Kristy's Mystery Admirer

Kristy's Mystery Admirer

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

"Concentrate, concentrate," I said softly. Then I raised my voice. "Keep your eye on the ball!" I yelled.

I must have startled Jackie Rodowsky because he swung way too low and missed an easy pitch.

"Strike two!" shouted the umpire.

"Darn," I muttered. I went back to murmuring, "Concentrate, concentrate."

It was almost the end of another game between the Krushers and the Bashers. Who are the Krushers and the Bashers? They're softball teams here in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. I am the coach of the Krushers. Bart Taylor is the coach of the Bashers.

I have a crush on Bart.

Anyway, for the first time in the history of softball games between my Krushers and Bart's Bashers, it looked like the Krushers had a chance to win. See, the Krushers are not

your average softball team. The players are all kids who are too young or too scared to try out for T-ball or Little League. In other words, as you might have guessed, they aren't great players. (Well, most of them aren't.) One kid ducks every time a ball comes toward him. Most of the kids are not good hitters. We even have one player who's only two and a half years old. We let her use a special ball and bat so she doesn't get hurt, and we have to tell her everything to do. But you know what? She's a pretty good hitter for her age.

Bart's Bashers, on the other hand, are an older, tougher group of kids. (I don't know why they don't just join Little League. Maybe they like having Bart as their coach. I could certainly understand that.) The thing is, the Bashers have always beaten the Krushers easily.

Until now.

Now the score was tied, the Krushers had been playing very well, the bases were loaded, and it was the bottom of the ninth — with two outs. The only problem was that the Krushers were up, and our batter was Jackie Rodowsky, the walking disaster. Poor Jackie. I love him to bits, but he is a walking disaster. He's accident-prone, he has bad luck, and he's not too coordinated.

The pitcher looked nervous, though. After all, the game was tied, and the Bashers had never been beaten by the Krushers.

Still, this was the walking disaster at bat. "Come on, come on," I muttered, and gave Jackie the thumbs-up sign.

The pitcher threw the ball, Jackie swung his bat, and — he hit a home run! Four more runs.

"We won! We won!" the Krushers screamed.

I screamed right along with them, even though I knew the Bashers had been playing under handicaps. Their best hitter had the chicken pox, their usual pitcher was out of town for the weekend, and two good players had been benched for fighting (with each other).

Still, the Krushers were victorious, and our cheerleaders went wild. "We won! We won! We won!" they couldn't stop yelling. Then they remembered their softball manners and shouted, "Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? The Bashers! The Bashers! Yea!"

I had a feeling this was the first time our cheerleaders actually meant what they were saying.

Our cheerleaders, by the way, are Vanessa Pike and Haley Braddock, who are nine, and Charlotte Johanssen, who's eight. Haley's

brother, Matt, is a Krusher. He's profoundly deaf, but he's one of our best players. We communicate with him using sign language. Several of Vanessa's brothers and sisters (she has seven) are on the team, including her littlest sister, Claire, who's five and sometimes throws tantrums, shouting, "Nofe-air! Nofe-air! Nofe-air!" when she thinks she's been wronged.

Anyway, I waited until all of my Krushers had been picked up by moms or dads or sitters or older brothers and sisters, and were heading home joyously, amid surprised and excited cries of "We beat the Bashers! Honest." And, "We finally won a game!"

Then I looked across the schoolyard to where my big brother Charlie was waiting to drive me and my little brothers and sister home. (Charlie is seventeen, can drive, and has this awful old secondhand car. At least it runs.)

Who am I? I'm Kristy Thomas. I'm thirteen and I'm an eighth-grader at Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS). I have three brothers, a stepbrother and stepsister, and an adopted sister. David Michael, my seven-year-old brother, and Karen and Andrew, my stepsister and stepbrother, who are seven and four, are Krushers.* Charlie was going to drop Karen

and Andrew off at their mother's house and then take David Michael and me home. This was nice of him. We could have" walked, but we had an awful lot of equipment.

Charlie and I were just loading the last of it into the back of his car, when a voice said, "Can 1 walk you home?"

I whirled around. It was Bart.

My heart flip-flopped. It actually felt like it turned over inside my chest. I tried to breathe slowly.

"Charlie?" I asked. "Is that okay with you? You can leave the stuff in the car and I'll help you unload it as soon as I get home."

"No problem," replied Charlie. (He is so good-natured.)

"Okay, see you later, David Michael. Karen and Andrew, I'll see you Friday afternoon." (Karen and Andrew only live with their dad and my mom and the rest of our family every other weekend. Oh, and for two weeks during the summer. The rest of the time they live with their mother and stepfather.)

" 'Bye!" called David Michael, Karen, and Andrew, who were still practically hysterical over beating the Bashers.

Charlie drove off in his rattly car, and I looked at Bart. I wasn't sure what to say. Of course, I was ecstatic that we'd beaten his

team. On the other hand, we'd beaten his team. Bart couldn't be feeling too great.

But— "Congratulations," said Bart sincerely. "Your kids sure have guts. They played really well today."

"Thanks," I replied. I was pleased. Really I was. But all Bart and I ever talked about was softball or our teams.

We walked a little way in silence. I couldn't think of a thing to say. At last Bart said, "Guess what happened in the locker room at school today?" (Bart does not go to SMS. He goes to StoneybrookDay School, a private school.)

"What?" I asked, shuddering. Did I really want to know what went on in a boys' locker room?

"This guy," Bart began, "got a little crazy after gym class, and he was clowning around, swinging from the pipes on the ceiling. All of a sudden, this pipe breaks, he falls down onto the benches, and the sprinkler system goes off! Everybody got soaked."

I laughed. "What happened to the kid? Was he hurt?"

"Him? Hurt? Nah. His nickname is Ox. Nothing could hurt him."

"Once," I said, "we were playing field hockey and this girl who is completely un-

coordinated took a whack at the ball and it hit the teacher on the head!"

It was Bart's turn to laugh. Then he said, "Somehow I can't picture you in a field hockey kilt."

"They're not so bad," 1 replied. "The bloomers have changed. The uniforms are much more up-to-date now. ... I do wish we could just wear jeans and T-shirts, though. Practically the only time I wear a skirt is when we play field hockey."

"You should wear skirts more often," said Bart.

"How come?" I asked.

Bart shrugged. Then he blushed. "I bet you'd look pretty, that's all."

"I'm not pretty in my Krushers outfit?" I asked. I was just teasing, but Bart blushed even redder. "Come on," I said. "Don't worry about it. I'm just giving you a hard time. So how's school?"

"Fine. The same old stuff."

"Yeah. For me, too."

"How's the Baby-sitters Club?"

"Great!" (My friends and I have a club that is really a business. We baby-sit for the families in our neighborhoods. I'll tell you more about it later.)

"And how are your friends?"

"What is this? A talk show?" I said, laughing.

Bart grinned. "I don't know. I mean, no. I just want to hear about your life . . . instead of softball."

I looked at Bart seriously. "Well, let's see. Mallory's really happy because she's going out with a guy for the first time. Claudia's doing better in school. But I'm a little worried about Stacey."

"Stacey," repeated Bart. "She's the one with diabetes, right?"

I nodded. "She's never really sick. She just doesn't seem well sometimes, if you know what I mean."

Bart nodded.

"How about you?" I asked. "How's everything?"

"Not bad. Kyle gets on my nerves, but I can handle him." (Kyle is Bart's little brother.) "My parents bug me, though. They hate it when my band practices in the basement."

"You have a band?" I said in amazement.

"Yup."

"What do you play?"

"Guitar. Electric, acoustic, any kind."

"I didn't know that. So have you had any . . . what are they called?"

"Gigs," supplied Bart. "Yeah, a couple. We

could get a lot more, though, if we could find a place to practice. No one wants us in their basement."

"What about a garage?"

"The neighbors complain."

"Oh."

Bart and I talked about his band and music and school until, before I knew it, we had reached my house.

Emily, my adopted sister, was sitting on the front steps with Nannie, my grandmother. She came flying out to meet me and gave me a tight hug around the knees.

"Hi, Emily," I said, picking her up. Then I called, "Hi, Nannie!"

Nannie waved to me.

"Well," said Bart, "I better get going. I told Mom I'd come home right after the game. But, urn, I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Next game," I said.

"Maybe before that," Bart replied, and he walked off, whistling. I stared after him.

Chapter 2.

"Hello, Emily-Boo," I said to my little sister.

I carried her back to Nannie.

"I heard about the game today," said Nannie immediately. "David Michael was so excited, he could hardly stand it."

"Yeah, the Krushers played pretty well today." I turned to Emily. "Maybe someday you'll be a Krusher, too. Do you want to play softball?"

"Yes," replied Emily. (I knew she hadn't understood the question.)

Emily and Nannie and I went inside. Our house is sort of big. Actually, it's a mansion. My stepfather, Watson, is a millionaire. But thank goodness for the big house. When Mom married Watson we moved from our tiny house into his and needed room not just for Watson, my mother, my three brothers, and me, but for Karen and Andrew, and now Emily and Nannie. (Nannie is Mom's mother, my

special grandmother who doesn't act like a grandmother at all. She goes bowling, wears pants, and has tons of friends.)

Anyway, Nannie began making dinner, so I watched Emily. When the phone rang, I shouted, "I'll get it!"

I picked up the phone in the den. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me, Shannon."

"Hi!" Shannon lives across the street and she's the first friend I made when I moved into this ritzy neighborhood. (Well, we became friends after we stopped hating each other.) We don't see each other much, though, since she goes to Bart's school. She is a member of the Baby-sitters Club (BSC), but she doesn't come to meetings. (More about that later.)

"How'd the game go?" Shannon wanted to know.

I told her every last detail, and she was almost as excited as I was.

"Maybe I'll come to the next game," she said.

When we got off the phone, I felt happy — and lucky. I have an awfully nice group of friends in the BSC.

Emily came into the den then to watch Sesame Street. (She can't tell time, but somehow she always knows when the show is on.) I let Bert and Ernie and Big Bird and Cookie Mon-

ster fade into the background as I thought about my friends.

My best friend is Mary Anne Spier, the secretary of the club. (I am the president.) I used to live next door to her until Mom married Watson. Before I moved to Watson's, Mary Anne and I had grown up together. I lived with my mom and my brothers and my father — until he moved out. But Mary Anne lived with just her father, since her mother died when Mary Anne was really little.

Mr. Spier was very strict, raising Mary Anne on his own. He made up all these rules for her, but as Mary Anne has grown up, he's relaxed a lot. Maybe because her father was so strict, or maybe just because it's her nature, Mary Anne is shy and sensitive and cries easily. (She's just the opposite of me. I'm outgoing and have a big mouth, and it takes a lot to make me cry.) Mary Anne is also romantic and, although she's shy, she's the only one of us to have a steady boyfriend. His name is Logan Bruno, and he's funny and understanding, but I think he and Mary Anne have been having some problems lately.

Believe it or not, Mary Anne and I sort of look alike. We're both short (I'm the shortest in my class), and we both have brown hair and brown eyes. Mary Anne used to dress like

a baby, since she had to do whatever her father said, but now that he's loosened up, Mary Anne's clothes have changed from little-girl to, well, not exactly sophisticated, but maybe almost trendy.

In the last few months Mary Anne has gone through some BIG changes, which I'll fill you in on, but first I have to tell you about Dawn Schafer. Dawn is what we call the club's alternate officer, and she is Mary Anne's other best friend. Dawn, her younger brother, Jeff, and her mom moved to Stoneybrook last year when we were in the middle of seventh grade. They moved because her parents had gotten a divorce, and Mrs. Schafer wanted to come back to the town where she'd been raised. This was fine for her, but not so easy for Dawn and Jeff, who had grown up in California. Dawn misses California but likes Stoneybrook okay. With Jeff, the story was different. He never adjusted to his new home, so after several months he moved back to California to live with his father. Dawn misses that half of her family terribly and visits them as often as she can. However, she now has a new father and a stepsister. And guess who her stepsister is — Mary Anne!

It turned out that Mary Anne's dad and Dawn's mom had been high-school sweet-

hearts, only they'd gone their separate ways after they graduated. Then Mrs. Schafer moved back to Stoneybrook, she and Mr. Spier began seeing each other again, and after a long time, they got married! So now Dawn has a stepfather, Mary Anne has a stepmother, and it's one big, usually happy family. They all (including Tigger, Mary Anne's kitten) live in the colonial farmhouse that Dawn's mom bought when the Schafers moved to Connecticut.