumped my books onto my bed and gathered some materials with which to make my schedule - two pieces of lined paper, some tape, a ruler, and colored pens. Turning the two pieces of paper sideways, I taped them together and drew lines across them to make a graph. Then I listed each day leading to Young Authors .Day down one side. Across the top I wrote the hours of the day after school. Here's what the first four days looked like: T-oo W,:.

triplets Story ftf we BtA As I was busy working on the schedule, Vanessa came into the room and looked over my shoulder.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"For me. So I can be a disciplined, creative writer." I used Mr. D's exact words. "It's my schedule until Young Authors Day. What do you think?"

"It looks intense," Vanessa said. "When do you have time for fun?"

I looked back at my graph and realized I hadn't drawn in any time for talking on the phone with Jessi, or going to the mall, or even stopping for a c.o.ke. "I don't think I have time for fun," I decided. "This is too important."

Vanessa pointed to the first day on the schedule. "According to this, you're supposed to be doing your homework right now."

I looked at my watch. "You're right. Thanks, Vanessa. Tell the rest of the family not to bother me while I'm working, will you?"

"I think you can tell them yourself."

Vanessa pointed to Claire, who was standing in the doorway. She was holding her finger, which was wrapped in a dinosaur Band-Aid. Behind her stood the triplets with devilish grins on their faces.

"They say all the dinosaurs died," Claire said in a tiny voice. "That's not true, is it?"

A talk with Claire always means trying to find answers to endless questions. It takes a lot of time and patience - two things I was short of at that moment. But her chin was quivering and her eyes were so full of tears that I couldn't tell her to go away.

"Come here and sit on my lap," I said, patting my knee, "and I'll tell you about the dinosaurs that lived in the past, and the ones that live in our minds now."

Claire smiled triumphantly at her brothers and then marched over to my side.

"Oh, Mal," my mother called from down the hall. A moment later her head appeared in the doorway. "I'm glad I caught you. Would you mind making the dessert for dinner tonight, honey? I have a thousand calls to make for the library board meeting, and I'll never get to it in time." She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and smiled at me gratefully. "I'd really appreciate it if you did."

Right then I felt the way Claire had looked when she came to my door. All quivery inside. It was clear that I wasn't going to get to my homework before dinner, and I would have to do it during the time slot I had reserved to work on my story. It just wasn't fair. I felt like screaming, "No! I can't! And I won't! Get someone else!"

But I didn't.

"Sure, Mom. What do you want me to make?"

"Chocolate chip cookies!" Claire squealed, wrapping her arms around my neck.

"All right," I murmured forlornly. "Chocolate chip cookies."

Chapter 6.

Peace and quiet. At last!

It was Friday afternoon. I had spent most of the week trying to stick to my writing schedule and not being able to do it. After I said good-bye to Jessi, I went straight home and shut myself in my room.

n.o.body - not Vanessa, not Mom and Dad, not even Claire - interrupted me while I worked on my story. Can you believe it? And, boy, did I work! I focused all of my attention on writing, and everything around me seemed to disappear. All the sounds in the house and all my worries about school and family just melted away.

I was on a roll. Five pages straight! I hope this doesn't sound conceited, but they were good pages, too. My story was really starting to come together, and just as I was thinking that I could probably write another five pages, I glanced at the clock. It was 5:30 on the dot.

"Yikes!" I leaped out of my chair. "The BSC. I forgot all about it!"

As I told you, we meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at exactly 5:30. And if anyone is late (as I was about to be), Kristy gets miffed.

As I was putting away my notebook, a funny feeling came over me. My story was very important to me, and if I could just keep working on it, I might be able to finish it in the next couple of days. I really resented having to drop everything to go to the BSC meeting. But I had made a commitment (as my mother always says) to the BSC. And if I didn't go, I would be letting my friends down. But what about my story?

I looked at the clock again. Five thirty-one. The meeting had already started. Right now Kristy and the others were probably wondering what had happened to me. In a minute, Jessi would probably call to see if I was okay and then I'd have to stop writing anyway. I raced down the stairs, grabbed my bike, and pedaled as fast as I could to Claud's house.

"You're ten minutes late!" Kristy declared as I walked into the room. She didn't even ask why. Instead she made a big deal of looking at Claud's digital clock and shaking her head in disgust.

I had intended to apologize to the club, but Kristy made me angry. So I just kept my mouth shut and slumped down on the floor beside Jessi. She was leaning against Claud's bed with her knees pulled up under her chin.

Jessi gave me one of her "What's going on?" looks, but I still didn't say anything. I was angry at myself for being late, and angry at the BSC for taking me away from my writing. I needed time to sort things out.

Luckily for me, the phone rang and broke the silence in the room. Dawn got to it first.

"Baby-sitters Club. Oh, h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Arnold." We listened as Dawn jotted down the details of the job and then said, "I'll call you right back." She hung up the phone and announced, "Mrs. Arnold needs a sitter for the twins tomorrow morning."

Kristy adjusted her visor and asked, "Who's available?"

Mary Anne tapped her pencil against her chin in thought. "Let's see. Dawn already has that job with the Rodowskys."

Kristy looked at me and said pointedly, "We a.s.signed her the job at the start of the meeting." She didn't add, "Which you missed," but I know that's what she meant.

"And Jessi and Stacey are already committed," Mary Anne continued. "How about Mal?" She smiled at me sympathetically. "You get along really well with the twins."

I didn't even have to hesitate. Sat.u.r.day morning was out. I had scheduled the whole morning to work on my story.

"Sorry," I said. "I can't."

Jessi c.o.c.ked her head in surprise. Usually I would have explained why, but I was still feeling crabby about the way Kristy had treated me.

"Okay," Mary Anne said, after a sideways glance at Kristy. "Then how about you, Claud?"

Claudia was trying to open a bag of M&M's with her teeth, without much success. "That'd be fine," she mumbled.

The phone rang two more times, and Mary Anne and Dawn accepted jobs for Sat.u.r.day night with the Sobaks and the Addisons. I didn't feel bad about that since, as a junior member, I can't really baby-sit at night anyway. Then Mrs. Perkins called, and Jessi took a job on Sunday afternoon.

It wasn't a very fun meeting. Basically, we sat quietly between calls, watching Claud try to open the M&M's. At any other meeting, everybody would have cracked jokes about her being such a junk food addict, but not today. I knew it was my fault, but I couldn't seem to get out of my rotten mood.

Claud finally found a nail file in one of her drawers and gouged a hole in the side of the bag of candies. "Voila!" she cried. "Treats. Something to cheer us up."

She pa.s.sed the bag around the room, and everyone except Dawn and Stacey took some. I guess we needed cheering up.