Kristy at Bat

  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

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Thwack.

  I grinned. Oh, how I love that sound.

  It’s the sound of summer, the sound of fun.

  It’s the sound of a ball landing in a fielder’s glove.

  Leather on leather.

  Thwack.

  There’s nothing like it, especially on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in early April, when the trees are freshly green and the sun is just warm enough to remind you of the coming days of summer.

  “Over here, Kristy! Throw it to me! My turn!” My stepsister, Karen, interrupted my reverie with her cries. She was hopping up and down and waving her arms as she yelled. I tossed her the ball gently, since she’s only seven, and watched as she scrambled for it. She made a decent catch and turned to throw the ball to my younger brother, David Michael, who’s also seven.

  I’m Kristy Thomas. I’m thirteen and in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS). That’s in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where I’ve lived my whole life. I have brown hair and brown eyes and I’m on the short side. I’m crazy about kids, and I love to baby-sit, which is why I belong to the coolest club in Stoneybrook: the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC, but more about that later. For now, those are my vital statistics. Except for one more: I ♥ baseball. And softball. Softball is just another form of baseball, as far as I’m concerned. They’re different games — but the same too. As long as there are bats and balls and bases involved, I’m in heaven.

  I have always adored baseball. I learned to play when I was even younger than Karen is now. My dad taught me the basics, and I guess I’ll always have that to thank him for.

  My dad doesn’t live with us. He hasn’t for a long, long time. He walked out on my family years ago, when David Michael was just a baby. And ever since then, he’s been pretty much out of my life. Oh, he sends a card once in awhile, on my birthday or at Christmas, but that’s about it.

  Do I miss him?

  Sort of. I used to miss him a lot more, but my memories of him are fading. I do think of him occasionally, though, especially when I make a great hit or a sweet catch out there on the ball field.

  I used to miss having a dad (a “father figure,” as the school counselor would probably say), but now I have a wonderful stepdad. His name is Watson Brewer. He’s funny, kind, and sweet. (Handsome? Hmmm. Well, sure, if you happen to like the balding type.) Anyway, he’s an excellent husband for my mom.

  He also happens to be a millionaire.

  Which means that I live in a mansion.

  Yup, it’s true. When my mom married Watson, we all moved across town to share his house. Which is huge. And that’s lucky, because our family is huge too. Apart from David Michael and Karen, there are my two older brothers, Charlie and Sam (Charlie’s seventeen, Sam is fifteen); Karen’s younger brother, Andrew, who’s four (Karen and Andrew are Watson’s children from his first marriage; they live with us every other month); and Emily Michelle, who’s just a toddler. She was a Vietnamese orphan who joined our family when my mom and Watson decided to adopt a baby together.

  There’s also Nannie, my grandmother. She’s my mom’s mom. She came to live with us soon after Emily Michelle arrived.

  We also have a whole menagerie of pets.

  Is my household chaotic? Definitely.

  Do I love it? Absolutely.

  I wouldn’t trade with anyone else, even though there are moments when I’d give twenty bucks for twenty seconds of silence.

  For the most part, though, silence is not my thing. I like noise and activity and crowds. So my family suits me.

  Meanwhile, back in the yard, David Michael had to chase down the ball Karen had thrown to him. (Her aim is not always so terrific.) Now he wound up and tossed it gently to Andrew.

  David Michael is a good kid. He has dark brown hair (darker than mine), which is a little curly (mine is straighter). We really look alike. In fact, we practically dress like twins. Yes, it’s true. I dress like a seven-year-old boy. Except for the Spider-Man underwear. All I ever wear are jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. And sometimes David Michael and I even wear the same T-shirt. For instance, on that day we were both wearing our Krushers shirts.

  The Krushers, or Kristy’s Krushers, to be formal, is a softball team I coach. It’s a team for kids in the area. The kids have a great time playing, and I have an even better time passing along my skills. Sometimes I use drills I learned from my dad, or from Coach Wu, the coach of my school softball team, and sometimes I just make up my own. The kids love to play silly games, such as “hot potato,” in which you have to throw the ball as soon as possible after you catch it.

  We don’t do much silly stuff on Coach Wu’s team. She’s pretty serious. But she’s a great coach, and I was looking forward to spending the coming season on her team. I still didn’t know what position I’d be playing; that would be decided in a couple of days, when Coach Wu held tryouts. Some girls would be going out for the team for the first time; others, me for instance, would just be showing Coach Wu our stuff so she could decide how best to use us.

  “Kistee!” Emily Michelle called out my name. She toddled toward me, carrying the softball in both hands. Andrew had tossed it to her, including her in our game. “Ball!” she exclaimed, giving me a huge smile.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Ball.” She handed it to me, beaming. Emily Michelle is adorable. She has shiny black eyes and shiny black hair to match. She’s a very important part of our family. It took her awhile to start speaking English, and she still doesn’t speak as well as most two-and-a-half-year-olds. (She’s what the specialists call “language delayed.”) But she’s a very happy girl, and we all love her.

  I knelt down to give her a big hug.

  Immediately, Andrew and Karen and David Michael piled on top of us. “Group hug!” yelled Karen as she threw her arms around my neck.

  Karen is something else. Karen isn’t my blood sister, so it’s not surprising that we don’t look alike. (She and Andrew do, though. They’re both thin, with blond hair and blue eyes.) But Karen and I do act alike. She’s a take-charge kid, always coming up with ideas about what she and her friends should do. Sometimes she’s a little bossy, and she definitely speaks her mind (though she’s not quite as opinionated as I am). One difference? Karen has a wild — and I mean wild — imagination. For example, she thinks our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Porter, is a witch. She calls her Morbidda Destiny. Not to her face, fortunately.

  My siblings and I lay there in a pile — “like a bunch of puppies,” Karen said — until the honking of a car horn made us unpile and scramble to our feet.

  “Nannie!” cried Karen. She took off running toward a battered old bubble-gum-colored car we like to call the Pink Clinker. I swear that car is on its last legs, but Nannie loves it and won’t trade it in.

  Nannie stepped out of the car and gave Karen a hug. Then she waved to the rest of us and headed into the house. Nannie’s often in a hurry. Between her bowling league, her volunteer work, and her latest project — a baking business — she has a busy life.

  I guess my mom inherited some of that energy; she’s a superwoman herself. After all, s
he held our family together when my dad left, taking care of all four of us kids for years.

  She and Watson pulled up next, in the “ninny-van” (that’s what Emily calls our minivan). They’d been at a garden center, picking up some mulch for Watson’s roses. He loves to putter in the garden, and I’m glad. It’s a healthy habit, and he needs plenty of those. Not long ago he scared all of us by having a mild heart attack. That was a big warning, and it taught him to slow down and quit working so hard all the time.

  When Watson spotted the softball I was holding he dove into the back of the minivan and came up with a baseball glove. “Toss it here, Kristy!” he called.

  I heaved the ball to him. “And Bain makes the grab,” he said in a radio-announcer voice. “Another big out for Bain!”

  I laughed. Watson’s been obsessed with Bill Bain lately. Who’s Bill Bain? Whatever you do, don’t ask Watson. He’ll bore you for hours with stories and statistics. The short answer is that Bill Bain was one of the best major league ballplayers ever. He was on the Baltimore Orioles when Watson was a kid, and ever since then he’s been one of Watson’s biggest heroes.

  Do I mind hearing about him, over and over? No way. Especially since Watson’s hero worship led him to sign us up for Bill Bain’s Baseball Dream Camp, in Delaware. Watson and I are headed there a week from Monday, when my April vacation begins. I am totally psyched about it.

  What’s Dream Camp? Just my dream vacation, that’s all. Basically, it’s a chance to pretend you’re a major league ballplayer. For a week you do nothing but play ball all day with other dreamers and with players who were once superstars. The coaches once coached the best of the best. You’re issued a uniform, you play on first-class ball fields, and you spend your days mingling with players you’ve read about in the sports pages.

  The session we were going to was a special one, just for fathers and daughters. It meant a lot to me that Watson signed us up. I knew he was looking forward to spending some “quality time” with me — and with Bill Bain, his idol.

  Sam and Charlie pulled up next, in Charlie’s ancient, wheezing car. (It’s in even worse shape than Nannie’s. We call it the Junk Bucket.)

  “All right!” Watson cried. “Everybody’s home. Let’s divide into teams and put in a few innings before dinner.” He sounded like a little kid. Watson definitely has a bad case of baseball fever.

  Sam and Charlie didn’t need much convincing. They love sports of any kind. They headed for the garage and grabbed their gloves, then joined the rest of us in the side yard, where we’ve laid out an informal baseball diamond.

  Before long, a game was under way. I stood in the outfield soaking up the sun and thinking about the next couple of weeks.

  I made a mental note to tell Coach Wu I’d have to miss a couple of practices while I was away. I knew she’d understand. After all, I’d be playing ball while I was gone, so I’d stay in shape.

  I also had to make sure everything was set with the BSC. I’m the president of the club, which means I’m responsible for seeing that everything runs smoothly, whether I’m there or not. Could my fellow members handle a Kristy-less week? I knew they could. But I knew they’d miss me, just as I would miss them.

  I smiled to myself as I watched Watson run for second base after a good hit. We were going to have a terrific time at camp. Baseball, baseball, and more baseball. How could it miss?

  “Don’t worry, Kristy,” Abby Stevenson said. “I’ve been brushing up on my presidential skills. I’m all ready to take over.” She waggled her eyebrows at me, grinned, and rubbed her hands together like some power-mad dictator in a James Bond movie.

  I groaned.

  Everybody else cracked up.

  It was the next day, Monday. I’d just called our BSC meeting to order and reminded everyone that I’d be gone the following week. Now Abby was giving me a hard time. And my fellow members were loving it.

  Abby, who is the club’s newest member, is our alternate officer, which means she’s prepared to take over the duties of any officer who can’t make it to a meeting. So she’d be acting as president while I was away. I just had to hope she wouldn’t do anything too wild, such as call a vote to rename the club.

  Abby has a wicked sense of humor, but she’ll behave. The BSC runs like clockwork, and unless there’s some kind of emergency, she shouldn’t have much to do besides call meetings to order and then, half an hour later, adjourn them. She’ll have three meetings to run: We always meet on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons from five-thirty until six.

  I guess I should explain a little more about the BSC. It all started when I noticed how hard it was for my mom to find a sitter for David Michael one day when Charlie, Sam, and I were busy. She made call after call. That’s when I had a brainstorm. (I’m famous for those.) Wouldn’t it make sense for a group of dedicated sitters to band together so that parents could call one number to reach them all, when they needed someone to watch their kids?

  It made excellent sense. There are now six regular sitters in the BSC, and there’s plenty of work to go around. We even have two associate members who don’t come to every meeting but who can help out if we’re swamped. We’re very organized. In fact, we’re more like a business than a club. We keep great records, both in the club notebook (in which we each write up every job we go on) and in our record book (that’s where we keep track of our schedules plus client information). We pay dues every week to help cover our expenses. We plan special events, such as parties and day camps, for our clients, and we even make regular days special sometimes by bringing along our Kid-Kits, which are boxes stuffed with toys, games, stickers, and other fun things. (Our charges love them!)

  I hate to boast, but I have to take credit for most of the above. As I said, I’m famous for getting great ideas. I just can’t seem to help it. They pop into my brain whether I want them to or not. So now you know why I’m president of the club.

  Back to that Monday meeting. After everybody had finished laughing at her antics, Abby turned serious. “Don’t worry, Kristy,” she assured me. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll make it without you.” She smiled at me. “Just relax and enjoy Dream Camp. I’m so jealous! I’d be thrilled if I had the chance to play soccer with World Cup players. That would be my dream vacation.”

  Abby’s crazy about soccer. She’s a great player too. I hate to admit it, but she’s probably a better athlete than I am. She has a natural talent for physical things.

  Abby moved to my neighborhood in Stoneybrook only recently, along with her twin sister, Anna, and their mom. They used to live on Long Island, in New York. Mrs. Stevenson is a big-shot editor at a New York City publishing house. She commutes to her job by train.

  Abby’s dad died in a car crash a few years ago. And even though Abby’s a big joker, I know she often feels sad and misses him terribly.

  Abby and Anna were both invited to join the BSC, since we happened to be short on members when they moved here. Abby joined, but Anna said she was too busy. She’s a very talented violinist, and she spends most of her spare time practicing and performing. She and Abby are identical, but nobody has trouble telling them apart. They have different personalities (Anna is much more quiet and reserved), and they also wear their dark, curly hair in different styles (Anna’s is longer than Abby’s).

  Abby’s always on the move, playing soccer or softball or skiing. She loves to be active outdoors, even though she has asthma and is allergic to just about everything you can name. I have to admire the fact that she doesn’t let her medical problems slow her down.

  “I’m not worried. I know you’ll keep things running smoothly,” I told her. “Just make sure Mary Anne doesn’t stage a takeover. You know how power hungry she is.”

  That made everyone laugh again. Mary Anne Spier, who is the club’s secretary and also happens to be my best friend, couldn’t be less interested in being the center of attention. She’s quiet and very shy and the most sensitive, caring friend you could ask for. I know, I know,
we sound like opposites. And we are, except for our looks. Mary Anne is short, like me, and also has brown hair and eyes. (She doesn’t dress like a seven-year-old boy, however.) I can’t explain why we’re best friends, but we are and always have been. Chemistry, I guess.

  Mary Anne’s idea of a dream vacation? It would probably be something like Needlepoint Camp. The director would be that Martha lady from TV, the one who does everything perfectly. The campers would spend each day doing quiet things like doily making and cupboard organizing, and nobody would ever force them to perform in skits or (horrors!) play any kind of sport.

  I’m making Mary Anne sound like Miss Priss, but she’s not. She’s cool.

  Mary Anne is an only child. She grew up with just one parent — her dad. (Her mom died when Mary Anne was just a baby.) So she led a fairly quiet and sheltered life. In fact, her dad was very strict with her, until recently. Now that he’s married again, he’s loosened up quite a bit. And Mary Anne has a bigger family.

  Mr. Spier married the mom of another BSC member, Dawn Schafer. (Dawn is Mary Anne’s other best friend, as well as her stepsister.) Here’s how that happened: Dawn’s mom, Sharon, grew up in Stoneybrook and actually dated Richard (Mary Anne’s dad) when they were in high school. Then she moved to California, married someone else, and had two kids, Dawn and her younger brother, Jeff. Eventually that marriage ended, and Sharon and her kids moved back to Stoneybrook. Dawn and Mary Anne met, became best friends, figured out that their parents used to date, brought them back together, and — well, the rest is history.

  Eventually Dawn and Jeff decided that the West Coast was their true home, so they moved back to California, with their dad. (Which means that Dawn is actually an honorary BSC member. She comes to meetings when she’s here visiting. Her dream vacation? Probably Surfing Camp.) I know Mary Anne misses Dawn. Luckily, she still has me; her gray kitten, Tigger; and her boyfriend, Logan Bruno, to comfort her.

  Mary Anne used to be the only BSC member with a steady boyfriend. But for a while that wasn’t the case. Claudia Kishi, our vice-president, also had a boyfriend recently. His name’s Josh, and he’s in seventh grade. Claudia met him when she spent some time back in seventh grade recently. Now she’s in eighth again with most of the rest of the BSC, and she and Josh have returned to “just friends” status.