Baby-sitters Club - New York, New York! Part 3

"I don't like real ones. Blown-up ones are an right."

Before we walked on, Alistaire turned to the toy seller and said, "I loved your book." (The man looked thoroughly confused.) We spent more than an hour in the zoo. Despite the lovely weather, it wasn't crowded, which was a miracle. As the kids explored things, I kept seeing the same people over and over again - a young man and his very noisy little girl; a couple and their baby, who was riding around in a pouch strapped to the mother; a tall man wearing sungla.s.ses and a rain hat; and a mom with two little boys wearing identical outfits but who didn't look a thing alike. This is one reason I V New York. All the different people.

When Rowena and Alistaire tired of the zoo, we walked out, coming to the big Delacorte clock just as it struck the hour and the animal orchestra (statues) moved around and around while music played. We bought lunch from the vendors and ate on a bench in the park.

By the time three-thirty rolled around, the kids had ridden the carousel, oohed and aahed over the statue of a cougar by the roadside, climbed all over the Alice in Wonderland "playground" (another sculpture), and listened intently to a lively bra.s.s band that had set itself up on a gra.s.sy lawn.

"What did you think of the park?" Mary Anne asked the kids as we were walking back to the Dakota.

"It's great," said Alistaire.

"Can we move into the zoo?" asked Rowena.

Claudia.

Chapter 6.

I had more news all right, but it wasn't any good. Falny turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I was sure of that by the time we broke for lunch. What had happened? I suppose I might as well give you the gory details of my sad story.

I don't know about Mallory, but I was up at the crack of dawn on Monday morning. If roosters lived in New York, they would have been crowing when I first woke up. (At least, I think they would have been. I am not all that familiar with roosters.) Anyway, the first time I looked at my watch, it read 4:06. "Four-oh-six!" I muttered. "I don't believe it." I felt wide awake, but soon I drifted to sleep again. When I awoke the second time, my watch read 5:33. Does anyone actually get up at this hour?

I could not go to sleep. I was jumpy, as if a kangaroo were in my stomach. And all I could think about was McKenzie Clarke. If I closed my eyes, I imagined HIS face. I bet, I thought, that he has kind, twinkly blue eyes and looks a little like Santa Claus, except for the cherry nose. If I opened my eyes, I found myself daydreaming about art cla.s.s. I would impress Mac with my swift and accurate sketching. He would flip through my drawings and say, "Goodness! Where did you study before?"

"Oh, nowhere really," I would reply.

"Nowhere? But this is the work of a creative genius." Then McKenzie Clark would phone my parents, tell them what a find I am, and ask their permission to allow me to study with him privately. He would become my mentor (I think that's the word I'm looking for), and I, after just a few months of study with Mac, would become - "Claud?" murmured Stacey's voice from among the pillows on her bed. "You better get up now. You don't want to be late for your first day of cla.s.ses."

Mal and I entered the doors of Falny feeling pretty nervous, as you might have guessed. But my nervousness faded quickly.

As someone once said, "What ... a ... dump!"

1 whispered that to Mal, and she smiled, but she was too scared to speak.

In all honesty, Falny wasn't a dump; it just wasn't what I had expected, which was a grand, Gothic building with a fancy entryway, or maybe something that looked like the Met- ropolitan Museum of Art. The entrance to Falny was just a set of gla.s.s double doors, with bra.s.s letters reading FALNY set above them. However, we were somewhat more impressed by the huge cla.s.srooms we found on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. Mac's room was #414. We walked inside slowly, Mal clinging to the back of my shirt, like a kindergartner on her first day of school.

"Cut it out!" I whispered loudly.

Mal's response was, "What's with the boxes?"

The two of us came to our senses and walked into the room like the mature young adults we are.

In a ring around the room were our drawing tables. Piled into the center of the room were about thirty cardboard cartons. They weren't stacked neatly, though. They looked like they'd been thrown in-and had landed in a tumbled heap. Some boxes rested crookedly inside others, some sat squarely on the floor, some were perched precariously on top of two or three or four cartons.

I looked at Mal and shrugged. Then we settled ourselves at the tables that seemed to be nearest the front of the room. We wanted to work as close to Mac as possible. Other students drifted in and took seats. n.o.body said much.

"Do you think I'm dressed okay?" Mallory whispered.

"You look fine," I replied - just as HE entered the room.

Mal gasped. "That's him!"

"SHHHH!" I nudged her elbow. (I don't think Mac heard us.) McKenzie Clarke was not at all what I had expected. He was short and slim and didn't look a bit like Santa Claus. He was also younger than I'd thought he'd be. He wore thick gla.s.ses and seemed quite serious. When a couple of kids called, "Hi," he just nodded, then organized his things on one of the drawing tables. Now he was halfway across the room from Mal and me. I could barely see him.

At nine-thirty on the nose, even though kids were still arriving, and without greeting the cla.s.s, McKenzie Clarke began to speak. He said, "Today's lesson is intended to make you aware of dimension and perspective when you draw."

"Does he realize he has new students?" Mal whispered to me.

Before I could answer her, the boy next to me raised his hand. "Mac?" he began. "When we ..."

I didn't hear whatever he said. Instead, I turned to Mal and, barely remembering to keep my voice down, hissed, "That kid just called him 'Mac' right to his face! I wonder if we should."

Mal grinned. I knew she was thinking how great being "in" with Mac would feel. I knew that because I was thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later, my smile faded. "Mom and Dad don't let me call adults by their first names unless I know them really, really well," I said. "We haven't even spoken to Mac, yet. I think we better call him Mr. Clarke, at least for awhile."

Mallory nodded.

Then I snapped to attention as Mr. Clarke began to explain the day's a.s.signment. We were supposed to draw the pile of boxes, paying special attention to the corners and angles and to dimension.

Draw those boxes? I thought. All the boxes? Oh, my lord, how boring. But if that was what Mr. Clarke wanted, then that was what I would do. And I would do a good job.

When Mr. Clarke finished explaining the as- signment, he began to walk around the room, speaking briefly to each student. Soon Mal clutched my arm and squealed (quietly), "He's almost here!" She looked pale.

"h.e.l.lo," Mr. Clarke greeted us solemnly. "You must be some of my new students. May I have your names, please?"

I managed to reply, "Claudia Kishi," without my voice cracking. Then I added, "And that's Mallory Pike. She's my friend. We're from - "

Mr. Clarke cut me off. "Each morning I will tell you what materials to bring the next day. Today you need only sketching pads, which I see you have brought, and pencils." (He handed each of us two pencils and a gum eraser.) "I will circle the room, checking your work from time to time."

"Okay. Thanks for - "

Mr. Clarke had turned to the girl next to" Mallory.

"Well," I said. "Time to begin."

Mal nodded. Then she looked from the boxes to her pad. Slowly she picked up a pencil and began to draw. She erased her first line.

Meanwhile, I started sketching quickly, line after line after line. I have been studying art for so long that dimension and perspective are things I don't think about much. Of course, I'm aware of them when I work, but they're not something I concentrate on.

I had finished drawing the entire pile of boxes by the time Mac appeared at my table again. Mal was plodding through the a.s.signment, erasing practically every line she drew. Finally, she rubbed a hole in the paper and had to start over again. She worked in the same, slow manner, and was erasing yet another line when I looked up into Mac's face, smiled, and said proudly, "I'm all finished." (I couldn't wait for the next a.s.signment.) Mac turned my pad around and examined the drawing. After a few moments, he frowned and said, "You work much too .quickly, Miss Kishi. Would you please begin again? You don't notice that anyone else is finished, do you? Look around the room."

I looked. Everyone was working busily. Mr. Clarke stepped over to Mal's table. With shaking hands, I flipped to the next page in my sketchbook.

I felt stung. No one had ever examined my work and not said at least one nice thing about it. Was I really so bad? Had I come to New York just to find out that I'm not talented as an artist after all? That couldn't be true.

I'm not good at anything else.

But all morning, Mr. Clarke kept looking at my drawings, pausing, and then telling me to do something differently - to work more slowly, to pay stricter attention to angles, and on and on and on. Then he would look at Mal's drawings, smile gently, and tell her she was doing fine. Fine? Those laboriously drawn boxes, her paper full of holes, eraser marks, and misshapen angles? I was sure my work was better than Mal's. But Mr. Clarke was the expert.

By the time we broke for lunch, I was ready to cry. Mal was on top of the world. What had gone wrong?

Jessi.

Chapter 7.

On Monday morning, I found myself left on my own. (Well, almost on my own.) My friends got going pretty early. In fact, by the time I woke up, I could hear voices in the living room. I looked over at Mallory's bed. It was empty. I wasn't the last one up, was I? How embarra.s.sing to be such a lazybones at the home of people I barely knew. Especially considering that my friends think I'm an early riser because I'm always talking about waking up before anyone else in my family and practicing for dance cla.s.s at the bane in our bas.e.m.e.nt. Okay, so today I'd slept in instead. So what? It was nothing to get upset over. I planned to exercise most mornings.

Well, I was the only one making a big deal out of things. When I stepped into the living room later (dressed, of course), everyone just said, "Good morning," and "Hi, Jessi!"

"Hi," I replied.

"Did you sleep well?" asked Laine's father.

"Oh/just fine. Thank you." I found out later that over at Stacey's, poor Dawn had lain awake almost all night, terrified (like the night before) by noises from the street and the thought of the fire escape outside the window. I, on the other hand, hadn't heard a thing. Of course, Laine's apartment does have central air-conditioning (and no outdoor fire escapes), so we'd been sleeping with the windows closed. I felt sort of like I was in a hotel.

My friends were discussing the plans for the day.

"Stacey and I are in charge of Rowena and Alistaire again," said Mary Anne. "We're going to be out most of the day. But if anyone wants to come with us, you're welcome to. We'll be seeing the sights."

"I might go with you," said Laine.

"Claudia and I are going to Falny," spoke up Mal. "I'm so excited!"

"What are you going to do?" I asked Kristy.

"I'm not sure yet," she replied. "Maybe go over to Stacey's and sit around with Dawn again. I'd really like to get out a little, but I feel awful for Dawn. Want to come with me, Jessi?"

I paused. I knew I should be a good sport and go along with Kristy, but that wasn't, what I wanted to do. I wanted to go to Lincoln Center. I wanted to see a dance company perform.

Before I could decide how to answer, Kristy answered for me. "That's okay, Jessi." She smiled. "Baby-sitting for Dawn isn't my idea of a vacation, either."

I relaxed. "Thanks, Kristy," I said. But about an hour later, I found myself alone in Laine's apartment. Mal had gone off to her art cla.s.ses, Kristy was on her way over to Stacey's, Stacey had shown up here and she and Mary Anne and Laine were heading for the Harringtons', and both Mr. and Mrs. c.u.mmings had left the apartment for meetings or appointments or something.

How was I going to get to Lincoln Center? I had promised my parents that I wouldn't walk around the city alone. At least not too much. Then I had an idea. Would it work? Only if I moved quickly.

In a flash I found my pocketbook, put on some shoes, ran out of Laine's apartment, re- membering to lock the door behind me (the c.u.mmingses had given us our own keys), and dashed to the elevator. I knew what floor the Harringtons were staying on, but I'd forgotten the number of the apartment. It didn't matter. When the elevator doors opened, I found myself facing Mary Anne, Stacey, Laine, Rowena, and Alistaire.

"Jessi!" Mary Anne exclaimed.

"Where you you going?" asked Stacey.

"Well ... I was hoping to go to Lincoln Center," I began. "But I can't go there alone. I was wondering where you are going today."

"To the Children's Museum," replied Mary Anne.

"Is that near Lincoln Center?" I asked.

"No," said Laine.

I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, because Mary Anne immediately said, "You know, the kids might like Lincoln Center. We could go there first and then to the museum. Is that okay with you, Jessi?"

"Sure!"

"Good idea," added Stacey. "I don't know if Rowena and Alistaire will be interested in the theaters, but they can see the fake Statue of Liberty that's nearby. It's fun to look for. And I think they'll like the fountain."

So we set off for Lincoln Center.

When we were standing across the street from it, Laine pointed to the complex of buildings and said, "There you go, Jessi."

I gasped.

"What?" shrieked Mary Anne. "A roach? A rat?"

I giggled. "You sound like Dawn. No, it's just that Lincoln Center might be the most beautiful place I've ever seen."

"Look at the fountain!" cried Rowena, pointing.

But I was looking at the Metropolitan Opera House, at the New York State Theater, at Av-ery Fisher Hall, at the Vivian Beaumont Theater, at the Juilliard School, at Alice Tully Hall. It was hard to believe that those wonderful places - and more - were located in one complex of buildings.

We walked across the street, my mind filled with thoughts of grand performances - plays, ballets, operas, the New York Philharmonic.

"I've just got to see a ballet," I said to Stacey. "And I think there's a special afternoon performance today. I'll stay with you until it begins, and then you guys or Laine could meet me when it's over. . . . Puh-lease?"

So that was how I wound up in a seat in the New York State Theater, watching the New York City Ballet perform Swan Lake.

I was in awe. At one point, I even found myself holding my breath. The dancers, their costumes, the wide stage . . . Now I couldn't decide which was more beautiful - Lincoln Center or the scene before my eyes. ' When the curtain came down at intermission, I sighed happily.

"Like it?" asked the person sitting next to me.

I'd been so engrossed in the ballet that I hadn't even noticed the boy on my right. He was about my age, with dark, curly hair, wide brown eyes, and skin that was just slightly lighter than mine. And he had the long, lithe body of a dancer.

He was THE most gorgeous guy I had ever seen.

I couldn't believe he was talking to me. Boys never notice me, and I almost never notice boys. What do you say to a boy? At least I had an answer to his question. "Like it?" I repeated. "I love it! It's incredible."

The boy nodded. "Every time I see it, I like it better."

"See what? This production? Do you live here in New York?"