Stacey and the Missing Ring

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Please don’t tell any of my friends. They’d think I was nuts if they knew. But it’s true. Sometimes I actually like to clean house.

  Maybe you know what I mean. There can be something really satisfying about taking that last swipe with a mop, or polishing a faucet until it shines, or looking at a newly cleaned window with the sun sparkling through it.

  Or maybe you just think I’m nuts.

  Anyway, whether you agree with me or not, you’ll have to take my word for it. I was having a good time that Saturday morning, helping my mother clean the house. Cleaning wasn’t all we’d done, though.

  First, we’d made breakfast — or rather, my mom made breakfast, and I ate it. She cooked my favorite: blueberry pancakes. I love them because they’re naturally sweet, so I don’t miss the oceans of maple syrup that most people drown their pancakes in.

  I can’t have maple syrup on my pancakes because I have diabetes.

  That’s right. I, Stacey McGill, thirteen-year-old eighth-grader, am a diabetic. In case you don’t know what that means, let me explain. First of all, it’s a disease I’ll have for the rest of my life, so I’ve had to learn to live with it. My pancreas (that’s one of those weird-shaped organs inside you) doesn’t do its job right. It doesn’t make this stuff called insulin, which people need to help them digest carbohydrates and sugar.

  Since my body can’t handle sugar too well, I have to be very, very careful about what I eat and when I eat it. Also, I have to supply the insulin that my pancreas can’t. How do I do that? Well, I give myself shots every day. I know, ew-ew-ew, right? But it’s not so bad once you get used to it.

  And I don’t have a choice, anyway. If I don’t take care of myself, I can get really sick. In fact, not too long ago, I found that out for sure. I slipped a little on my diet and stopped taking care of myself the way I should, and guess what. I landed in the hospital. I don’t want that to happen again any time soon, so I’m back to being Little Miss Healthy of Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

  Stoneybrook’s the town where my mom and I live. We didn’t always live here, though. I grew up in New York City — and boy, did I love New York. I used to be a real New Yorker — I loved shopping at Bloomingdale’s, going to the Hard Rock Cafe, seeing musicals on Broadway. But you know what? Now I love Stoneybrook, too.

  My family first moved from New York to Stoneybrook a while back, when my dad got transferred by his company. We adjusted pretty well to the move — in fact, I was really, really happy in Stoneybrook. Not too long after we’d moved there, I became a member of this great club — a baby-sitting club. I’d always loved to baby-sit, and joining the club was like getting a whole bunch of best friends all at once.

  But the club’s another story. I’ll tell you more about that later. I’m just trying to explain why I was so happy in Stoneybrook — so that you’ll understand what a shock it was when my dad got transferred back to the city and we had to leave!

  Guess what. Once we were back in New York, my parents started to fight a lot, and before long they’d decided to get a divorce. Then my dad decided to get a little apartment on the East Side of Manhattan, and my mom decided to move back to Stoneybrook, where she’d been happy. It was up to me to choose where I wanted to live.

  I hope you never have to make a decision like that.

  It wasn’t easy, but finally I realized that I would be happiest living with my mom in Stoneybrook. I do visit my dad fairly often, and I love being in New York on those weekends, but you know what? I think I made the right decision. It’s tough being a “divorced kid” (I’m still trying to figure it all out), but here in Stoneybrook I have a lot of good friends to help me through it.

  Also, I’ve gotten pretty close to my mom, and I think we make a good team. Like on that Saturday morning. She would dust the furniture, and I would polish it. She would sweep the floor, and I would mop it. We were working well together.

  Mom had turned the radio to an oldies station, and we were having a blast singing along to these songs that had been popular when she was a teenager. Over the years she’s taught me the words to a lot of them, so now I can “do the twist” and “shake it up, baby” with the best of them.

  I’d just been dancing with the mop to “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” when the song ended and Roy Orbison came on singing “Oh, Pretty Woman.” My mom wandered into the kitchen with a faraway look in her eyes. “I love that song,” she said. “It always reminds me of my sixteenth birthday.”

  It’s hard to imagine your mother as a sixteen-year-old.

  “Did you have a sweet-sixteen party?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? I had the biggest, best sweet-sixteen party of the decade. Didn’t I ever show you the pictures?” She dragged me into the living room and sat me on the couch. Then she pulled an old, beat-up photo album off the shelf.

  “Oh, right,” I said, as soon as I saw the pictures. “Now I remember. That’s where you were wearing that funny dress, and you had that weird hairdo — what’s it called? A wasps’ nest?”

  “A beehive,” she said, laughing. “And I don’t think my dress was so funny. It was my first real grown-up dress, and I had high heels to match. I felt like a million dollars that day.”

  We looked at the pictures together. “You do look happy,” I said.

  “I always loved to celebrate my birthday,” Mom told me. “And that one was the most fun of all.”

  “I love my birthday, too.” I said. Then I remembered something I’d been meaning to bring up. “In fact,” I added in a rush, deciding that now was as good a time as any, “since my birthday has always had such a special meaning for me, I was wondering if you might like to help me buy this ring I saw at the Stoneybrook Jeweler’s.” There. I’d said it.

  “Ring?” asked my mother. “What does this have to do with your birthday? Your birthday is months away.” She closed the photo album and looked at me.

  “I know,” I said. “And I didn’t mean that the ring would be a birthday present. See, it’s a birthstone ring. It’s gorgeous, and it would be so — so meaningful for me.” I looked at her hopefully. “I just thought that maybe you could help me pay for it.”

  Actually I had hoped that she would buy it for me, but I was already getting the feeling that there was no way that was going to happen.

  “What is your birthstone, Stacey?” Mom asked. She wasn’t making any offers, I noticed.

  “Well,” I answered. “It’s — it’s a diamond.” Somehow I knew she wasn’t going to be thrilled with that news.

  “Diamond, hmm?” she said. “I’m not sure a diamond ring is appropriate for a girl your age.” She frowned.

  “Lots of girls have birthstone rings!” I said. Actually, I only knew two girls who had them, and neither of their birthstones was a diamond. I think one was an amethyst and one was a garnet. I was pretty sure that neither cost quite as much as a diamond. But I kept that to myself.

  “Lots of girls …” said my mother. “Well. How much does the ring cost?”

  Suddenly I wondered if I’d picked the right time for this after all. Mom and I had been having such a nice time togethe
r, and now things were about to turn sour. Even so, I gritted my teeth and told her how much the ring cost.

  I thought my mom was going to faint.

  “Anastasia Elizabeth McGill!” she said. “You have to be kidding. Don’t you think that’s a little extravagant?”

  “I — I just thought that we might be able to afford —” I started to say.

  “Afford a diamond ring?” she interrupted. “It seems to me that there are plenty of better ways for us to spend money.”

  Uh-oh. This wasn’t going in the right direction at all.

  “Now, I might be willing to give you ten dollars toward the ring,” Mom went on, “but that’s it. I certainly can’t — and won’t — buy it for you.”

  Ten dollars! Ten dollars wouldn’t go far toward that ring. I’d have to baby-sit every day for the rest of my life to make up the difference. All of a sudden I got mad. I don’t ask my mom for much, and now she was acting as if I were being outrageous.

  “Dad would buy it for me,” I muttered.

  “What?” she asked. “Did you say what I think you said?”

  “Dad would buy it for me,” I repeated more loudly. So what if she was mad. I was, too.

  “You know,” she said, kind of sadly, “you may be right about that.”

  For a moment I felt bad. “I know you don’t make as much money as Dad does,” I said. “But —”

  “There’s no but about it, Stacey,” she said. “I don’t make as much as he does, and money is always going to be tighter in Stoneybrook than it is in New York. But you can’t have everything you want.”

  “But I don’t ask for everything!” I said. “It’s just this one ring.”

  But my mom wasn’t even listening. She was off on another track by then. “You know, Stacey, ever since you got sick, your father and I have been trying hard not to put you in the middle of our arguments,” she said.

  “I know,” I answered. “And I appreciate it.” (Sometimes I used to feel like a Ping-Pong ball being batted around, but when I was sick, I had a talk with my parents. They had promised to change.)

  “And I’ve been trying to make sure not to ask you for too much information about your father,” Mom continued. She used to pump me all the time about what we did and where we went. I was glad she’d stopped. “But,” Mom continued, “I can’t help noticing that you come home with all kinds of nice things every time you visit him. He’s treating you like a princess when you’re in New York, and I don’t think it’s good for you.”

  “But he’s not, really!” I said. It was true that when the divorce first happened, Dad sometimes bought me incredibly expensive stuff, trying to make up for all the pain he thought he’d put me through. But now he knew that I didn’t need — or want — him to do that. He still bought me presents, I’ll admit, but small things, mostly.

  Actually, I wasn’t sure Dad would buy me that ring. The “old” dad might have, but we’ve gotten past that stage now. He’d probably just give me a hard time about it, like Mom.

  Mom looked at me doubtfully. “Well, whether he’s still spoiling you or not, the answer remains the same for me. I will not buy you that ring.”

  “Fine!” I said. “That’s just fine.” I jumped up from the couch. “Who cares about a stupid old ring, anyway?” Now I was upset. “Are we done cleaning?” I asked.

  “I can do the rest, I guess,” Mom answered. “Why? Did you have plans?”

  “I didn’t,” I answered. “But I’m about to make some.”

  That pleasant Saturday morning had turned into a total drag. Suddenly I needed to get away from my mom for a while. I headed for the phone to call my friends and see if anybody wanted to go to the mall.

  I decided to call Kristy first. If she wanted to go to the mall, there was a good chance that she could talk her brother Charlie into driving us there.

  Kristy Thomas is the president of that club I was telling you about, the Baby-sitters Club. She’s a good friend; in fact, all the members are my good friends. That’s one of the reasons I love the club so much.

  As I dialed Kristy’s number, I tried to guess who would answer the phone at her house. I often do that when I call her, just because it’s a challenging game; the phone could get picked up by any one of about twenty people.

  Well, maybe not quite twenty. But Kristy does have a big — and interesting — family.

  First there’s her mom, who was divorced just like my mom. Only her divorce happened a long time ago, when Kristy’s dad up and left the family. At that point, the “family” was Kristy and her older brothers, Sam and Charlie, plus her little brother, David Michael, who was just a baby at the time. (To keep you up to date, David Michael’s seven now, Sam is fifteen, and Charlie is seventeen.)

  Mrs. Thomas did a great job of holding her family together after Mr. Thomas left — and it wasn’t always easy. Then, not long ago, she met Watson Brewer and ended up getting married again.

  Who’s Watson Brewer? Well, he’s a real, true millionaire — and also a pretty nice guy. Kristy was lucky to get him for a stepfather. And along with Watson, she got a couple of stepsiblings: Karen, who just turned seven, and Andrew, who’s four. They live with their mom (Watson’s ex-wife) most of the time, but Kristy loves the time they spend with their father — every other weekend and certain vacations. Karen and Andrew are great kids.

  When Mrs. Thomas and Watson got married, the family became so big that it made sense for them to move into Watson’s mansion — that’s right, I said mansion — across town. But I guess once they got into the mansion, Watson and Kristy’s mom decided that there was too much space left over and they needed to make the family even bigger.

  That’s when they adopted this little Vietnamese girl they named Emily Michelle. She is the cutest two-year-old you’ve ever seen. Soon after she arrived, Watson and Kristy’s mom realized they’d need help taking care of her, so they invited Kristy’s grandmother, Nannie, to come live with them too. Whew! I guess it’s a full house — or mansion — now. Especially when you take Boo-Boo (that’s Watson’s mean old cat) and Shannon (David Michael’s puppy) into account.

  Anyway, this time when I called Kristy’s, guess who answered! Kristy herself, for once. She thought the mall was a great idea, and she told me to call everybody else while she talked Charlie into giving us a ride.

  It might sound like Kristy was being a little bossy, and maybe she was. But that’s just the way she is. Kristy is what teachers call a “good leader.” She’s always having great ideas, and she knows how to get people to help her put them into action. She’s kind of like a grown-up in that way, although it’s funny because in other ways she can be immature.

  She doesn’t care much about makeup or boys or that kind of stuff, and she still dresses like a kid: jeans, turtlenecks, sneakers. She doesn’t fool around with her hair, either. Kristy is pretty short — in fact, she’s the shortest girl in our class — so she even looks a little younger than the rest of us. And I guess you’d call her a tomboy. For example, she coaches a softball team made up of little kids. That’s Kristy.

  I decided to follow her “orders” and call the others, starting with my best friend Claudia. Claudia Kishi is the coolest dresser and most exotic-looking girl in eighth grade. She’s exotic-looking because she’s Japanese-American, with brown almond-shaped eyes, a gorgeous complexion, and long, thick black hair. She’s the coolest dresser because she’s not afraid to try new things, and because she is so creative.

  Claudia’s an artist — she can draw, paint, make sculptures, and do any other kind of art better than anyone I know. She spends a lot of her time and energy on her art, a lot more than she does on her schoolwork, that’s for sure. Claud isn’t much of a student. Not that she isn’t smart. She is smart, even though she isn’t a certified genius like her older sister Janine. Claud just doesn’t care as much about school stuff as she does about art.

  Claud has a couple of other passions, ones that her parents don’t encourage as much as her art
work. One is Nancy Drew books: She loves to read them even though her parents think they are trash. The other is junk food, which she can’t get enough of. She hides her mysteries and her Twinkies, Kit-Kats, and Doritos all over her room.

  Claudia was definitely up for going to the mall. Next, I called Mary Anne and Dawn.

  Mary Anne Spier looks like the “girl next door.” She’s got brown hair and brown eyes, just like Kristy, and although she has some cool clothes, she’s still a pretty conservative dresser. Mary Anne just looks sweet — and she is. She’s sensitive, and caring, and a really loyal friend. (Such a good friend that she manages to be best friends with two people at once: Kristy and Dawn Schafer.)

  Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was really young, so her dad was the one to bring her up. Mr. Spier used to be incredibly strict about what Mary Anne could do, and what she could wear. He even had rules about how she could fix her hair. (And I’m not talking about Mary Anne wanting a Mohawk or pink hair. She had to struggle for years just to get her hair out of braids.)

  Mr. Spier has finally loosened up, though. He let Mary Anne change her hair and her clothes, allowed her to get a kitten (a gray one, named Tigger), and eased up on the rules and regulations.

  I think that when Mr. Spier loosened up, he also realized he was ready for some changes in his own life. Like falling in love and getting married! Mr. Spier got married again to his old high-school sweetheart, who just happened to be the mother of Dawn Schafer, another club member and, as I mentioned before, one of Mary Anne’s two best friends.

  Here’s how it happened: Dawn’s mother grew up in Stoneybrook, but then she moved to California, got married, and had two kids (Dawn and her younger brother Jeff, who’s now ten). When she got divorced, she moved back to Stoneybrook with Dawn and Jeff. Dawn and Mary Anne became friends at school, and discovered — by looking through old high-school yearbooks — that their parents had once dated! And when Mrs. Schafer and Mr. Spier got together again, the rest was history. Now Mary Anne and her father and Tigger live with Dawn and her mom in an old, old farmhouse that’s big enough for all of them. Dawn’s brother, Jeff, doesn’t live there, because it turned out he missed California and his dad so much that he was miserable in Stoneybrook. So Jeff moved back out West to live with his father.