Mary Anne and the Little Princess

  Many thanks to

  David McMullen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “When I say ‘Hut,’ ” Logan Bruno announced, “Kristy hikes the football to me and goes long. I fake a handoff to Hannie, Linny flags right, and David Michael does a quick button hook. Okay?”

  “Right!” shouted Kristy Thomas.

  “Yyyes!” cried Linny Papadakis.

  “Okay,” said Hannie Papadakis.

  “What’s a button hook?” asked David Michael Thomas.

  Good question, I thought.

  I didn’t really hear the answer, although I know it had something to do with running and catching. To tell you the truth, the moment Logan started explaining, my attention snapped back to the novel I was reading, Catherine, Called Birdy.

  We were spending a Sunday morning at Kristy’s house. Who are “we”? Well, I’m Mary Anne Spier. Kristy is my all-time best friend, and Logan is my boyfriend. I love them dearly, but as soon as they’d started playing football with Kristy’s little brother and the two Papadakis kids, I’d excused myself.

  Sitting against a maple tree with my novel, bundled in my wool jacket, I was perfectly happy. I figured I’d read a few chapters before my stepmom picked me up. She was late, but that’s sort of her style.

  Do you think it’s weird to be reading outdoors on a chilly November day? I don’t. I just love books. Besides, I had no other choice. Playing football is bad enough. Playing with Logan is downright frightening. He happens to be on the Stoneybrook Middle School football team, and he throws extremely hard.

  Kristy doesn’t mind. She’s a great athlete. The kids don’t mind either, because they think Logan’s a superstar. And he does throw very gently to them. (David Michael and Hannie are seven, and Linny’s nine.)

  I’ve tried playing. Logan has explained the rules to me a million times. Kristy insists that it’s easy and fun. But it’s not. The moment I see a football headed in my direction, I can think of only one thing to do.

  Duck.

  So, on fall weekends, I always carry a paperback with me. It comes in handy whenever pigskin fever strikes.

  Pigskin fever seemed to have struck my hometown, Stoneybrook, Connecticut. The SMS Chargers were undefeated. Logan told me they were “assured of a playoff berth.” At first I thought he meant “birth” and I was totally confused. But he explained that the team was going to be in the district championships, which apparently is a very nice thing.

  Why is someone like me attracted to such athletic people? I have no idea. My dad says I take after him. He’s terrible at sports, too, but his best friends at his law firm are athletic. In fact, Dad once told me that my mom played on her college basketball team.

  When I say “my mom,” I mean my birth mom. As much as I love my stepmom, I call her by her first name, Sharon.

  If a genie appeared and granted me one wish, you know what it would be? To go into the past and meet my mother. You see, she died when I was a baby. Do you think it’s possible to miss someone you don’t remember? I do. My dad doesn’t talk about her much, but I know he was devastated when she died — so devastated that he had to let my grandparents take care of me while he grieved.

  When Dad took me back, he felt kind of overwhelmed by single parenthood. He decided to be Mr. Strict. I had to wear super-conservative clothes and keep my hair in pigtails right through seventh grade. I had to go to bed earlier than some nine-year-olds I knew.

  Don’t worry, things have changed. I’m in eighth grade now. I’m thirteen years old, I have a reasonable curfew, and no, I do not look like Pippi Longstocking anymore. Dad finally realized I was growing up. He’s been a lot happier himself, too, especially after meeting Sharon.

  Actually, meeting isn’t the right word. Remeeting is more like it. Dad and Sharon were sweethearts at Stoneybrook High School. They broke up, though, because Sharon’s parents looked down their noses at my dad. (Hmmph.) Sharon went off to California, taking Dad’s heart with her. Well, temporarily. He did meet my mom soon after. Anyway, Dad and Sharon completely lost touch. (Now, if this were a movie, you’d see the words Many years later … on the screen.) Cut to my seventh-grade year. I made friends with a girl named Dawn Schafer who had just moved to Stoneybrook from California, with her younger brother and her divorced mom. (Suspenseful music here.) It took us awhile to realize her mom was the Sharon in Dad’s romantic past.

  Have you ever seen Fiddler on the Roof? In it, this character named Yente is constantly trying to match couples in marriage. Well, Dawn and I were double Yentes. Dad and Sharon didn’t have a chance. Before long, wedding bells were ringing. Suddenly I had a great stepmom, a great stepsister, and a great new house (Dad and I moved into Sharon’s two-hundred-year-old farmhouse).

  Unfortunately, Dawn doesn’t live there anymore. At least not full-time. She moved back to California to live with her dad. (Her younger brother, Jeff, had done the same thing earlier on.) It wasn’t that they hated Stoneybrook or anything. They were just terribly homesick.

  I miss Dawn so much. But I don’t want to dwell on that. I’ll just cry.

  That’s another thing you should know about me. I cry a lot. I cry when I’m happy and when I’m upset. Sad movies are the worst. Last Christmas I invited Kristy over to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, and she brought along an umbrella. Logan says I have an obscure condition called Spier’s Tears.

  Aside from the crying, I’m a pretty average person, I guess. I’m just over five feet tall. I have short brown hair and brown eyes. My friends call my wardrobe “preppy,” but I think of it as neat and not too flashy. They also call me shy and sensitive, but I think that’s because I happen to enjoy listening to people.

  I looked at my watch and did a double take. It was almost noon. Sharon was supposed to have picked me up at eleven. As I mentioned, she’s not exactly the promptest person in the world, but this was unusual.

  “And he fumbles the ball, right into the bleachers!” Logan’s voice boomed out.

  Before I could look up, the football was tumbling across my paperback.

  A moment later, Logan and Kristy were tumbling over me. Linny, Hannie, and David Michael followed. (Catherine, called Birdy, flew silently toward the sidewalk.)

  David Michael grabbed the ball. “Don’t let Logan have it!” he screamed.

  “Oh, yeah?” Logan said, tickling him.

  Laughing, David Michael handed the ball to Hannie, who gave it to me.

  I tried to hand it to Logan, but I was buried under a pile of kids.

  VRRRRROOOM!

  We all looked out to the street. A moving van was lumbering by. On its side were the words Worldwide Moving — From Airport to Homeport.

  On another street, you might not notice something like that. But McLelland Road never has much traffic. It’s hilly and curvy and lined with enormous houses and huge yards.

  The truck pulled to a stop halfway down the block.

  “Who’s moving in?” Linny asked.

  Kristy shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any For Sale signs.”

  Two men
and a woman in work clothes hopped out of the cab. We watched them go around to the back of the van and open it.

  One of the first things they took out was an enormous Madeline doll.

  “Kids!” Hannie squealed.

  “Girls,” Linny groaned.

  Kristy’s face lit up. “Clients.”

  I should explain. Kristy, Logan, and I belong to a group called the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC. Kristy’s the president. She’s also our number one business rustler-upper. You should see her in a mall. Whenever she spots an unfamiliar family with small children — zoom — she’s on top of them with a smile, a handshake, and a BSC flier.

  She began digging into her jeans pocket.

  “Kristy, you’re not —” Logan began.

  “Got one!” Kristy said triumphantly, pulling out a crumpled, sweat-soaked sheet of paper.

  Before anyone could say a word, Kristy was sprinting down McLelland Road, toward the van.

  “She’s possessed,” Logan muttered.

  I tucked the football under one arm, picked up my book with the other, and followed everybody else down the street.

  By the time we all caught up to Kristy, she had cornered one of the moving guys. He was holding the flier, looking at it as though it were written in ancient Urdu.

  “And we have a special introductory offer,” Kristy was saying. “An hour free with the first job, and a money-back guarantee.”

  “Well, uh, I don’t have kids,” the guy replied.

  “It’s not for you,” Kristy said. “Please leave it for the family that’s moving in. You don’t know their names, do you?”

  The man peeked into the truck and checked a packing label. “Kent.”

  Linny raised his eyebrows. “Like, Clark?”

  “That’s Superman,” David Michael said.

  “Superman’s moving into this house?” Hannie asked.

  Linny let out a deep, exasperated breath. “Superman doesn’t have a Madeline doll.”

  “Maybe he has a daughter,” Logan suggested.

  “We’ll have to charge extra,” Kristy said. “We’ve never had to sit for a kid who could fly.”

  I watched the moving guy trudge up a long flagstone pathway. That was when I really noticed the house.

  Well, I assumed it was a house. It could have been an institute or a museum or something. It was enormous, with ivy-covered brick walls and at least four chimneys. A wing extended diagonally out from the left side, with bay windows that overlooked a huge side yard.

  The movers unloaded a dark wooden writing desk, a doll house, a girl’s bike, and tons of boxes.

  “Don’t they use furniture?” Logan asked.

  “Maybe they can’t afford it,” Hannie suggested.

  “Does Superman get paid?” David Michael asked.

  “You know, I never saw anyone move out of this house,” Kristy remarked. “I thought the Atkinsons still lived here.”

  “Maybe these people are just house-sitting,” I said, “or renting.”

  Kristy shrugged. “Could be. Mr. and Mrs. Atkinson travel a lot.”

  The three kids were all trying to peek into the van, giggling and whispering about Superman.

  “Come on, guys, our time-out’s almost up,” Logan said, trotting back toward the house. “Mary Anne, toss it!”

  Oh, great. He was going to force me to make a fool of myself. I tried to fit my fingers around the football.

  Honk honk!

  I turned toward the street. Sharon’s car pulled up to the curb. I tucked the football back under my arm, and boy, was I grateful.

  Sharon leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger window. With a sheepish grin, she called out, “Hi! Sorry I’m late, Mary Anne.”

  “Hi, Sharon,” said Logan and Kristy, running up behind me.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked,

  “Yes,” Sharon replied. “I was working on my computer, and I’d forgotten to set its clock to Eastern Standard Time.”

  Kristy gave her a Look. “The time change happened a week ago.”

  “Well, at least I did all the regular clocks in the house.” Sharon sighed. “I just couldn’t believe how much time I had on my hands.”

  “Oh,” said Kristy.

  Typical Sharon, I knew she was thinking.

  Sharon can be a little absentminded. In our house, it’s not unusual to find the tennis balls in the dishwasher, or her credit cards in the laundry detergent box. Luckily my dad is an excellent cook, or we’d all have to develop a taste for salad sprinkled with cinnamon, or shell pasta with watermelon slices (yes, she actually did that once).

  I noticed then that Sharon was staring at my upper body strangely. “Mary Anne, are you …?”

  I realized I was still holding the football. “Oh, this? Well, um, I was just —”

  “You should see her play,” Logan butted in. “A total natural. She and Kristy are going to form a football team like the Krushers.”

  “Really?” piped up Linny the Eavesdropper.

  “Mary Anne’s Marauders,” Logan replied.

  “Manglers,” Kristy suggested.

  I felt myself blush. I threw the football toward Logan and hopped into the car.

  As I waved good-bye, Sharon started driving away. “This is a side of you I’ve never seen, Mary Anne,” she said.

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Me neither.”

  “Being stupid is bad enough,” said Claudia Kishi, munching on a pretzel nugget. “But being humongous and stupid is worse.”

  “You’re not humongous,” Kristy spoke up. “Would you pass me some of those?”

  “You’re not stupid, either,” I added.

  “Thanks, Mary Anne. Can we do homework together at your house tonight?”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “I’m starving!” cried Jessica Ramsey.

  “Feed me, feed me,” said Abby Stevenson.

  Jessi, Kristy, Abby, Mallory Pike, and Stacey McGill all sat forward expectantly. They looked like baby birds in a nest.

  Our Friday BSC meeting was about to begin. We were gathered in Claudia’s bedroom, our official headquarters, doing our favorite things: chatting and eating.

  And complaining. Unfortunately, Claudia had to repeat seventh grade this year, and she was having adjustment problems. “None of you know what it’s like to be left back,” Claudia said, tossing little bags of pretzel nuggets around the room. “I mean, okay, I understand my classes finally, and that’s good. But half the time I ask myself, ‘What was so hard about this the first time?’ Then I tell myself not to worry about that. Then I look around, and I notice everyone’s so much smaller than me. I’m huge. I feel like Alice in Wonderland or something. You know, until this year I used to think that was a person’s name — you know, Alison Wonderland? Ha. But now I know better. So I guess I must be getting smarter this year, huh?”

  Abby leaned toward me. “Did you understand that?”

  Whack! Kristy slammed a plastic hammer on Claudia’s desk. “This meeting of the Baby-sitters Club shall come to order!”

  “Ow! My ears!” Jessi said.

  “Shall?” Mallory asked.

  “What’s the difference between shall and will?” Claudia asked.

  “I think one’s feminine and the other’s short for William,” Abby replied.

  Claudia gave her a Look. “And I’m the one who was left back?”

  You may have the impression that we’re all a little crazy. Actually, we’re best friends, and we just feel comfortable around one another.

  How does the club work? The idea is simple. We meet Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from five-thirty to six. We use Claudia’s room, because she’s the only club member who has a private phone line. Clients call us during business hours to request sitting jobs. They like the fact that they need to make only one call, and we like the fact that we have steady work.

  Well, most of the time we do. Sometimes the commitment can be exhausting. We even split up for a whil
e, because the club seemed to be taking over our lives. You know what? We couldn’t stay apart. We all love baby-sitting too much. Not to mention the fact that our clients and charges were upset. We decided to start up again, giving ourselves a probationary period, just in case.

  That Friday, our probationary period had officially ended — and we had unanimously decided to be a real club again! That was the main reason we were so happy.

  “Any new business?” Kristy began, then immediately barged on: “Glad I asked. Client alert! I saw the new family in my neighborhood today, the Kents.”

  “Clark and Lois?” Jessi said.

  “What are they like?” Mallory asked.

  “Well, at first it was hard to see them through the dark glass of their chauffeured limo,” Kristy replied.

  “Excuuuse me,” Stacey said.

  “But I watched them leave the car and go inside,” Kristy continued. “A girl and her dad and mom. She looks about eight or nine.”

  “The mom?” Claudia asked.

  Kristy scowled at her. “Very funny. Anyway, I gave the dad our flier. He was really nice and he said they’d seen the other ones.”

  “Ones?” I asked.

  “I’ve been putting one in their mailbox every day,” Kristy replied.

  Abby cracked up. “That’s subtle.”

  Kristy threw an empty pretzel nuggets bag at her.

  Kristy, in case you haven’t noticed, has a very strong personality. She runs meetings with an iron hand, and doesn’t tolerate unexcused lateness or absence. We’re all used to her, but sometimes she can be bossy and overbearing. She doesn’t mean to be like that. She was just born that way. I should know. She used to rearrange my blocks when we were babies. (I don’t actually remember this, but my dad insists it’s true.)

  Kristy and I grew up next door to each other on Bradford Court. She has three brothers, Charlie (who’s now seventeen), Sam (fifteen), and David Michael (seven). When we were little, I used to envy her big family. Then, soon after David Michael was born, Mr. Thomas abandoned the family. Kristy was so upset. Boy, did we grow close then. And I realized how silly my jealousy had been.

  Life was tough for Mrs. Thomas in those years. She found a full-time job and raised the family alone. Kristy tried to help a lot, especially by baby-sitting for David Michael. But one night she couldn’t, and neither could her older brothers. Poor Mrs. Thomas called all over Stoneybrook in vain, trying to find a sitter.