Claudia and the New Girl (2 page)

pinch if a job conies in that none of us can take. (Luckily, that doesn't happen very often.) Last thing — aside from the club record book, we keep a notebook. Kristy insists on this. In the notebook, we write up every single job we go on, and then we're responsible for reading the other entries about once a week. That way, we know what went on when our friends were sitting, which is often very helpful. (But — do you want my honest opinion? Reading that notebook every week can be a total bore.)

When school was over on the day I met Ashley Wyeth, I ran right home and did what was left of my homework (a lot of it had gotten done in the Resource Room), and then I took a look at Mixed-up Files. It really was time I read it, especially if Mrs. Hall was going to give us "checks" on it every now and then.

I read until 5:15. The story wasn't bad. After all, there was a girl named Claudia in it. Furthermore, this Claudia felt that she was a victim of injustice. When I looked up "injustice" and found out what it meant, I was pretty interested. I often think things in my life are unjust, particularly where school or my genius sister Janine is concerned.

At 5:15,1 went downstairs to find my grandmother Mimi and wait for the members of the Baby-sitters Club to come over.

Mimi was in the kitchen, starting supper. She had a stroke last summer but is much better now except for two things. She can only use her left hand (she used to be right-handed), and she still has a little trouble with her speech — but not much, considering that Japanese, not English, is her native language. Anyway, she likes to feel useful, so she insists on starting dinner every weekday afternoon while my parents are at work, and doing whatever housework she can manage.

"Ah. Hello, my Claudia," Mimi greeted me when I entered the kitchen. "You have been study hard?"

"I guess so," I replied. "I'm reading this book. Some of the words are pretty big, but I like it. It's funny."

"How about having special tea?" asked Mimi.

"Oh, I can't. I mean, I don't have time. We have a club meeting. Everyone'll be here in about ten minutes."

"Ah. Yes. I see." (That's what Mimi always says these days when she wants to say something else, but the right words won't come.)

"Mimi," I began, pulling a cutting board toward me and starting to peel carrots for the salad, "there's a new girl in school. She's in my English class. Her name is Ashley Wyeth, and she likes art just like I do. We only talked

for a couple of minutes today, but I think maybe we're going to be friends. Isn't that funny?"

"It happens that way sometimes. Happen when I meet your grandfather. In one second I know . . . knew . . . we would fall in love, be married, have children."

"Really?" I said. I was awed. What a second that must have been. I guess you need those seconds to make up for all the dull ones when you're just watching flies land on people's heads.

The doorbell rang then and I ran to answer it. It was probably Kristy. She often arrives either early or late since she's at the mercy of Charlie's schedule.

Sure enough, it was Kristy. She let herself in even before I'd answered the door.

"Hi, Claudia!" she cried. She looked like she was in a really good mood, but I wished for the thirty-nine thousandth time that she'd do something about her clothes and hair. Kristy is really cute, but she never bothers to make herself look special. All fall she's been wearing the same kind of outfit — jeans, a turtleneck, a sweater, and sneakers. And she hasn't been doing a thing to her long (well, longish) brown hair except brushing it. Here's an example of one of the big differences between Kristy and

me. I was wearing a very short pink cotton dress, white tights, and black ballet slippers. I had swept all of my hair way over to one side, where it was held in place with a piece of pink cloth that matched the dress. Only one ear showed, and in it I had put my big palm tree earring. (Kristy was not wearing any jewelry.)

We are so different, it is amazing.

Dawn, Mary Anne, and Stacey arrived a few minutes later. Actually, as you might guess, we are all different — but some of us are more different than others. Stacey is kind of like me. She wears trendy clothes and is always getting her hair styled or permed or something, but she's not as outrageous as I can be. I did notice that day, though, that she had painted her fingernails yellow and then put black polka dots all over them.

Mary Anne, who is quiet and shy, dresses more like Kristy (who's a loudmouth). But Mary Anne is beginning to pay some attention to what she wears. Dawn falls in between Stacey and me, and Kristy and Mary Anne. She's just an individual. She's originally from California and tends to dress casually, but with flair.

The five of us went upstairs to my room and closed the door. I found a bag of Doritos in my stash of junk food and passed it around,

while Kristy took her seat in my director's chair and Mary Anne opened the record book so she'd be ready with our appointment calendar when the first call came in.

While we ate the Doritos and waited for the phone to ring, I said, "Did any of you see that new girl? Ashley Wyeth?"

The others shook their heads. But nobody made any snide comments about new girls. That's because Stacey and Dawn were both new girls themselves not too far back. (Stacey's from New York City. She moved to Stoney-brook about a year ago, which was about six months before Dawn moved here from California.)

Ring, ring! We all leapt for the phone. That usually happens with the first call of the meeting. Kristy got it, though.

"Hello, Baby-sitters Club," she said in her most adult voice. "Hi, Mrs. Rodowsky. . . . Thursday? That's short notice, but I'll check and call you right back, okay? 'Bye."

"Mrs. Rodowsky?" I said, groaning, as Kristy hung up the phone. The Rodowsky s have three boys, and one of them, Jackie, is completely accident-prone. The only thing that ever happens when you sit at the Rodowskys' is that Jackie falls off things, on things, or into things. Sometimes he gets caught in things or breaks

things or loses things. He's a nice little kid, but sheesh.

Mary Anne began to giggle. "Hey, guess what, Claud?" she said. "You're the only one who's free that day."

"Oh, no!" I clapped my hand to my forehead as Kristy picked up the phone to call Mrs. Rodowsky back. But I didn't mind as much as I let on. I've sat for Jackie and his brothers a few times now, and Jackie's beginning to grow on me.

The meeting continued. Calls came in, we got jobs. It was your average meeting. Pretty uneventful.

I loved every second of it.

The Baby-sitters Club is very important to me. It's almost as important to me as art is. I don't know what I'd do without the club — or my friends.

Chapter 3.

All that night and all the next morning on my way to school, I looked forward to seeing Ashley Wyeth again. Would she be in any of my other classes? What was her morning schedule? But I didn't see her until English class, not even at lunchtime, although she must have been in the cafeteria since everyone in my grade eats at the same time.

In English, I smiled at her and she smiled back, but when the bell rang at the end of class, Mrs. Hall asked to see me privately, so I missed walking upstairs with Ashley. (By the way, I wasn't in any trouble. Mrs. Hall just wanted to assign me some grammar stuff to work on in the Resource Room.) I couldn't believe I had completely missed Ashley. Oh, well. Maybe the next day.

That afternoon, I went to one of my art classes. I'm taking two kinds of classes right now. One is this general art class where we

get to work in all different media. (That means we get to sculpt, draw, sketch, and paint in acrylics, watercolors, and oils.) We're working on sculpture now. I like it, but it's hard. I'm better at painting and drawing. On the weekends I take a pottery class. Pottery is my new love. Over the summer my family went to this mountain resort where you could swim, ride horses, go on hikes, and take art classes. (It was sort of like camp, except it was for adults, too.) Anyway, I went to some pottery classes and loved throwing pots, so Mom and Dad signed me up for a Saturday class in Stoney-brook.

Since the Stoneybrook Arts Center isn't far from Stoneybrook Middle School, I got to my class a little early that day. I was the second person there. (I'd even beaten the teacher.) I set up the piece I was working on in class and was about to make a little change on one part when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around.

"Ashley!" I exclaimed.

There she was. She was wearing a puffy white blouse, a blue-jean jacket, a long blue-jean skirt, and those hiking boots again. Beaded bracelets circled both wrists, and she'd tied a strip of faded denim around her head, like an Indian headband. Since her hair was loose that

day, I couldn't get a good look at her ears. I wanted to see if she was wearing six earrings again.

"Hi, Claudia," she said, fixing her serious gaze on me. "I can't believe you're in this class."

"You're joining it?" I cried, even though it was obvious that she was.

Ashley nodded. "I took lots of art classes in Chicago. This was the only one we could find here, though. Is it a good class?"

"It's great. You should see all the stuff we're doing."

"What's the teacher like?"

"Ms. Baehr? She's nice. Really, you know, encouraging."

"Where did she study?" Ashley wanted to know. "Has she exhibited any of her work?"

"Huh?" I replied brightly.

"What's her background? Is she qualified?"

I could feel my cheeks burning. Of course Ms. Baehr was qualified. She was the teacher. If she weren't qualified, she couldn't teach . . . could she? "I — I don't know," I stammered, but Ashley was already off on another subject. She eyed my sculpture, which was of a hand. Just a hand. If you think it's easy to sculpt (or draw) a realistic hand, try it sometime.

"Hey, Claudia, that's terrific," said Ashley.

"It's beautiful." She walked all around the hand, looking at it from different angles.

"Thanks," I said. "It's just an exercise piece, though. I'm practicing on it, learning things."

"Well, it's still terrific. What else have you done?"

I noticed that Ashley was carrying a portfolio under one arm. "Do you want to see my portfolio?" I asked her shyly. I always feel like I'm bragging when I offer to let someone look through my portfolio, even though I'm not sure my work is all that good. Lots of people say it is, but I usually think, What do they know?

"Sure," replied Ashley.

"Well . . . okay," I said uncertainly. Our portfolios are stored on shelves that line the back wall of the room. I retrieved mine, laid it on the worktable next to my sculpture, and opened it for Ashley.

Very slowly, Ashley looked at every sketch and drawing that I'd saved in the portfolio. She turned them over one by one and studied each before going on to the next. I stood across from her, watching her face for a reaction. I felt as nervous as if I were waiting for a teacher to tell me whether I'd passed into the next grade.

When Ashley was finished, she closed the

portfolio and regarded me gravely with china-blue eyes. "You are really talented," she said. "I hope you know that."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thanks," I replied. "I'm glad you liked everything." Since art is one of the few things I think I'm any good at, I just die if people don't like my work. I hesitated. "Could I look at your portfolio?" I asked her. "Would you mind?"

"Oh, no. I wouldn't mind." Ashley slid her portfolio across the table to me.

I opened it, wondering what kind of artist Ashley was. You can tell a lot from a person's portfolio. I always look at the subjects that the person has chosen to draw or paint, and the pieces that she's decided to save in the portfolio. That kind of thing. It's psychological, I guess.

Ashley's first drawing nearly made me gasp. It drove all thoughts of psychology right out of my head. I had never seen a more realistic portrait in my life. It looked like a photograph.

I'm sure my eyes were bugging out in a really undignified way.

"Whoa," I whispered. "Amazing."

Ashley waved her hand at it. "That's not really anything," she said. "It's old. But this next one . . ."

I turned to the next piece in the portfolio. It was a watercolor. I wasn't sure what it was a water/color of, but I knew it was very, very good.

"That is innovation," Ashley told me.

I glanced at her to see if she was kidding, but she looked as grave and serious as always.

The rest of Ashley's portfolio was as amazing as the beginning. When I finally closed the folder, my heart was pounding. "How long have you been taking art lessons?" I asked.

"Oh, forever," Ashley replied. "Since I was four or five."

"Wow. Where did you take lessons? Anywhere special?"

"Do you know the Keyes Art Society? It's in Chicago. That's where I used to live."

"You studied at Keyes?!" I could barely contain my excitement.

Ashley nodded.

"Wow. But how'd you get in? Only a few kids are chosen to study there." Keyes was famous among art students. I once asked my parents if I could try to get in for the summer session, but they said it was too far way and much too expensive.

"I was just chosen," Ashley said modestly. "When I was eight." She looked uncertainly

around our little room in the Stoneybrook Arts Center. "I hope this school is good. And I hope Ms. Baehr is as good as Mr. Simmons. Mr. Simmons was my old teacher."

"Oh, I'm sure it's all... fine," I lied. "Wow, did you really like my portfolio?"

"Are you kidding? It's fantastic. If you lived in Chicago you could go to Keyes."

"Wow. . . ."I felt as if the floor were melting away under my feet. A person who had gone to Keyes thought my work was good. I hoped I was impressing Ashley as much as she was impressing me.

A bunch of kids had arrived by then and I introduced Ashley to them. I thought it was a good way for her to get to know some other kids in Stoneybrook. But Ashley didn't seem very interested in the other students. I noticed that she always looked at a kid's sculpture (not at the actual kid) while I was making introductions. Then she'd just kind of nod, and we'd go on to the next person. The only person she looked at for a moment was Fiona McRae, the second best student in the class. (I'm the first. At least, I was the first until Ashley arrived.) Ashley looked appreciatively from Fiona's sculpture of a stag to Fiona and back to the stag before we moved on. Then I showed Ashley where our supplies were stored, and