Jessi's Baby-Sitter Part 7

Jackie straightened his shoulders. "I'm going to say, This is my volcano. I built it myself. You light the chemicals and the ash goes phoo, phoo, PHEW out of the can!' "

"Oh, no, you're not. Jackie, this is a science fair. You've got to explain how a volcano works. Remember the kinds of rocks we built our volcano on? Remember their names?"

"Iggus, morphus, and sedentary?"

I sighed. "Almost. Igneous, raetamorphzc, and sedimentary."

Jackie repeated the words fairly well.

"Okay, now what you want to say is that igneous rocks are born from fire, the molten rock that lies several miles below the surface of our earth. Above them are metamorphic rocks that have been changed by the heat..."

I finished my speech before we reached the Rodowskys'. I made Jackie start to memorize it. He wasn't bad. He stumbled on words a few times but he learned quickly.

When we'd been home for about twenty minutes, Jackie could spout off, "Igneous rocks are born from fire, the molten rock that lies several miles below the surface of the earth."

Awhile later, the speech was memorized.

"All right, hand signals."

"Hand signals?!"

"Yes."

"You mean like when I'm on my bike and I'm turning left and I stick out my left hand?"

"No. I guess I meant to say 'hand gestures.' "

"To impress the judges?"

Like I said, Jackie is a fast learner. "You got it," I told him. "See, I think you should even have a pointer. When you say, 'igneous rocks/ point to the bottom layer of Plasticine. When you say, 'metamorphic rocks/ point to the next layer, and so forth. Also, just as the chemicals are about to be lit - throw your hands in the air and say, 'the miracle of a volcano comes to life before our very eyes.' Then give your speech."

Jackie was grinning. He was going to get to put on a show.

"This'll be fun," he said, showing almost as much enthusiasm as when we'd set off the volcano on the driveway.

When Mrs. Rodowsky, Archie, and Shea came home, Jackie gleefully demonstrated his entire project - pointers, hand gestures, and all. I was late leaving for home, but I didn't mind. I was glad to see Jackie so happy.

Chapter 12.

I might not have minded that I left the Rodowskys' a little late, but Aunt Dictator sure did. She met me at our front door. I mean, she was just standing there waiting for me, arms crossed, mouth grim.

"You're late," she said.

(I was ten minutes late.) "I know, I'm sorry. Jackie was so excited about his volcano that I wanted - "

"When I am in charge," Aunt Cecelia interrupted me (When isn't she in charge? I wondered), "you follow my rules. You are responsible to me. You must call me if you are going to be late. Is that understood? You must be responsible. And part of being responsible is letting people know where you are."

Sheesh, I thought. If I'd known I was going to be half an hour late, of course I would have called. But ten minutes? Mama and Daddy don't worry if I'm ten minutes late. They don't stand at doors with mental stopwatches going.

Aunt Cecelia had closed the door behind me and we were facing each other in the foyer.

"Take off your coat," said Aunt Cecelia.

Obediently, I took it off.

"Aunt - Aunt Cecelia/' I said. ("Aunt Dictator" had almost slipped out. I wondered if that would ever really happen.) "Mama and Daddy are strict with Becca and me. Squirt, too. But they're not . . . um . . ." (I almost said "not unreasonable") "I mean, they only get worried when they really need to. They wouldn't worry about ten minutes."

"Jessica, I am in charge. Late is late, whether it's two minutes, two hours, or two days." (That "two days" thing was a low blow. She was referring to Becca getting stranded on the island, which she still claimed was my fault.) "But honestly, Aunt Cecelia, Mama and Daddy really don't care about ten minutes. If I knew I was going to be much later, I would have called. I always do. Once I called, and Mama said, 'Oh, Jessi. Thank you for letting us know - but we weren't even worried yet!' See, the rules here are that if - "

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you about the rules here, young lady. They are mine when I'm in charge. Period."

"Okay, okay, okay."

"Jessica! No backtalk."

"That wasn't backtalk!"

"It sounded like it."

"Well, it wasn't." I looked at my watch. "Uh-oh!" I grabbed my jacket back out of the closet. "I have to leave. I'm going to be late for the BSC meeting."

"Oh, no," said Aunt Cecelia. "You're not going to any meeting. Not today. Not after what you did."

"Because I was ten minutes late?!" I exclaimed. I couldn't believe it.

"Yes. Because you were late and you didn't call me. You were irresponsible."

"Aunt Cecelia, don't you trust me? I'm not irresponsible. I can do things for myself. And I do the right things. If I were irresponsible I wouldn't have gone to Jackie's to baby-sit today. And missing a club meeting is very irresponsible. The other girls count on me. We all count on each other. We don't miss meetings unless we're sick or there's an emergency or something like a dance rehearsal comes up. When that happens, I let my friends know ahead of time. I can't just not go."

"Yes, you can. You're being punished. And if you carry this much further, you won't be able to attend Friday's meeting, either."

My mouth hung open. I just stood there, gazing at my aunt's angry face. Slowly the rest of the room came into focus - the clock on the chest, the open closet door, the boots on the floor of the closet, the striped wallpaper, and, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Becca and Squirt. They were taking the scene in, and both looked frightened. Squirt was clinging to Becca's hand.

I think it was the sight of their scared faces that prompted me to do what I did next - defy Aunt Cecelia.

"You're not really in charge," I told her. "Maybe you're the sitter, but Mama and Daddy are in charge of our house, and I am going to call them. If they say I can go to the meeting, then I can go. ... And you can't stop me from calling," I added, das.h.i.+ng into the kitchen.

I reached the phone before Aunt Dictator could even open her mouth. First I called Daddy.

"Mr. Ramsey's office," said his secretary.

"Oh, hi, Ed," I said, trying not to sound shaky or upset. "This is Jessi. Can I speak to my dad, please?"

"He's out of the office, Jess," Ed replied. (Ed is one of the few people who calls me Jess. I kind of like it.) "Is this an emergency?"

I hesitated. "No," I said at last. Emergencies are fires and accidents and injuries. I wanted to talk to Daddy badly, but this was not an emergency and I didn't want to do anything irresponsible.

"Do you want me to tell your father you called?" asked Ed.

"That's okay. I'll see him at home tonight," I replied.

"Okay."

Ed and I hung up.

I glanced over my shoulder at Aunt Cecelia, who was watching me carefully. I turned around, picked up the phone again, and started to dial Mama's new work number. But halfway through, I quit. Mama had said that, until she was used to her job, Becca and I shouldn't call her at the office - unless there was an emergency and we couldn't get hold of Daddy.

Okay. No emergency, no call to Mama.

I hung up, defeated. Have you ever heard the saying, "Someone's got you over a barrel"? Well, Aunt Cecelia had me over a barrel. It meant that she'd put me in a situation I couldn't get out of. I had no options. In this case, I couldn't go to the BSC meeting. Not unless I just rode off, completely disobeying her. And that would make Mama and Daddy (not to mention Aunt Cecelia) very mad. I knew I couldn't go without talking to my parents first.

"Can I at least call Kristy to tell her I won't be attending the meeting?" I asked Aunt Dictator. "That is the responsible thing to do."

My aunt let me make the call.

"Hi, Kristy/' I said. "Guess what. I'm really sorry, but Aunt Cecelia won't allow me to come to the meeting today. I was ten minutes late getting back from the Rodowskys' and my aunt blew a fuse."

"Over ten minutes?"

"Yes. Can you believe it?"

"No. That's so unfair!"

"Listen, Kristy. Can you do something for me?" I lowered my voice even though I didn't need to. Aunt Dictator had taken Becca and Squirt into another room. "Can you call me a lot during the meeting? It'll make me look like you can't get along without me."

"Sure," replied Kristy. I knew she was smiling. That kind of thing appeals to her. "Your aunt'll think you're the BSC president!"

"Oh, thank you!" I told her.

Boy, did my friends live up to their promises. Our phone rang fourteen times between five-thirty and six o'clock.

By the third call, which was from Stacey, I whispered, "Aren't you guys tying up the club phone? I don't want to make you do that."

"No. We're tying up the Kis.h.i.+s' phone. We're taking turns going down to the kitchen and using the phone there," Stacey told me.

"Oh, okay." Then I raised my voice for Aunt Cecelia's benefit. "No, tell Mrs. Hobart I won't be able to sit then. I have a dance cla.s.s that afternoon."

By 6:00, Aunt Cecelia had had it up to here. (Picture me holding my hand to my chin.) She couldn't believe all the phone calls, but there wasn't much she could do about them - except not forbid me to attend another meeting, and she wouldn't do that again. Aunt Cecelia might be a jerk, but she's no fool.

After dinner that night, I just casually mentioned to Mama and Daddy that Aunt Cecelia and I were having some trouble, but I made it sound like no big deal, so my parents didn't seem upset. They didn't even talk to Aunt Cecelia (at least, I don't think they did).

Aunt Cecelia and I were locked into an awful game now. I'd do something, she'd do something back, neither of us was happy - and Mama and Daddy hardly had any idea what was going on. They were too busy with their jobs and their grown-up lives.

That night, Aunt Dictator came into my room and announced, "We have got to do something about your hair." I guess she was still mad about the fourteen phone calls.

Overbearing pig, I thought. I wanted to say those words to her face, but instead I said, "You can do whatever you want as long as Madame Noelle will approve."

Aunt Cecelia paused. For some reason, Mme. Noelle is practically a G.o.ddess to my aunt. I guess because I have come so far with my ballet - dancing lead roles and stuff.

Even so, Aunt Dictator was only slightly daunted. She got out a jar of cream, a brush, and some other things, and gave me the most awful hairdo possible. Fortunately, it was severe, so it was great for ballet. My hair would never be in my eyes. It couldn't escape the trap Aunt Cecelia had put it in.

"There," said my aunt. "Now you're someone I can be proud of."

Because of my hair?

I ran downstairs to complain to Mama and Daddy, but they were talking seriously about a problem Mama was having at work. They looked dead tired, too.

When they glanced up at me, standing in the doorway to the living room, all they said was, "Did you do something to your hair, Jessi?"

I left them alone. I didn't tell them what was really going on - that Aunt Cecelia was running our lives, and ruining mine.

Ill

Chapter 13.

It was the evening of the science fair. I was so excited, you'd think I'd entered a project in it. (Well, in a way I had.) Anyway, the kids who were entering had to arrive at Stoney-brook Elementary by six-thirty in order to set up. The fair itself began at seven-thirty.

So at six-thirty, there were Stacey and Charlotte, Mal and Margo, Kristy and David Michael, Jackie and me, and a whole lot of kids and their parents or brothers or sisters or grandparents. Actually, Jackie and I had arrived at 6:20 to make sure we got our table staked out.

Now, at nearly seven o'clock, the all-purpose room was noisy and busy. All around Jackie and me were sighs of relief (when things went right) and groans (when things went wrong). Kids walked by carrying everything from huge pumpkins to complicated electrical things. I could hear the sounds of gears turn- ing, tools tinkering, and video equipment. The all-purpose room was a pretty exciting place to be in.

"How do you feel, Jackie?" I asked him.

His volcano was loaded up and ready to explode. The "Welcome to the World of Volcanic Activity" sign was hung on the front of his desk. His pointer was in his hand.

"Fine," he replied, but he sounded nervous. "Listen to this: Igneous rocks are born from fire, the molting - "

"Molten," I corrected him.

"The molten rock that lies several feet - "

"Miles."

"Okay. Several miles below the surface of our wonderful earth."

"Just our earth, Jackie. Don't overdo it."