Kristy and the Missing Fortune

  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

  “Okay, let’s see,” I said, thinking out loud. I was sitting at my desk with a notebook open in front of me and a pen in my hand. “If I put Matt at first, maybe Buddy can play left field.” I jotted down some notes. “That’ll leave third base open for — who?” I paused to think, tapping the pen against my teeth. “Jamie? No, he’s too afraid of the ball. He couldn’t handle a line drive up the baseline. Nicky? Hmmm … maybe!” I wrote down his name.

  “Kristy, can I come in?” Karen poked her head into my room.

  “Sure,” I said, shoving my chair back. “How was school today?”

  “Okeydokey,” said Karen playfully, giving me a goofy smile as she adjusted her pink-rimmed glasses. Karen has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a scattering of freckles. She’s seven, and in second grade. Karen is a real live wire, as her father would say. (That means she’s full of energy and spunk.) Her father is Watson Brewer, my stepfather. That makes Karen my stepsister. And it’s funny: Even though we’re not related by blood, she and I have a lot in common. For example, I’ve been called a “live wire” more than once myself.

  I’m Kristy Thomas. (Kristin Amanda Thomas, according to my birth certificate.) I’m thirteen and in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. I’ve lived in Stoneybrook — that’s Stoneybrook, Connecticut, in case you’re wondering — all my life. As for looks, I have brown hair and brown eyes, and I’m short for my age. In fact, I’m the shortest person in my class! I’m known for that, and I’m also known for speaking my mind (some people would say, “having a big mouth”) and for coming up with good ideas. Such as the one for the BSC, or the Baby-sitters Club. I’m president of the BSC, and all my closest friends are members. But more about that later.

  “What are you doing?” Karen was asking. She was standing next to me so she could take a peek at my notebook.

  “Trying to figure out the Krushers’ lineup,” I replied.

  “Krushers!” Karen said. Her eyes lit up. “Yay! Is it almost time to start practicing?”

  “Well … not for a while. It’s only February, after all. We can’t start playing until the snow on the softball field melts. Right?”

  “Right,” said Karen, looking a little downcast. “So why are you thinking about it now?”

  “Because it’s February.” I sighed, looking out the window at the cold, gray day. February gets me down, and I guess I’m not the only one. Everybody’s kind of in the doldrums during February. Winter’s been going on long enough to be boring, and spring is still too far off to seem real. But that day at school, I’d had a conversation that cheered me right up.

  It happened at lunchtime. I was sitting in the cafeteria, eating with Mary Anne Spier, my best friend since forever, when her steady boyfriend Logan Bruno walked up and plopped down his tray. I was just about to comment on how much his chicken chow mein looked like dog barf (a comment Mary Anne wouldn’t have appreciated at all, even though it was true), when Logan said something that totally distracted me.

  “Pitchers and catchers report in two weeks!”

  “Two weeks?” I said. “All right!” I made a fist and pumped my arm.

  “Report?” asked Mary Anne. “On what? Their activities since the last baseball season? Is that like when our teachers used to make us write those ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ essays?” She giggled.

  Logan and I just stared at her for a second, and then we burst out laughing. Mary Anne’s giggles faded abruptly and a hurt look flashed across her face. Right away, I felt terrible for laughing at her. Mary Anne is extremely sensitive. Knowing her, I had the feeling she might start crying in another second. Right in the middle of the cafeteria.

  I rushed to set her straight. “It’s not report like a written report,” I said. “It’s report like report for duty. It means they have to show up for spring training in two weeks.” I turned to Logan and grinned. “Two weeks!” I said. I held up my hand for a high five and he smacked it.

  “That’s great,” said Mary Anne. “I mean, I guess it’s great.” She paused. “Um, why is it great?” she asked tentatively.

  This time we were careful not to laugh at her. “Because,” explained Logan, “it means spring — and baseball — will be here soon.”

  Logan and I are both huge baseball fans. All spring and summer, I live and breathe baseball and softball. A perfect day for me would include playing: on a team or just with friends; coaching: as you might have guessed, I manage a team called the Krushers; and watching: heading for the family room after dinner to check out a Mets game on TV.

  That talk with Logan had made me feel much, much better about February. As I rode the bus home after school, I looked out the windows at the dirty, chewed-up snow that partially covered the ground, and instead of feeling depressed, I was able to picture that same ground all green with grass. I imagined the smell of fresh dirt, the feel of a ball smacking into a well-oiled leather glove, the sensation of sliding into third base and beating the throw by a millisecond. Baseball! I could hardly wait. And now it suddenly seemed as if the season were right around the corner.

  Which was why I was sitting there at my desk, going over the Krushers lineup. I wanted my team to have its best season ever, and I knew that meant planning, planning, and more planning. The day outside was still cold and gray, but inside my room I could practically feel the sun beating down, the way it does when you’re standing at home plate in the middle of July.

  “Can I play shortstop this year?” asked Karen. She was still trying to get a glimpse of my notes.

  “Shortstop?” I asked.

  Karen nodded. “I’m tired of playing in the outfield. Nothing ever happens out there. It’s boring!”

  Karen had a point. The outfield can be boring, especially in the Krushers games. See, most of the kids who play on my team are young. Too young for Little League. And they don’t hit the ball very far. Often, as a matter of fact, their biggest hits don’t travel much past the pitcher’s mound. So I could see why Karen might want to play in the infield: It’s the only place to be, if you’re interested in action.

  The problem is, I have a lot of kids to consider. There are about twenty Krushers. I can’t play favorites by giving special treatment to family members, especially since Karen isn’t the only Krusher who’s related to me. Her four-year-old brother, Andrew, my stepbrother, is on the team, and so is my younger brother, David Michael, who’s seven.

  Just to fill you in on the rest of my family, I also have two older brothers, Charlie and Sam. Charlie’s seventeen, and has his driver’s license. Sam is fifteen. For a long time, our family consisted of me and my mom plus my three brothers. That was because my dad pretty much ran out on us, back when David Michael was a baby. We don’t hear from my dad often — I think he lives in California — and we don’t talk about him much, either.

  Fortunately, my mom happens to be an amazing woman. (She’s one of my heroes, and a real role model.) She held our family together for years, and I know it wasn’t easy for her to bring up four kids by herself. I did what I could to help, which mainly meant baby-sitting a lot for David Michael, but it was
still a struggle. Things turned around for us not long ago, though, when my mom met Watson. To be honest, I wasn’t nuts about him at first. He was balding, he told stupid jokes, and he took up all my mom’s attention. But I’ve come to like Watson a lot, even though he’s still balding and still tells stupid jokes, the stupidest jokes in the world.

  After my mom married Watson, my family moved across town to his house. Why? Well, because our old house, which was next door to Mary Anne’s house, was way too small for us. Watson’s is plenty big enough. In fact, it’s a mansion. See, there’s one thing I haven’t mentioned about Watson. He’s mega-rich, a real live millionaire.

  Watson doesn’t act like one of those rich people on TV, though. He’s just a regular person who happens to make tons of money.

  Anyway, once he and my mom were married, they decided they’d like to have a child together, one that belonged to both of them. That’s when they adopted Emily Michelle. She’s two and a half years old, she’s Vietnamese, and she’s about the most adorable kid you’ll ever meet. Get this: Lately, her favorite word is “tylis!” Translated, that means “stylish.” We say that to her when she’s wearing a new outfit, and when she hears the word she repeats it, striking a model’s pose, with one hip thrust out and a hand behind her head. It’s a riot.

  Soon after Emily Michelle arrived, my grandmother Nannie came to live with us, too, just to help out. She’s my mother’s mother. Nannie probably has more energy than the rest of us put together. She has a neat old car we call the Pink Clinker, and she’s always taking off in it for things such as a bowling tournament or a volunteer’s award dinner at the hospital. Nannie’s cool.

  Nannie moved out for a little while recently, but only because of a misunderstanding. As soon as it was cleared up, she moved back in. The misunderstanding came about when Watson had a minor heart attack (minor, but very, very scary) and decided he wanted to spend less time on work and more time with his family. Nannie thought that with Watson home being Mr. Mom, she wasn’t needed anymore. Since she didn’t want to be “in the way,” she moved out, but the Thomas-Brewer household nearly fell apart without her!

  These days Watson is still spending most of his time at home (he’s still running his company, but he’s working out of our house instead of at the office), but Nannie knows how much we need — and want — her to live with us. I don’t think she’ll be moving away again anytime soon.

  I can’t say I’ve finished explaining about my family until I tell you about our pets. We have a huge (but basically well-behaved) puppy named Shannon. She’s a Bernese mountain dog, and she was given to us by a human named Shannon Kilbourne, who happens to be a neighbor, a friend, and a BSC member. We named the dog after the person, and it’s worked out fine except for the occasional funny misunderstanding.

  We also have a cat named Boo-Boo. He’s not one of those comforting, soft cats that like to be held and petted, though. He’s old and cranky and unpredictable. The other day I was stroking him, and he opened his mouth and chomped down on my hand in mid-purr.

  And Karen and Andrew, who live with us every other month, have two goldfish (named Crystal Light the Second and Goldfishie — don’t look at me!), plus a rat named Emily Junior, and a hermit crab called Bob that travel back and forth with them.

  I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I don’t have to figure out what position Bob should be playing on the Krushers. It’s hard enough trying to decide how to use the three members of my family who do play on the team, not to mention the crowd of other kids who show up at Krushers practices, hoping to be superstars.

  “We’ll see about shortstop,” I promised Karen that day in my room. “If you really think you can handle the position, I’ll give you a chance there.”

  “Really?” asked Karen, her eyes wide. “That is gigundoly super!” She got this faraway look in her eyes, and I knew she was picturing herself as a star shortstop in the major leagues. Karen has an imagination that won’t quit.

  Just then, I happened to glance at my watch. “Whoa!” I said. “It’s almost time for me to head over to Claud’s for the BSC meeting.”

  “Can I ride with you?” begged Karen.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s okay with me if Charlie doesn’t mind.” Charlie drives me to my friend Claudia Kishi’s house for BSC meetings. Since I moved across town, it’s too far to walk.

  Karen ran to find Charlie. I took one last glance at the notes I’d made, and thought one more time about how great it would be to stand on a baseball diamond feeling soft green grass beneath my feet. Then I grabbed my visor and headed downstairs. It was time to forget about the Krushers for the moment, and concentrate on the other important “team” in my life: the BSC.

  During the drive to Claudia’s, Karen, Charlie, and I talked about three things: baseball, baseball, and baseball. Charlie was as excited about the coming season as Karen and I were. He and Sam are both huge fans, and they both love to play ball.

  “I’m going to go home and oil my glove,” he told me as he stopped the car, which was rattling a little and making a strange coughing noise, in front of Claud’s house. (We call Charlie’s car the Junk Bucket. Guess why.)

  “Good idea,” I said. “Maybe I’ll do mine later, too. Thanks for the ride! ’Bye, Karen!” I slammed the car door shut — it took two tries — and headed into the Kishis’. Their front door is always unlocked on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. Those are the days the BSC meets, and the members are used to letting themselves in.

  I took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time, pretending I was doing wind-sprints at softball practice. By the time I burst into Claud’s room, I was a little out of breath. (I’m going to need some spring training myself, I guess.) “Hey!” I said, greeting Claudia, who was the only BSC member in the room so far. I was early, as usual. Our meetings run from five-thirty until six, but I like to arrive by five-twenty or so. Just call me Miss Punctuality.

  Claudia, who was sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up from the scarf she was knitting. She was using three colors of yarn: purple, green, and a peculiar shade of orange. “Hi, Kristy,” she said. She held up the scarf. “What do you think?”

  “I — um,” I began. I didn’t want to tell her what I really thought. Even old insensitive me knows that honesty is not always the best policy. I decided to make a joke out of it. “You want my expert opinion?” I asked. “It’s dahling, dahling.”

  Claud laughed. She knows that I know — and care — absolutely nothing about fashion. My idea of dressing up means wearing a clean, new pair of jeans with my usual turtleneck and running shoes. And I couldn’t tell you how to apply blusher, or even what it’s for, exactly. The other BSC members are a little more advanced in these areas. Claudia, for one. To tell you the truth, she’s a lot more advanced, which will be obvious when I try to explain what she was wearing that day. In fact, I’ll describe what each of my friends wore to the meeting, and maybe that’ll give you some idea of what they’re like. I know the way I dress tells a lot about me, so I guess it works the same way for everyone.

  Actually, before I describe my friends, maybe I should explain just a little bit more about what the BSC is and how it works. The club is really a business, which would make me the CEO (chief executive officer — Watson taught me that) and founder. I founded the Baby-sitters Club one day back when I was in seventh grade. My mom was trying like crazy to find a sitter for David Michael (my brothers and I had other plans for the afternoon), and after I’d listened to her make about a dozen phone calls I had a brainstorm. What if I got together with a few other friends who liked to baby-sit, and we let parents know that they could call one number and reach a whole group of experienced, responsible, available baby-sitters?

  The idea worked like a charm, and the club has been growing and changing ever since. We now have seven members plus two associate members, and plenty of regular clients. We hardly ever have to advertise anymore. (When we do, we hand out flyers, or take out classified
ads.)

  The BSC is very well organized. We have a record book, in which we keep track of our schedules, our earnings, and client names and addresses; a club notebook, in which we write up all the jobs we go on so that each member knows what’s happening with each client; and a treasury envelope, in which we keep dues money. (The money goes for things such as a share of Claudia’s phone bill and contributions to Charlie’s gas fund.) We also have some fun extras, such as Kid-Kits, which are boxes we keep filled with hand-me-down toys and games, plus markers and stickers and things. Kid-Kits are lifesavers on rainy days!

  Now, I don’t want to sound conceited, so I won’t tell you who came up with the idea for Kid-Kits and for all the other things that make the club run so smoothly. I’ll just tell you that her initials are K.A.T.

  Okay, back to what Claudia was wearing. I’ll describe it as best I can, even though I probably don’t know all the right names for the things she had on. First of all, she was wearing this blue-and-green stripey shirt that was kind of tight and stretchy-looking. Over it she was wearing a really, really baggy pair of overalls. On her head was a floppy green hat, and on her feet were those big black clunky boots made by Doctor somebody.

  She looked great. Claudia has so much style that even I can tell she has it. I guess it’s part of her extremely artistic nature. Claudia is the most creative person I know. She’s not great in school, like her older sister, Janine (who happens to be a genius), but it’s not because she isn’t bright. It’s just that she cares more about making the world a more beautiful place than she does about telling the difference between fractions and adverbs.

  Claudia’s Japanese-American, and very pretty. She has long black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a perfect complexion. The fact that she is always zit-free is kind of surprising, considering that she practically lives on chocolate, potato chips, and various other kinds of junk food (which she has to hide from her disapproving parents, along with the Nancy Drew books they wish she’d outgrow).

  Claudia is the BSC’s vice-president, mainly because we use her room for meetings. Unlike the rest of us, she has her own phone, with a private line. That really comes in handy during club meetings, when the phone is constantly tied up with calls from clients. Claudia answers the phone during nonmeeting times, but other than that she has no official duties.