Abby and the Notorious Neighbor, Page 2

  As vice-president of the BSC, Claudia’s official duties include — well, not much. Unofficially, she’s responsible for providing munchies for our meetings. However, we do meet in her room because she’s the only member with her own phone and phone number, which are essential for our business.

  Meanwhile, back at the meeting … it took Mary Anne just seconds to check the record book and learn that Kristy and I were the only ones free to sit for the three Rodowsky boys.

  “I can take it,” said Kristy, reaching for the phone to call Mrs. Rodowsky back. (See how well the BSC system works?) “I don’t think Abby’s in any shape to deal with the Walking Disaster.” (That’s our private nickname for Jackie Rodowsky, who is a wonderful but incredibly accident-prone little boy.)

  At that, all eyes turned to me. Mary Anne’s were full of concern. “Are you okay, Abby?” she asked. Mary Anne is by far the most caring, sensitive member of our club.

  “I’ll be fide,” I said hoarsely. “It’s just by allergies kickig id, big-tibe.”

  “Can we do anything to help?” she asked.

  “Short of vacuubig all the polled out of the atbosphere, probably dot,” I joked. My laugh turned into a cough, but I recovered quickly. “Thaks adyway. Add Kristy’s right. I guess I do’t feel up to sittig for the Rodowskys.”

  Mary Anne smiled at me. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “They can be a handful.” She made a note about the job in the club record book.

  Mary Anne, who looks a little like Kristy with her brown eyes and hair, is an excellent secretary. She’s neat and thorough, and I hear she’s never once made a mistake in scheduling.

  Her dad’s a neat freak too. And he used to be very strict, but that was before I knew Mary Anne, so it’s hard to imagine. Mary Anne’s mom died back when Mary Anne was just a baby. I can relate to how it feels to be a kid in a one-parent family. It must have been even harder for Mary Anne, since she was an only child.

  These days Mr. Spier seems pretty easygoing. Maybe it’s because he’s married again, to a woman who was his high school sweetheart long ago. She’d moved away to California, married, and had two kids, Dawn and Jeff. When her marriage broke up, she and the kids came back to Stoneybrook. Mary Anne became best friends with Dawn Schafer, and soon afterward Mary Anne’s dad and Dawn’s mom fell in love again. Suddenly, Mary Anne’s family had grown a lot larger.

  But Jeff never adjusted to living in Stoneybrook, and he went back to California to live with his dad. Eventually, Dawn did the same. Poor Mary Anne lost a stepsister and a best friend. Fortunately, she still has another best friend (Kristy — talk about opposites attracting!), a kitten named Tigger, and a boyfriend named Logan Bruno. (Logan’s one of those associate members I mentioned earlier. The other is a girl named Shannon Kilbourne, who lives in Kristy’s and my neighborhood.)

  Dawn is now an honorary member of the BSC. She used to be the alternate officer, which meant that she could fill in for any other officer who couldn’t come to a meeting. Guess who holds that job now? Correctamundo. It’s moi. And all I can say is that it was a good thing everybody was at the meeting that day. I mean, what if I’d actually had to do something at it?

  For instance, Stacey has a big job. That’s Stacey McGill, the club treasurer and Claudia’s best friend. Toward the end of the meeting, just as I was drifting off for another little nap, I heard Kristy ask if there was any other business.

  “You know there is,” Stacey said teasingly. “Come on, everybody, cough it up.” She held out a manila envelope: the club’s treasury. Stacey is responsible for collecting dues each Monday and for keeping track of the club finances. We use the dues to pay Claudia’s phone bill and to help buy gas for the Junk Bucket, and for the occasional pizza party, when Stacey says we have enough to spare.

  Everybody groaned and reached into pockets and backpacks. We always give Stacey a hard time, but nobody really minds paying dues.

  Stacey passed the envelope around. “There’s almost enough in there for this adorable leather jacket I saw at the mall yesterday,” she said. “You guys wouldn’t mind if I did a little embezzling, would you?”

  We cracked up. Stacey would never run off with the club’s money. But if she did, I can just imagine her heading straight to Washington Mall. Stacey lives for fashion. She grew up as an only child in Manhattan, which is Fashion Central. Now that her parents are divorced, she lives with her mom in Stoneybrook but visits her dad often. He still lives in the land of Bloomingdale’s and Barney’s.

  Stacey’s sophisticated, polished, and very pretty, with beautiful blue eyes and a curly mane of blonde hair. I admire her for the way she’s handled her parents’ divorce, and for the way she deals with being diabetic. Do you know anyone with diabetes? In case you don’t, I’ll explain. Diabetes is a lifelong disease that affects the way the body processes sugar. The pancreas produces a hormone called insulin, which helps the body use the fuel it’s given (food, in other words). When someone has diabetes the pancreas doesn’t work right. That can’t be fixed, but diabetes can be managed. Stacey keeps hers under control by being very, very careful about what she eats. She also has to give herself injections of insulin every day, which can’t be fun.

  The treasury envelope was passed from hand to hand around the room until it found its way to Mallory Pike and Jessica Ramsey, the BSC’s junior officers, who were sitting in their usual spots on the floor. Mal and Jessi are eleven and in the sixth grade, instead of thirteen and in the eighth, like the rest of us. They’re only allowed to take afternoon jobs (unless they’re sitting for their own siblings), but they’re both good, responsible sitters.

  “If my brothers and sisters had a chance to embezzle some funds they’d be heading straight for the hardware store,” Mal commented. “They’re completely caught up in that go-cart competition. It’s all they can think about. They’re spending their life savings on parts.”

  I was really excited about the go-cart competition. The Stoneybrook Community Center was sponsoring it as a special fund-raiser, and it was going to take place soon. Teams of kids were building their own go-carts for the race. The winners could designate which charity their prize money would go to. I thought the project sounded cool.

  Mal’s younger siblings could make up a team and pit crew all by themselves: There are seven of them! That’s one reason she’s such a good sitter.

  Mal has pale skin and reddish-brown hair, and wears glasses and braces (she hates both with a passion). She loves to read and write, and she wants to be a children’s book author and illustrator someday.

  Jessi, her best friend, has cocoa-brown skin, dark eyes, and a lean, strong body just made for dancing. She’s a serious student of ballet and practices as hard as any athlete. Jessi has a younger sister and a baby brother, and lives with her parents and an aunt.

  “Becca’s talking about building a go-cart too,” she said. “She and Charlotte Johanssen are talking about putting together an all-girl team.”

  “Cool!” I said. “Do they deed a coach? I’d love to help.” Just then, I was struck by another coughing fit. It took me a few moments to recover. “As sood as I’b well, that is,” I added when I could speak again.

  “Abby, you’re not going to get well unless you take care of yourself,” said Mary Anne. “I think you need to go right home and rest.”

  “I second the motion,” said Kristy. “And I’ll even provide the ride home, since this meeting is hereby declared over.”

  “Thaks,” I said weakly. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to be in my own bed. It had occurred to me that what I was dealing with might be something more than just my familiar old allergies.

  “Loocy, I tol’ you, you can’t be in the show —”

  Click.

  “The young spotted salamander holds his ground as the toad attacks fearlessly, inching forward —”

  Click.

  “Oh, José, I never knew love could be like this — or perhaps I did, before I was kidnapped and developed amnesia —”
>
  Click.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Spooner. By picking door number three, you’ve won a brand-new —”

  Click.

  I hit the mute button and groaned. I’d been watching TV for four solid hours, and I felt as if I’d seen everything at least twice. Dumb videos on MTV. I Love Lucy reruns I knew by heart. Game shows. Nature shows. Soap operas. Talk shows about stuff I’d never heard of and never wanted to hear about again.

  On the screen, a slick-looking guy with a microphone let a skinny woman in a frilly dress hug him as she screamed with joy. (Fortunately, that mute button I’d hit silenced her screams.) Then he led her to her prize, a washer-dryer set. She stroked the appliances, acting as if all her dreams had come true.

  I couldn’t relate.

  But the way I was feeling, I couldn’t relate to much of anything. It was the day after our BSC meeting, and I’d woken up feeling sicker than ever. For some reason, my nose wasn’t quite so stuffed up, but everything hurt, including breathing. I could barely move.

  “Ma?” I’d called that morning when I heard my mother bustling about down the hall.

  She came into my room. “What is it, honey?” she asked as she tucked in her blouse.

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  She took a closer look at me. “I bet you don’t,” she said. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “We don’t have a cat. I’m allergic to kitty litter, remember?”

  “It’s just a saying,” she murmured absently as she put her hand on my forehead. “Mmm, you feel like you’re burning up. Let’s take your temperature.” She ran to the bathroom and came back with the thermometer, which she stuck under my tongue.

  “Is your throat sore?” she asked me.

  “Mmuugggg,” I said, trying to talk around the thermometer. (I was trying to say “majorly.”) In fact, my throat felt as if it were on fire.

  “And I heard you coughing once during the night,” she said. “But when I checked on you, you seemed to be sleeping, so I didn’t wake you.”

  As far as I could remember, I’d tossed and turned and hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  “What’s wrong with Abby?” asked Anna, coming into my room.

  “She’s not feeling well,” said my mom. “And it could be contagious, so you’re probably better off staying away from her for now.” She removed the thermometer and checked it. “Mmm-hmm,” she said. “You do have a fever. You’re going to have to stay home from school today.”

  “Bummer,” I said as cheerfully as my sore throat would allow. “Guess I’ll have to lounge around all day and eat bonbons. What a shame.” A day off didn’t sound so bad, but I’d have liked to be feeling better so I could really enjoy it.

  So there I was, Miss Couch Potato of the Year, all settled in on the living room sofa, surrounded by pillows, covered by a light quilt, with bottles of ginger ale and water within easy reach. The TV remote and the Kleenex box were both nearby, and Mom had left me about a week’s supply of fruit.

  “If you can, try to heat up some soup for yourself at noontime,” she said. I could tell she felt guilty about heading off to work while I was at death’s door.

  “I — I don’t think I’ll have the energy,” I said, draping a hand across my forehead in an imitation of an old-time movie heroine.

  “Oh, you,” she said, giving me a wry smile.

  I smiled back. I could remember my dad when he had a cold. He’d play it for all it was worth and end up being waited on hand and foot by the rest of us.

  Anna had loaned me her favorite Mozart CD. “These piano sonatas always make me feel better,” she explained. And she promised to skip orchestra rehearsal and come straight home after school to check on how I was doing.

  If I still had a fever by the time my mom came home, we were going to call Dr. Hernandez. I hoped we wouldn’t have to, but on the other hand I did want to feel better soon. I didn’t really mind missing school, but I hated to miss too many days of exercise. Being fit is important to me.

  But that afternoon, running seemed like something I’d done in another life. I was still recovering after my last journey from the couch to the bathroom and back. I couldn’t imagine having enough energy to run around the block, much less five miles.

  I sighed, pulled the quilt up around my chin, and zapped the TV remote, turning the volume back on.

  “— and today’s lucky grand-prize winner will be receiving —”

  Click.

  “We want to be your long-distance company —”

  Click.

  “I love you, you love me, we’re a —”

  Click-click-click-click.

  I held the button down and let the images fly by. Soon I’d be bored enough to put on that CD Anna had lent me. Then something caught my eye. The opening credits — in blood red — of a show called Mystery Trackers.

  I’d heard kids talking about it at school, but I’d never seen it myself. Here was my big chance. I turned up the volume a notch or two and listened.

  Loud, insistent music played as black-and-white mug shots of nasty-looking criminals filled the screen in quick succession, “WANTED” stamped across their faces in red. Over the music, a man’s voice intoned, “Welcome to Mystery Trackers, the show that lets you be the detective.”

  I listened closer, already forgetting my boredom. I love mysteries — everyone in the BSC does — and I’ve even helped solve a few.

  “Today you’ll meet three criminals who are wanted by state and federal officials. Wanted, but not captured. That’s where you come in. These people may live in your community, shop in your grocery store, relax in your parks. We need your help to find them and bring them to justice.”

  I nodded. “Okay,” I said to the screen. “So, what do I do?”

  “If you spot one of the criminals you’ll meet on this show,” the announcer said as if answering my question, “do not — I repeat, do not — attempt to apprehend the person yourself. Your safety comes first. Instead, contact your local law enforcement agency or call this number.”

  He reeled off an 800 number, the same one that now appeared in yellow type across the bottom of the screen. Then the show switched to a commercial.

  I sat up to pour myself a glass of ginger ale. Then I plumped up my pillows, shook out my quilt, and made myself comfortable. This was one show I could stick with. I had a feeling I would enjoy it.

  Sure enough, I did. Learning about these criminals was fascinating. What had made them go wrong? Why did they feel they were above the law? Did they really imagine they’d get away with their crimes?

  The first one was a bank robber. The announcer told the story of his career, starting with small heists and moving up to major moolah. The guy was not a particularly talented thief. He was a bumbler and came close to being caught every time. But somehow he was lucky — or, to put it better, the police were unlucky. Even though his picture and description were posted in banks across the country, the criminal had stayed out of their clutches.

  The second was a woman, which surprised me, though I don’t know why. I guess women can commit crimes just as easily as men. Anyway, she’d held up a small-town post office, which didn’t make her very popular with the federal government. She was small and dark-haired and looked as if she could fit in just about anywhere.

  The third was a man who’d messed up a lot of people’s lives. First, he embezzled from the company he worked for, driving it into bankruptcy. Then he’d abandoned his family after stealing his wife’s life savings. Nice guy, huh?

  The show held my interest to the end. But it was followed by a dumb program about aliens landing somewhere out West, and I ended up channel surfing for another half hour until I fell asleep, holding the remote.

  When Anna came home and woke me up, I told her all about Mystery Trackers. I could tell she thought it was trash, but she listened to me patiently, I guess because I was sick and she was trying to be nice.

  “The funny thing,” I told her whe
n I’d finished describing the show, “is that I thought one of the people looked familiar. I just can’t remember which one….” I really couldn’t. My mind was pretty foggy at that point.

  Anna laid a cool hand on my forehead. “That’s okay,” she said, humoring me. “You know, I think you do still have a fever. Let’s take your temperature. Remember, Mom said she wanted to take you to see Dr. Hernandez if you still had a fever this afternoon.”

  Anna went to find the thermometer, and I lay back on the couch, exhausted again. She was probably right to think I was being silly. After all, I bet everyone who watches those shows thinks the criminals look familiar. If you watched it daily, you’d probably start seeing criminals around every corner. The people staffing that 800 number must receive hundreds of panicked phone calls every day. Well, I decided, as Anna returned with the thermometer, this is one Mystery Tracker who’s not going to let her imagination run away with her. Even in the grip of a fever (Anna turned out to be right), I was too smart to let that happen.

  Have you ever experienced true boredom? I mean, boredom beyond belief? Have you ever been so bored that the idea of sitting through a class with your most unexciting teacher droning on and on begins to sound like the most fascinating thing imaginable?

  If so, you still don’t know how bored I was by Wednesday, because my boredom was even more excruciating than that. I was bored stiff. Bored to tears. Bored to death.

  It was only my second day home from school, but I was about to lose my mind. I couldn’t even turn on the TV anymore — that’s how sick of it I was. I’d read until my eyes were about to drop out of my head, and I’d written letters to every pen pal I’d had since the age of six, and I’d even picked thousands of those little pill-y things off my favorite pair of soccer socks.

  I was still feeling sick, but not sick enough to sleep the hours away. Mom had come home from work early in order to hustle me to Dr. Hernandez on Tuesday night, and he’d informed us that what I had was bronchitis. “It won’t go away overnight either,” he’d cautioned. “Your allergies are a complication.”