Baby-sitters Club - New York, New York! Part 6

From quite a distance, Alistaire let out a yell. "There they are!"

Stacey and I peered ahead. Sure enough, two balloons were blowing back and forth in the light breeze.

"Well, I'm surprised," said Stacey.

"Me, too," I replied. "These balloons are red and blue. They were red and green when we left. Rowena wanted a green balloon, remember?"

"I guess," said Stacey slowly.

By then, the kids had untied the balloons and helped each other fasten them to their wrists. Rowena didn't say a thing about the color of her balloon.

Maybe I was losing my mind.

Our next stop was a nearby branch of the public library. Stacey had a New York Public Library card and thought the children might have fun choosing books to read during their stay in the city. Then I discovered that a^sto-rytelling hour was to be held in the children's room that afternoon. We had plenty of time to look for books before the program began.

When we reached the library, we stood outside and I wondered what to do about the balloons. This time, Alistaire saved me. "Let's let our pets go, Rowena," he said. "They want their freedom."

So the children released the balloons and watched them float above the branches of a tree and then behind a tall building.

In the library, the kids looked solemnly through the shelves of children's books, and each chose four, which Stacey checked out for them. She waited on line, standing just two places ahead of another man wearing sungla.s.ses and a rain hat. I shivered - and realized I'd had that feeling of being watched while Rowena and Alistaire browsed through the books.

The weirdest thing, though, was that the man came to hear the storyteller, even though he was alone.

"You don't think that's strange?" I asked Stacey. "Do you see any other adults without children in this room?"

"No," she replied. "But big deal. So he likes storytelling. It's a lost art, you know."

However, Stacey did agree that something was odd when I saw yet another guy wearing sungla.s.ses and a rain hat as we walked back to the Dakota. He was about a block behind us.

"Wait a minute!" I cried softly. "Stacey, how stupid I've been! I haven't been seeing strange men all over the city. I've been seeing the same strange man. We're being followed."

"Why would anyone follow us?" asked Stacey.

"Well, maybe he's not following you and me," I replied. "Maybe he's following Alistaire and Rowena. Their parents are pretty important."

"You're crazy/' was Stacey's answer. "And don't you dare say a word about this when we get back to the Harringtons'. Do you want us to lose the job?"

"I'd rather lose the job than the children."

Stacey just shook her head.

Dawn.

Chapter 11.

n.o.body stayed at home with me on Tuesday. I understood that Mr. McGill had to work, and that Claud, Mal, Stacey, and Mary Anne were busy. But what about Kristy and Jessi? They abandoned me. Maybe they didn't realize how frightened I was.

I had made the major mistake of listening to the news in the morning. That was when I heard all that murder stuff. (I was pretty sure I'd never see my friends alive again.) Maybe I should call Mom and tell her I was coming home early. No. I couldn't do that. The rest of the BSC members would never let me forget it. Even Jessi and Mal weren't scared, and they're two years younger than I am. I knew I had to stay.

On Monday, when Kristy had come over, we'd watched several hours of television. In fact, since I'd arrived in New York, I'd watched a considerable amount of TV. I'd watched so much that by Tuesday I thought I'd go crazy if I saw one more toothpaste commercial or even if I saw one more I Love Lucy rerun. (The day before, I had discovered that I'd memorized Lucy Ricardo's "Vitameatave-gamin" speech: "h.e.l.lo, friends. Are you tired, rundown, listless? Do you p.o.o.p out at parties? Are you unpopular? . . .") So I'd tried listening to the radio. But the music was interrupted every ten minutes by news reports. In desperation, I cleaned out Mr. McGill's refrigerator. Then I organized the food in it. When that was done, I decided I really ought to organize his china, too. I was just putting the last saucer in place when . . . the doorbell rang.

I dove for cover. How had someone gotten upstairs if I hadn't buzzed him in? Maybe it was Stacey. She'd let herself into the building, and now she wanted me to let her in the apartment.

The bell rang again. I crept to the door and squinted through the peephole.

Yikes! A boy was standing in the hallway. And he looked like a real creep. But when he called, "h.e.l.lo?" I felt I had to answer him.

"Who is it?" I yelled.

"My name is Richie," the boy replied. "Richie Magnesi. I live downstairs. Are you Stacey? Your father said you'd be visiting."

Well, I had heard Mr. McGill mention the Magnesis, but how did I know this boy really was Richie Magnesi?

I decided not to open the door, so I said loudly, "Stacey's not here. I'm Dawn, a friend of hers. I'm visiting."

"Can I come in? I'm sorry to be so pushy, but I have a broken ankle and I'm supposed to stay off my feet. I can't go out. I'm bored stiff."

I looked through the peephole again. Richie was supported by a pair of crutches.

This could still be a ruse. I hesitated.

Richie spoke again. "I am supposed to be off my feet," he reminded me. "I'm supposed to keep my foot propped up."

"You're Richie Magnesi?" I replied.

"Yes." He sounded impatient. He reached . . . for a gun? . . . Oh. No, just into his pocket. He held a card up to the peephole. "That's my student I.D.," he shouted. "See? I am the one and only Richie Magnesi."

I laughed. Finally, I unlocked the door. I opened it slowly.

Richie hobbled inside and headed for the couch. He sank onto it, then gently lifted his leg onto a footrest. "Ahhh," he said. "Thanks, Dawn."

"You're welcome." I was hovering around, not sure what to do. "Would you like a soda?" I asked, when Richie had settled himself.

"Sure. That would be great."

By that time, I felt a little silly. I poured a soda for Richie and a gla.s.s of juice for me. I carried both drinks into the living room.

"So you're a friend of Stacey's?" Richie asked.

I nodded. (I had finally decided it was safe to sit down.) "My name is Dawn Schafer. I live in Stoneybrook. Stacey and I go to the same school."

"Oh. I've never met Stacey. But I visit Mr. McGill sometimes. He knows about my ankle. Anyway, he said his daughter would be visiting for two weeks and that I should introduce myself to her."

"How did you break your ankle?" I couldn't help asking.

Richie looked sheepish. "Skating. It wasn't even my fault. I have these new roller blades and I was in Central Park and this guy ran into me with his bicycle. That was all. When I fell, I broke my ankle. I could feel it break. I knew it was broken before I even sat up."

"Ew," I said.

"Yeah. I have to wear this cast for eight weeks."

"How many more to go?"

"Six. I'm not even halfway there. But soon I'm going to get a walking cast. I won't need the crutches anymore."

"Well, that's good." By then I'd had time to study Richie. His hair was brown and long-ish. He'd let the back grow into a very chilly little tail. And when he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.

How could I have thought he looked like a creep?

"So how come you're sitting around here without Stacey?" Richie wanted to know. "Are you sick or something?"

I was so embarra.s.sed about the real reason I was barricaded in the apartment, that I almost said, "Yes, I am sick." But I didn't want to scare Richie by making him think I was contagious, so instead I replied, "New York makes me a little nervous."

"Another antiurbanist?" said Richie.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Listen, don't you know what a fantastic place this city is?"

"Two people were murdered last night."

"Two out of eight million. That means your chances of being . . . urn . . . hurt are one in four million."

"Oh."

"Have you been to New York before?"

"Yeah. A couple of times."

"Did you really see the city? Did you walk through the museums - the smaller ones, like the Frick Collection or the Pierpont Morgan Library? Have you seen Gracie Mansion or taken a walking tour of Greenwich Village? Have you been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial? Have you walked through Chelsea or the Village, or tasted cannoli or sushi or a cheese blintz?"

"I've had a bagel," I said. "Does that count?"

"Dawn, Dawn, Dawn."

"Richie, Richie, Richie."

We laughed. Then Richie went on, "New York is a great place. Except that so many people don't know it. Either they're afraid, so they don't come into the city. Or they're not afraid, and they come into the city, but all they do is go from one Gap to another. And maybe stroll through Central Park. But that is not discovering the city. I've lived here all my life - "

"Have you ever been mugged?" I interrupted him.

"No! And I go out exploring every chance I get. That is, when my ankle's in one piece. Did you know there's a whole museum about firefighting? Do you know all the famous peo pie who've lived in New York - from Greenwich Village to Harlem?"

Richie was more familiar with the city than anyone I'd ever met, including Mary Anne. He made it sound so exciting that I even considered leaving the apartment. Well, maybe the next day . . .

Claudia.

Chapter 12.

I don't know why I thought I would like Wednesday's art cla.s.ses any better than I had liked Monday's or Tuesday's. But I kept hoping. I thought that if I worked really, really hard, I would finally do something to please Mr. Clarke. Mallory certainly pleased him - with her sloppy, childlike drawings - but so far, he had not said a single nice thing about my work. I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Clarke was such a great teacher. Maybe he couldn't recognize good work. Or maybe he could - and, after all this time, I was a flop.

We had spent two entire days (four cla.s.ses) drawing those boxes. I don't ever want to see another pile of cartons. I am not kidding. Even if it means never moving out of my room at home. You can imagine how thankful I felt when, on Wednesday, we took our trip to Rockefeller Center.

Mal and I arrived at Falny slightly early on Wednesday. We didn't want to miss anything. And we wanted to look like dedicated art students in case Mr. Clarke arrived before his cla.s.s did.

He didn't.

Mal and I sat alone in the room until the other students showed up. Then Mr. Clarke entered. "Are you ready to brave the subway?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh, goody. The subway," I said to Mal. "I just love the subway. Honestly."

"I know you do." Mal smiled.

"... attention to perspective, dimension, and line," Mr. Qarke was saying.

I realized I wasn't listening to him, which probably was not a good move.

I resolved to pay attention.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clarke and our cla.s.s were squeezing into a subway car. The car was crowded to begin with. Eighteen extra bodies only made things worse. But I didn't mind. Then I thought of something.

"Imagine if Dawn were h - " I started to say to Mal.

Mal didn't hear me. She was busy talking. To McKenzie Clarke.

Mr. Clarke had squeezed himself between Mallory and another student. Now he and Mal were discussing horses. Mr. Clarke liked to sketch them and Mal liked to read about them. But she had trouble drawing them.

"It's their hind legs," said Mr. Clarke. "The hind legs are difficult."

"So are their heads. Hey, has your daughter read Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West?"

His daughter? How did Mal know Mr. Clarke had a daughter? Well . . . the two of them had spent a lot of time talking. Mostly about books.

I turned away from them. I gazed at the ads in our car. Most of them were for roach spray or little roach hotels.

At last, we pulled into a station and Mr. Clarke announced, "This is it, people. Everyone off. Follow me!"