Chapter 7

"I don't know how to explain it. I just don't think I can do this anymore."

The words had begun what I thought would be the hardest, most difficult situation I'd ever face in my friendship with Stacey. It was a sunny Friday afternoon, during the early afternoon and beginning of a long weekend. It had began as a good day—Stacey's mother had offered to take us down to the community pool, and Kristy had planned a BSC sleepover pizza party, complete with chips, soda, and movies, for that night. What should have been a great day was spoiled when Stacey made her announcement.

"Can't do what anymore?" I asked, biting into a chocolate bar.

"The Baby-Sitters Club. It's too much work. I have a boyfriend now, and we'll be starting high school next summer. We'll have way more homework than we do now, and I just can't keep up with baby-sitting jobs and my homework and everything. My diabetes, the divorce, and remarriage of my father was enough. I just can't do this."

I had sat up, alarmed, and hit my head on my bed, which I was beneath, trying to find the top half of my new swimsuit.

"You…want to quit the BSC?" The whole idea was so foreign to me that I sat there for a moment, feeling pretty stunned.

"I don't want to. I have to." Stacey had looked down then, looking ashamed. "I'm really falling behind, Claudia. I used to make pretty good grades. I almost made straight A's before I found out I was diabetic. I wanted my move to Stoneybrook to fix that. I wanted to be at the top of my class again. I want to be a mathematician or something when I grow up. I want to go to college. And I can't study while Eleanor Marshall is sitting on my lap, trying to figure out how to tie her shoes, or while Jamie Newton is wiping a nose full of snot off on my new cashmere sweater. I don't have time to help Melody Korman learn multiplication and I definitely don't have time to be picking up after Jackie Rodowski. I'm sorry, Claudia, but I don't have time for this anymore."

"Translation: you don't have time for children anymore," I'd said.

"You know what? You're right," Stacey had said, shocking me. "I'm going to be in the ninth grade, and that means I'm going to be in the graduation program in a year. I need to focus all of my energy on what really matters. Kristy can organize all of the car washes, charitable trips to the hospitals, host a summer camp and dancing daycare and all the fundraisers she wants, but I can't be a part of it."

I had felt horrible. Kristy, to be honest, did organize a lot of things like that for the kids we baby-sat for, and yes, she was bossy about it. She was always in charge, and if someone was late, even if they hadn't actually agreed to help, she was livid and made them feel terrible about it. She jumped to conclusions, made assumptions, and gave any late BSC member 'the Look,' as it was called, if even several seconds late. There sometimes didn't seem to be any way to please her. Keeping track of every detail in our jobs, giving up personal information (such as where we'd be and when so Mary Anne could tell who was free when a job came in) and making only two or three dollars an hour did push our nerves a bit. Okay, a lot. (It was why I'd raised my rate to five dollars an hour.)

But I still didn't understand why Stacey would quit. She loved the BSC as much as I did, and had been there, like I had, since the very beginning. But Stacey did quit. She never came back to meetings, refused jobs (but Charlotte Johanssen's mother called on her occasionally, since Stacey was and would always be her favorite sitter) and didn't even ever ask about pizza parties. She came to that pizza party the Friday night that day we were supposed to go to the pool (we didn't; we stayed at my house, in my bedroom talking) just to make her announcement and leave.

Then, two and a half months later, just before her fourteenth birthday (which she said was April the third, which made her death date in early January) she was killed.

The first year anniversary to that date was coming up within a few days, and I couldn't think about much else. I was glad Emily and I weren't talking about the Battista family situation much anymore.

I remembered the day Stacey died as clear as anything else. In fact, I almost felt like I remembered it even more than the day she told me she wouldn't be able to stay in the club.

It had been five-forty on Monday evening when the call came in at the BSC headquarters. It was Stacey McGill's mother, and Kristy was annoyed because Stacey hadn't called. The rest of us sat there, hiding smiles at Kristy's frown, and watched in growing concern as Kristy's expression changed from one of annoyance and anger to one of concern, then such extreme sadness and horror and a hollow, blank emotion I couldn't describe if I spent a week trying. When Kristy hung up, she was crying, something she doesn't do often, but managed to tell us what happened. Stacey had been crossing the street with Normal Hill, an obese seven-year-old boy we used to sit for (they moved away after the accident) and he was moving too slow. A careening bus hit Stacey, who barely managed to shove Normal to safety, and she supposedly died on impact. I hope she did, because the pain of a slow death caused by being hit by a bus would almost make one wish for death. The story was written about in the newspaper twice, and photos of the accident are actually tacked onto my bulletin board now. I couldn't bear to throw them away, but at first I couldn't stand to look at them. I kept them in a drawer with the belongings of Stacey's her mother had given me. It was like when my grandmother, Mimi died, and the portrait I'd painted of her was too painful for me to look at. I put it in several places (under my bed, in my closet, behind my bureau) before putting it in the attic. Now it hangs on my wall as a memory of Mimi, and I love looking at it. It's a pretty realistic portrait, and I love that I finally got Mimi's eyes to reflect the tender examination she seemed to give everything around her. Mary Anne, Dawn, Abby, and even Shannon had burst into tears when Kristy gasped out the story Stacey's mother had given her, and the rest of us sat there, shocked and trying not to cry. Mallory had jumped up and bolted after a paralyzed moment, and Jessi had run out after her. The rest of the meeting passed in a daze, and now, almost a year later, I was feeling guilty that I wasn't missing Stacey more, thinking about her like I did when she was alive.

"It's normal to feel that way," Mary Anne had told us, after a visit to Dr. Reese, a psychologist she saw occasionally. She'd seen her after her house burned down, and Mary Anne came back from the first few sessions after that loaded with information I found useless at the time. Now it seemed to be coming in handy. "She said remembering on a daily basis is normal at first, and slipping up and using the present tense for a few weeks is normal, too. But after a while, when it gets a little easier, and we don't remember things at every moment and feel awful, it's normal to think of other things."

"So it's normal that we slip and say, 'Let's go to your house, Mary Anne,' when the house isn't there anymore?" Abby had asked.

Mary Anne had nodded. "Yes, and it's also normal if after someone dies or divorces that we use present-tense when we should use past."

I was pondering death and divorce when my mind wandered to Kristy. She'd experienced divorce and abandonment. She'd also poisoned five dogs. I'd helped with that, but I hadn't known. She knew.

What if Kristy reads the paper and figures out that the poisoned Battista dogs were my fault? She could tell someone! I panicked before remembering that nothing about the Battista family had ever appeared in the newspaper. Still, maybe I should talk to her…

I felt guilty about that, too. When Emily and I fought, I called or went over to her house at least once a day. With Kristy, neither of us called the other anymore. I'd tried at first. It was like we didn't even know each other now. And I'd known Kristy since we were babies. I felt rotten.

Ease up, Kishi, I told myself. You weren't the one who didn't return calls. You didn't tell your little brother to shut the door in a friend's face. No matter what happened in your life; the miscarriage of your aunt, the death of your grandmother, being sent back a grade, even being accused of cheating on a math test; you never gave up. Kristy has given up. So if Kristy wants to sit at home and sulk because her parents got divorced, that's her business. In fact, if she wants to be a jerk and let clients and children alike down, like when she skipped her softball team practices without notifying the parents, that's great. It just shows that Kristy Thomas didn't ever really have a good reason for picking on late BSC members or anyone else that wasn't absolutely, perfectly punctual. But when Kristy purposely poisons animals, and doesn't care enough to even make sure they survived, then it's my business, too. And I really should call her.

"I'll tell her I borrowed the treats to feed to a client's dog," I said aloud, heading for my phone and, for the first time in several days, forgetting about Stacey, "and it'll be the truth. Besides, Kristy doesn't even know how many treats I fed them. She wouldn't know if I borrowed them to use as the subject for a painting, or if I actually fed them to a dog. Or five."

I dialed Kristy's number and waited. To my shock, Kristy herself answered on the second ring.

"Kristy, do you remember that I borrowed a bag of dog treats from you before Christmas?"

"Yeah," she replied. Her tone gave nothing away.

"I think something was wrong with them," I said, deciding not to tell her right away what happened, or that I still had the bag of poisoned treats in my closet. I didn't know what to do with them yet, but I did know that throwing them out was illegal, since they'd be considered evidence. I was probably also breaking the law, since I knew of a crime (and had helped commit it) and hadn't turned myself in.

"Like what?" Kristy asked, clearly not going to confess to anything right away.

"Well, I have some new baby-sitting clients, and they have a dog," I replied, deciding against telling her they had at least six. Six poisoned dogs, five of which seemed to be Kristy's fault. "I gave him one, and he's in the hospital now. They say he's been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Kristy repeated, her tone full of disbelief, and had it been about anything else, I'd have believed her instantly.

"Yes. And because this family keeps to themselves—" (That's a definite understatement, I thought) "I think the treat was poisoned."

This is unfair. Anyone could have poisoned that dog. Anyone could have poisoned those treats, come to think of it. Just because Kristy's bitter, doesn't mean she would hurt anyone. But a dog was poisoned when Emily and I weren't there, so it's not like it was definitely our treats…

But if I expected Kristy to deny anything, I was in for a surprise. She hung up, which I know is a sign of guilt, and I sat there, kind of shocked. But I didn't want to just sit there; I was bored if waiting around. I needed action. I wanted it, desperately.

But I couldn't act alone. I dialed Emily's number.

* * *

"For all the many, many times I've been to this house, I never thought I'd be here undercover," I joked, inching along in the bushes lining Kristy's front yard. Despite the divorce, Kristy's mother had managed to keep Watson's mansion (it wasn't like he couldn't afford another) and Kristy, her mother, and her three brothers still lived there. Emily and I had watched Charlie and Sam leave (for a basketball game, by the sounds of it) and Kristy's mother leave for work (she'd decided to keep working, despite having freely inherited a mansion) and I guessed Kristy and David Michael, who was now eight, were still inside.

"Just stay low, okay? One of the last things I want right now is for Kristy, who has poison at her fingertips, to catch us."

I agreed silently, thankful for my dark clothes, shoes, and hair. The kitchen light came on, bathing the front yard in light, and startled Emily so that she jerked and the snow on the bushes showered down on us, making me shiver and Emily giggle uncontrollably. We remained frozen in our spots (though not literally) and watched as Kristy poured herself a bowl of cereal, handed a bowl to David Michael, and disappeared from sight. Within five minutes, the light had been turned off.

"Now what? Find a window and look in?"

"Yup," I replied, "just like the Battista house. But this place isn't alarmed, Kristy doesn't have any dogs, and hopefully, no guards."

We crept around the house (it was easier this time, since I knew Kristy's house better than I knew Bobbi's) and peered into every window that was lit. We never found Kristy in a library, cuddled up with her little brother in front of the fireplace with a book, or saw her pick him up and carry him up to bed. But that was just the problem; we didn't see Kristy at all, in any of the rooms. We saw David Michael take a seat in the den and turn on the TV, but Kristy didn't come into the room, and David Michael didn't move or get up.

"Nothing ever seems to happen when we spy," Emily complained in a whisper. "Do you think she's expecting us?"

"It's possible, I guess—"

"Well, then you and I should be sure to lay low, because I think I just heard the back door open." Emily sounded sure of this, and I hoped she wasn't joking around about that. Being caught would be bad enough. Being caught by Kristy would be worse.

We stopped moving and crouched, almost flat under the bushes. I hoped the snow that had fallen from the bushes would help conceal us, but I was worried someone would notice the missing snow and bare leaves exposed beneath.

Sure enough, Kristy came walking around the side of the house. She was looking around, evidently suspicious, and we flattened ourselves against the pine needles strewn across the bare, frozen soil. She looked around, but didn't seem to see us. She passed noiselessly, but kept going, around the house. Two, then three times.

When she'd gone around the house again, Emily glanced back at me. She was ahead of me, and looked suspicious. "I guess that proves she's sure someone's here to check on her," she whispered, "and I'll bet the next ten years of my allowance that she knows she's done something wrong. That must be why she's so suspicious."

"We look suspicious, too," I reminded Emily, needlessly gesturing around at the bushes covering us. "And she may not have poisoned the dog treats. I was thinking she might have had them in the garage, and maybe one of her brothers spilled a can of car wax or something like that on them and didn't notice. It's possible."

"Not as possible as some bitter girl who gave poisoned treats to an ex-best-friend," Emily muttered darkly. "I still think Kristy's responsible for what happened, even if you and I were the ones who handed the treat to an unsuspecting dog."

"I feel like we should turn Kristy in," I replied, "but we can't unless we give ourselves up, too, and expose Kerry and Bobbi to the media over a bunch of false accusations."

We crawled along on our stomachs, using only our hands to pull ourselves along. I clamped my mouth shut and ducked my head down to avoid getting a mouthful of branches, and felt my frozen nose (every part of me felt frozen) scrape the ground. I sighed a little, and hoped nobody would photograph us as we crept, covered in pine needles and melting snow, from the shadow under the bushes and into the dark safety of the neighbor's yard. We brushed ourselves off and walked down the street behind Kristy's house, laughing at our own appearances in the streetlight.

"What a waste of time," Emily sighed, when we'd calmed a little. "And we won't even be able to do this when school starts up. Anything we do will have to be after school, after homework, and before club meetings, family nights, and bedtime."

"What would it matter? We never accomplish anything more than a strange new look when we finally find ourselves a safe place to stand up," I pointed out, smoothing down some of my hair, which had gotten caught in a branch and was now sticking up on an angle. "And all we've ever found out about anyone is that they read books and watch TV at night, like almost everyone else."

Author's Note: Looks like Emily and Claudia are getting a little depressed with the lack of action: not that I can blame them. I planned on having Kristy catch them, but I'm not very realistic in those situations, so I decided against it. Chapter nine (unless it happens to be chapter 8, and it may be since Claudia and Emily have nothing new to say yet (lol) should be from Bobbi's POV, so hopefully I'll be able to say a little more about the things I haven't said yet. I'm rambling; must go. Hungry…

EDIT: (January 4th 2010): I wrote this several days ago (perhaps even before the New Year; hope it's a good one for you!) and forgot to post it in the chaos. Yes, CHAOS. And I don't use that word often enough to describe my life, though I should. If I wrote an autobiography, that would have to be the title. In any case, we'll be moving again. If you know my family, you'd either be laughing or crying. Nine people (including two babies and an elder) and one small house, no money, and yet another move. Without exaggeration, we have done so (moved) about 100 times…So, to whom it seems like many who care for this story, I hope my updates won't be too erratic around (if this story isn't completed by then) the end of the month for you! Off to work on Chapter 8 now, since I have no excuse for slacking! :D