a/n: Hey, first fic on here. Standard disclaimer, I don't own the things you recognize. Some of the ages of people might be wrong...if they are, let me know nicely...? I haven't read the books in years, so this is all by memory. Happy reading!

STACEY--

As soon as I got to high school, I knew what I had to do -- break off every tie with Claudia Kishi. It sounds harsh to admit it so openly, but it was the plan that had been formulating in my mind for weeks. Freshman year defines you and predicts who you will be for the next three years of your life. Sam Thomas, my on-again/off-again boyfriend had cemented that line of thinking into my mind.

The Baby-sitter's Club in general seemed to bring down even the strongest social image. They always said how sophisticated and popular I was, but when I stopped to think about it . . . no, I wasn't anything special. Cokie Mason was popular. Shawna Riverson? Popular. Grace Blume, even if only by default, was popular. In my mind, those three girls embodied everything I wanted to be. They were a little vindictive, a bit intimidating, and always looked fierce. The Baby Club (take that, Kristy, I renamed your "great idea") was more concerned with Jackie Rodowsky's unfortunate addiction to getting his hand stuck in various objects than paying attention to what they were wearing, or how their hair looked.

Well, Claudia cared about clothes and appearance. It was just that she felt the need to add her "artistic touch" to every potentially cute thing she owned. She had the most gorgeous silky black hair, but she could never just leave it at that. She had to put her homemade clay barrettes in it, or maybe even feathers -- or hey, why not try both at the same time? Her clothes often started off looking cute, but she formed them into these . . . interesting . . . ensembles that might look okay on, say, a five-year-old. But an almost-fourteen-year-old wearing a low cut orange plaid tank top with lime green jeans? I didn't buy it, and neither did most of the self-respecting graduated eighth graders of Stoneybrook Middle School.

I sound shallow, I admit, while talking about hair and clothing. And my "best friends". I could be a snob and say I can't help it, what with me growing up in New York City and all. Honestly, though, that's not it. I just want to fit in. Maybe I'm a follower, or maybe I'm just a cliche teenager. I remember when I first moved to Stoneybrook, back at the start of seventh grade, I admired Claud's quirky sense of style. Sometime between then and now I had changed. I couldn't exactly pinpoint the change, but I knew I wasn't the only one who felt it among our group.

Enter Kristy -- excuse me, Kristin -- Thomas.

Kristy "Tomboy" Thomas. The one girl I never expected to ever actually be friends with forever. Mary Anne Spier was an emotional wreck, yeah, but she was still better than Kristy. Abby Stevenson was the world's most masculine woman, but I figured that that might just be a stage. Even Mallory Pike and Jessi Ramsey would have been higher on my list, and they're two years younger than me. But Kristy? Bossy, loud, obnoxious Kristy? The girl with the Evil Looks if you arrived somewhere half a minute late?

She was slowly becoming my best friend.

I'm not sure when it happened. Actually, that's a lie. It happened after the Big Fight. Mary Anne and Kristy had been best friends ever since they could walk. They were almost obsessive, and it got even more annoying when they both got cell phones at the end of our SMS career. A month into our glorious summer vacation, I got a phone call from Kristy. This was weird for a number of reasons, but mainly this one -- Kristy and I had barely said two words to each other since the Baby Club died off. In fact, the only person Kristy really talked to from the club after we ended it was Mary Anne. I think she kind of blamed us for the Death of the Club, but Mary Anne somehow was saved from that blame.

When Kristy called me, she told me that she and Mary Anne had had a huge fight. Being familiar with the random "huge fights" that our group of friends always had, I didn't worry about it. But when Kristy started crying, I knew something was really wrong. I still didn't know everything that had happened. All I knew was that Mary Anne Spier wasn't as sweet and meek as everyone thought, and Kristy Thomas wasn't as lionhearted and brave as I had always assumed.

From what I could decipher, Mary Anne had stolen Kristy's then-boyfriend. They had never actually been serious, but the blow apparently was still there. The infamous Bart Taylor. He was the type of guy who considered baseball practice a good date. Please. Kristy was the type of girl who was turned on by baseball bats, though, so I guess that's why they "dated." Anyway, Kristy and Bart got a little more serious once we were done with middle school. Bart was going to go to Stoneybrook High with us (he previously went to a private school), and Kristy was excited to have her . . . "boyfriend" . . . at school with her. That is, until she found Mary Anne macking Bart at the park. Mary Anne Spier. Making out on a park bench with her best friend's guy.

I guess we all change.

Kristy came over to my house that night and we gossiped and goofed off. I gave her a makeover -- not the lame ones we used to do at BSC slumber parties. I made Kristy look drop-dead sexy. I hadn't realized how pretty her facial features were. She had the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen, even darker than Sam's. Better yet, she had gorgeous long lashes to compliment them. I was actually a little jealous of her eyes.

I told her about my plan to drop Claudia, and instead of reprimanding me . . . she told me that the two of us should stick together. I had smiled, nodded, and that was how Kristy and I became friends. Kristy decided that in order to become somebody completely new, she'd start going by Kristin. ("Kristy sounds so . . . dyke-y," she had told me, giggling.) She tried persuading me to go by Ana. I forcefully refused.

One week and we'd be in high school. Kristin, with her new look . . . and me, with a new best friend and a new perspective.