Logan's Story

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  “Hey, Bruno, you okay?” Clarence King asked, bending over me.

  I lay on the grass, holding my head. It felt as if it had been taken off and then put on backward.

  “You know, King,” I said, trying to smile, “this is a practice, not the Super Bowl. You didn’t have to tackle me so hard.”

  “Sorry.” King smiled and reached down to help me. “Guess I’m stronger than I think, huh?”

  I like King, but modesty is not one of his strong points. (Neither is a sense of humor — just watch the smoke come out of his ears if you call him “Clarence.”)

  As I got to my feet, I could hear Coach Mills call out, “Look alive, you two!”

  I trotted toward the line of scrimmage, feeling a little wobbly … and suddenly looking forward to the end of the season.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I like football a lot. But some guys play as if there are NFL scouts hanging out at every practice. As for me, well, I’m in it for the fun. That’s the way I run my life. Do what you enjoy, I always say. Even if people think you’re a little weird. Even if they make fun of you and call you a girl, just because …

  Whoa. I’m getting ahead of myself. Sometimes I do that — just steamroll on without realizing it. Maybe I should slow down and start from the beginning.

  First of all, my name is Logan Bruno.

  Second of all, I’m a guy.

  Duh, no kidding, right? Well, believe it or not, sometimes people can’t tell from a name like Logan. Anyway, the fact that I’m a guy is crucial to this story, so I should say it right out.

  Let’s see, what else do you need to know about me….

  I’m thirteen, and I’m in eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS) in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. Originally I’m from Louisville, Kentucky — and according to some people, I sound like it. I get teased for my drawl, but my so-called accent sounds pretty normal to me. I’m always amazed at how strange northerners talk. Fast, fast, fast, like there’s some kind of time limit on sentences.

  You probably already guessed my main interest is sports. Well, three of my main interests are football, baseball, and track. Not that I’m a stereotypical jock. I don’t eat steaks for breakfast, grunt when I talk, or have trouble counting past my own weight. (Actually, I don’t know any athletes like that … although King comes close.) I don’t even look very jockish. I’m average height and I have an average build. My hair is blondish brown and my eyes are blue. Mary Anne Spier, my girl-friend, says I look like Cam Geary, this movie star, but she’s definitely exaggerating.

  As for Mary Anne, well, she’s the other main interest in my life. Oops, wait a minute, that sounds terrible. I didn’t mean other. It’s just that I’ve been involved in sports longer, so … oh, you know what I mean. Just don’t tell Mary Anne I said that. She’s very sensitive. In fact, her sensitivity and shyness are the coolest things about her. I’m just the opposite — a take-charge kind of person, sometimes even bullheaded. You might think that would create personality problems between us. Well, you’re right. We’ve had our ups and downs. We even broke up for awhile, because Mary Anne felt I was stifling her. I used to decide everything—when and where we were going on a date, what movies we would see, what we’d eat. I wouldn’t pay attention to Mary Anne’s baby-sitting schedule or even ask her if she wanted to go somewhere. I just assumed.

  It’s not that I was being a jerk. Like I said, she’s very shy, and sometimes I didn’t know what she was thinking. So I figured she would be happy to let me make the decisions. Anyway, things kind of blew up. I began getting impatient with her shyness, she began resenting my forcefulness. It was a real mess. She ended up breaking it off. It was tough for both of us, but I think the time off helped. When we got around to talking again, we really figured things out. We started seeing each other again, and now we’re getting along better than ever.

  Maybe you noticed I mentioned Mary Anne’s baby-sitting schedule. That’s a big part of her life. In case you didn’t know, she and her friends belong to this group called the Baby-sitters Club.

  Now, a lot of people think the Baby-sitters Club is all girls. I mean, when you think of a baby-sitter, you think of a girl, right? Admit it. But it’s sort of like the stereotype of jocks. It just doesn’t make sense. Guys can take care of kids, too. They can play games and pick up toys and give baths and make dinner — no big deal. I have a younger brother and sister and I baby-sit for them a lot.

  Anyway, that’s a roundabout way of getting to the next important thing about myself.

  I, Logan Bruno, also belong to the Baby-sitters Club.

  Sort of.

  I’m an associate member, which means I don’t go to regular meetings or pay dues. I just fill in when things get busy.

  I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m ashamed of belonging to the BSC, because I’m not. It’s just that, well, I’ve had to take a little razzing about it from some of my friends.

  A little? OK — a lot!

  Actually, it wasn’t so bad at first. Most of the guys didn’t even know I had this “secret life” as a baby-sitter. And besides, I wasn’t needed too much by the club, so I could always work my sitting jobs around my practice schedule. I like kids a lot, so it was fun and easy.

  Until recently, that is. Everything changed on that fateful day Clarence King almost knocked my head off.

  Looking back, I should have taken that as an omen.

  The rest of practice that day was pretty normal. King managed to behave like a human, and I even caught a twenty-seven-yard pass for a touchdown in an intrasquad game.

  When it was four-thirty, Coach Mills blew his whistle and yelled, “Head to the showers, boys! See you Tuesday, same time, same station!” (Coach Mills loves clichés.)

  I saw my friend Austin Bentley trudging toward the sidelines. (Talk about names —can you imagine being named after two cars? I have to hand it to Austin. He just laughs when people tease him about it.) His practice uniform was filthy and he was walking with a slight limp. “Austin!” I called out. “You been mud wrestling or something?”

  Austin turned around and gave me a mock-angry look. “No, I haven’t been moooo-uhd wraistling,” he replied, trying to imitate my Louisville accent (badly).

  “Hey, Yankee, them’s fightin’ words!” I said, throwing my helmet down. I went into a boxing stance and gave him a light punch to his shoulder.

  Smiling, Austin countered with a roundhouse punch that barely landed on my chest. “Go back to your grits and pork rinds!”

  I threw Austin a body block, enough to send us both tumbling to the ground in a fit of laughter.

  Austin pointed to my shirt. “Who’s covered with moooo-uhd now?”

  Sure enough, I had landed in a wet patch, and the back of my uniform was a solid, gooey brown. As Austin dissolved into hoots of de-light, I could hear a familiar but distant voice saying, “Ew, gross, guys!”

  I looked around to see Mary Anne sitting in the stands, smiling at us and shaking her head. I had almost forgotten we were going to walk home together that day.

  “Hi!” I called out. “I’ll be ready in a minute!”

  “Ready in a minute, dear!” someone to my right echoed, in a na
sal, nerdy voice. I looked over to see King and a bunch of other guys snickering. Before I could answer them, I heard Irv Hirsch say something to the effect of, “Why go to the lockers? Just take a shower at her house!”

  That did it. I took off after them. They split in all directions, laughing and hollering.

  I’d been practicing for the hundred-yard dash, and that came in handy. I ended up riding to the lockers on Irv’s back as he yelled out, “Just kidding! Come on, get off!”

  I know this all must sound pretty dumb, but hey, that’s football practice.

  Anyway, I showered and dressed in record time. Then I ran outside, shouting good-bye over my shoulder. Mary Anne was leaning against the stands, waiting and smiling.

  Okay, now this is the one time I’ll get sentimental. That smile absolutely kills me. Mary Anne is pretty to begin with, with long, wavy brown hair and piercing brown eyes — and unlike a lot of the girls I knew in my old school, she hardly ever wears makeup (I prefer the natural look). She’s also a great listener and has a terrific sense of humor, and I feel totally relaxed around her. But it was her smile that first made me notice her, and to this day it does the most amazing thing to me. It kind of seeps in chest-high and then spreads through me like some incredible magic potion.

  The feeling reminds me of something that happened a long time ago. No, nothing romantic. I was about ten. Our family went on a camping trip in the woods and I managed to get lost. My dad says I was gone about ten minutes, but it felt like hours. I really panicked. The sun was casting long shadows and I thought I saw lions and bears behind every tree. I ran and ran and ran, convinced I’d never be found again. Then I turned into a clearing and suddenly I saw my entire family just sitting there. They all looked at me with these huge smiles on their faces. I never felt so happy in my life. All my tension flew away.

  That’s the kind of feeling I get when Mary Anne smiles at me.

  Well, now you heard it. You can laugh if you want, but it’s true. And it is the last corny thing I’ll say.

  “You guys are so funny,” Mary Anne said as we walked around the side of the school. “Like little kids.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to baby-sit for these guys.”

  “Oooooh, we see you, Bruno!” someone called from behind us. “You can run but you can’t hide!”

  “Logan and Mary Anne sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G …” came King’s foghorn singing voice.

  Then someone else let out a loud wolf whistle.

  Super-mature, huh? At first I wanted to say something, but I just turned to Mary Anne, shrugged, and smiled. We walked off, hand in hand. That made them laugh and “ooohhh” even more, but I didn’t care. Before long we were down the block, heading home.

  I live closer to school than Mary Anne does, so my house was our first stop. As Mary Anne walked me to the door, I said, “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Well, first I have to study for a math test,” she said with about as much enthusiasm as if she’d said “eat brussels sprouts,” or “clean the bathroom.”

  “Sounds exciting,” I said. “Can’t wait to hear the details.”

  Mary Anne smiled. “Thanks a lot.”

  Now was the time to ask her on a date, and I had practiced the right way to do it — not too forceful. “Um, want to go out sometime soon?” (Clever and witty, huh?)

  “When?” Mary Anne said.

  “Well, whenever you’re free.”

  You should have seen Mary Anne’s face. It lit up. “Logan, that’s so sweet!”

  “What is?”

  “You didn’t just come out and tell me what we were going to do!”

  I shrugged. “Well, it’s what we talked about —”

  “Of course I’d like to go out! I’ll check the BSC record book at the meeting this afternoon. I don’t think I have a Saturday job. Maybe we can talk later on the phone?”

  “Okay, I’ll call you,” I said.

  “All right. ’Bye!”

  “ ’Bye!”

  I watched Mary Anne walk away, then went into my house. “I’m ho-ome!” I called out.

  “Hi!” Kerry answered from the kitchen.

  “Logan! Logan!” Hunter shouted, running toward the front door. I picked him up and buried my head in his stomach, shaking it back and forth. As usual, that made him laugh hysterically.

  When I put him down, he said, “Mom’s making chicken and ribs.”

  Actually, it sounded more like, “Bob’s bakig chickid-ad-ribs.” Hunter’s always stuffed up. He has allergies to just about everything — dust, mold, pollen, animal hair, wheat, milk, strawberries, seafood, you name it. His bed-room has to be dust-free, so you can imagine what it looks like. Bare walls, no rugs, no clutter. I hate to say it, but it looks more like a hospital room than a typical five-year-old’s bedroom. Mary Anne feels sorry for him, but Hunter’s a real trooper. He does have toys (even though they’re downstairs), and he likes his room because it’s the only place he can go to feel better.

  Hunter has the same curly, blondish hair as I do, but that’s where the similarity ends. His features are dark like my dad’s. Kerry and I look more like my mom, with blue eyes, smallish noses, and long legs (even though Kerry’s hair is much straighter and lighter than mine).

  “Chicken and ribs? Yum!” I said. The barbecue aroma was already making my stomach twist into a knot of hunger.

  Kerry appeared in the living-room archway and asked, “Logan, can you help me with my math?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’ll help, too!” Hunter added.

  Hunter’s “help” meant sitting on Kerry’s bed, counting aloud on his fingers, and making comments. Kerry would ask, “Do I carry a two?” and Hunter would say, “I can carry two grocery bags. I can carry three footballs …” and so on. It was annoying, but kind of funny.

  But when my dad called out, “Come help set up!” we bolted out of that room as if it were on fire.

  Why? Because there is nothing like a good Kentucky barbecue, and my parents make the best. (Dad does the grilling and Mom makes the sauce from scratch.) It’s pig heaven.

  Kerry took the tablecloth and napkins, Hunter took the utensils, and I took the plates and cups. We barged out the back door just as the phone rang.

  Next thing I knew, my mom was calling out the window, “Logan, it’s for you.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, standing there holding the plates as Kerry centered the tablecloth on the picnic table.

  “Kristy Thomas!”

  “Lo-gan …” Kerry said, giving me a mischievous look.

  “Cut it out,” I retorted. “It’s probably a sitting job, that’s all.” (Kristy’s the president of the BSC.)

  I put my stuff down on the crooked table-cloth, ran inside, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “It’s not,” came Kristy’s voice through the earpiece.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s not a baby-sitting job,” Kristy said. “Not exactly. Can you be at Claudia Kishi’s house in twenty minutes for our meeting?”

  Kristy, as you can guess, likes to get right to the point. “Whoa, slow down,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “It’s a long story,” Kristy said. “I’ll tell you when you get here. Come on, Logan, it’s an emergency.”

  “Well … I guess I can come, but —”

  “Great! See you!”

  Click. Dial tone. End of conversation.

  I hung up the phone feeling completely confused — and a little nervous. Kristy can be somewhat … brusque, as my mom would say, but I’d never heard her speak like that.

  Something was wrong, and I had to know what it was.

  “Everything okay, Logan?” my mom asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I answered. “I think —”

  My dad was lifting a platter of neatly stacked, sauce-drenched, raw chicken parts off the kitchen table. “Want to give me a hand at the grill?” he asked.

  “Well, I just told Kristy I’d go to a B
SC meeting. It’ll only last till six. She says it’s an emergency.”

  “Emergency?” Dad repeated, looking a little skeptical.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Kristy didn’t say what it was.”

  “Go ahead, honey,” Mom said. “We won’t eat before then.”

  We both looked at the stove clock. It was after five.

  “I don’t know, Logan,” Dad said. “The ribs might be gone by then.”

  I held the back door open for him. “Better not be!” I said with a smile.

  Dad shrugged. “You’re taking your chances.”

  I laughed, then ran to the garage, yelling, “ ’Bye!”

  “ ’Bye!” Kerry and Hunter called back.

  I pulled my bike out of the garage and tore off down the driveway.

  Did you notice my dad’s reaction? Not negative, but a little … uncomfortable. He gets that way when I mention anything to do with the BSC. He’s not a real macho-type, just old-fashioned. For example, he’ll talk to me for hours about so-and-so’s batting average, or the best way to run a defense against a strong quarterback, anything related to sports. (Which makes sense when you consider he’s a manager for a sporting-goods manufacturer.) But when I mention some funny or interesting thing that happened during a sitting job, he puts on this little, tolerant smile, and just nods silently.

  In his mind, I’m only involved in the BSC because I’m hot for Mary Anne, and that makes it okay.

  (Well, in a way, he’s right.)

  Just in a way, though. I do enjoy kids, and I also like the other club members. Kristy, Stacey, Claudia, Dawn, Mal, and Jessi are among my best friends — even though they’re girls. I know that “even though” part may sound stupid, but some guys think girls are a form of human asparagus. You know, keep away at all costs.

  Let’s face it, I can’t do the same things with them that I do with Austin or Trevor Sand-bourne, or any of my guy friends. With guys I can be freer. We wrestle, say insulting things without being taken seriously, stuff like that. But you know what? Sometimes I actually prefer being around girls. You can talk about how you’re feeling without being made to feel dorky. Girls actually listen and try to understand, instead of yawn and change the subject. Also, to be blunt about it, girls are nicer to look at.