Baby-sitters Club - New York, New York! Part 7

I made sure I was standing right behind him. But by the time we had shoved our way into the station, about five people were between Mr. Clarke and me. Darn. 1 had even lost Mal, but I didn't want her company just then anyway. So I straggled along behind my cla.s.s.

However, I felt a little different when we reached Rockefeller Center. It was absolutely gorgeous. Tall office buildings rose to the sky. Mr. Clarke pointed out two beautiful statues. He showed Mal and me the outdoor restaurant, which is an ice-skating rink during the winter. He showed us Radio City Music Hall.

And then he said that the NBC television studios were located in one of the buildings. In those studios are filmed game shows, Sat- Mg/i Ln?e, Late Night with David Letter-man, the Today show, and many others.

Oh, I was dying. I was positive I would see a star. Maybe several stars.

". . . anything that might interest you. Okay, Miss Kis.h.i.+?"

Yikes. Mr. Clarke had been talking again and I hadn't been paying attention (again).

"Urn. Yes - " I glanced at Mallory. She nodded. "Yes. That's fine," I finished up.

Mr. Clarke looked away from me. "We'll stay in this area for about half an hour. Then we'll move on."

The students began to scatter. I looked around and realized we were standing near the restaurant/skating rink. I leaned over a rail and peered at the people eating below me. But I found myself imagining skaters there instead. The tables and chairs and plates of food disappeared. In their place I could see a sheet of silvery ice. Children bundled up in snow-suits worked their way awkwardly around the rink. Older kids flew by them, their jackets open. Adults skated along leisurely, arm in arm.

"Claud?" asked Mal.

"Yeah?" I turned and found her at my el- bow, sketch pad and pencil in hand.

"What are you going to draw? Do you know yet?"

"Urn . . . no." (I knew perfectly well what I was going to draw, but I planned to surprise Mr. Clarke. I didn't want anyone to copy me.) "Well, I'm going to draw the outdoor restaurant. From up here. I think that's called a bird's-eye view. Anyway, it makes the angles and dimensions really different."

I watched Mal begin to work. Her angles and dimensions certainly were different. I stepped away from her, and began my own drawing of what was below me. I called it "Winter Fantasy." It was a picture of the way I envisioned the ice-skating rink in wintertime.

"Miss Kis.h.i.+?"

Mr. Clarke was behind me! I turned slowly until I was facing him.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to my drawing.

"The skating rink," I replied.

Mr. Clarke waved his hand around, indicating Rockefeller Plaza. "I don't see a skating rink here," he replied.

"But you said there's one in the winter. This is how I imagine it."

"That's very creative, Miss Kis.h.i.+. But the CM> ^ MjvMfl-f a.s.signment is to draw what you see."

As soon as Mr. Clarke moved on to the next student, I tore the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpled it up, and hurled it into a nearby trash can. Before I started a new sketch, I glanced at Mal's drawing. More of the same. Her perspective was way off. But had Mr. Clarke said anything to her? No.

I began a new drawing. Ten minutes later, Mr. Clarke checked on me again. I had completed a quick sketch of the restaurant. The whole thing.

Mr. Clarke sighed. "You're working too quickly again," he said.

When he turned away, I stuck my tongue out at him.

All right. He wanted me to work slowly? Then I would work slowly.

I worked so slowly that my eyes began to wander. And they landed on . . . Donna Brink-man, the star of Which Way's Up?, one of my favorite TV shows. I couldn't believe it. Donna Brinkman ... It was Donna Brinkman, wasn't it? Did Donna Brinkman have two small children? Because this person was waiting impatiently for two little boys to catch -- "Okay, cla.s.s. It's time to move on," Mac spoke up. "It'll be a bit crowded, but I'd like for you to move to Fifth Avenue, where you'll have a view of . . ."

It was time to move? But I hadn't finished anything. I mean, I hadn't finished anything that pleased Mr. Clarke. Well, it was his fault for telling me to slow down. If I hadn't slowed down, I wouldn't have started daydreaming.

"Claud, I didn't finish," Mallory wailed then. "I worked so - "

"Well, I didn't finish, either," I snapped.

Mal looked hurt. Then she stopped talking.

On the way to Fifth Avenue, I thought we pa.s.sed Elvis Presley, but I don't think so. I mean, I know he's dead, but an awful lot of people have spotted him recently. I considered asking Mal if she knew whether Elvis would ever have worn a checked s.h.i.+rt with plaid pants, but I decided not to. I didn't feel like speaking to her for awhile.

Then, ignoring the throngs of people pus.h.i.+ng past me, I began an intricate sketch of this long garden that led like a path to the skating rink and restaurant below. Across a small side street rose 30 Rockefeller Center, home of NBC television. I tried very hard not to think about that. I concentrated on the plants, the flagpoles, the lines and corners of the building. Soon I was so caught up in my work that I forgot about TV stars. I forgot about Mallory and Elvis and whether I had any real talent. I even forgot about Mr. Clarke until I became aware that he was looking over my shoulder.

For almost a minute he watched as I sketched (slowly).

Then he walked away without a word. At least he could have said, "Interesting." Or even smiled. I would have been grateful for a smile.

At lunchtime, Mal said to me, "I guess you wouldn't want to go to a bookstore, would you. I heard about a huge one nearby. It has - "

"You're right. I don't want to go to a bookstore."

Mal turned away. "Okay."

She went to the bookstore with Mr. Clarke instead.

I sat by myself and ate a pretzel, which was very salty. Apart from that, it had no flavor. I did not care.

Jessi.

Chapter 13.

On Thursday morning I lay in my bed in Laine's guest room (with Kristy's dog beside me) and thought, I should have called Quint on Tuesday. By now he's probably forgotten who I am. I can't call him now. If I did and he came to the phone and I said, "Hi, it's me, Jessi Ramsey," and he said, "Who's Jessi Ramsey?" I would die, I know I would.

But by late that morning I had decided to risk death. I was alone in Laine's apartment (except for the dog, and for Laine, who was cleaning out her closet), and I was getting bored. Plus, I would be pretty rude if I didn't call Quint.

So, very quietly, I picked up the phone in the kitchen. My heart was pounding. My hands grew sweaty. What was I doing? I must be loony, I thought.

I dialed Quint's number. The phone rang three times. Then someone picked it up.

Oh, no ...

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo - h.e.l.lo, is Quint there?" I asked. My voice shook.

"Just a moment, please." A hand was cupped over the receiver. I heard the voice call, "Quint? Phone for you."

A few seconds later, Quint was on the line. "h.e.l.lo?" he said. And then, because I suddenly seemed unable to speak, he tried again. "h.e.l.lo? . . . h.e.l.lo?"

"Quint, it's me," I blurted out. "I mean, hi, this is Jessi Ramsey."

"Jessi! I was hoping you'd call." Quint sounded genuinely glad.

"You were?"

"Sure. Why else would I have given you my number?"

Oh, yeah. I tried to laugh. "Well, I'm sorry I took so long. I - I, um - "

Quint interrupted me. "Hey, Jessi, if you're not doing anything today, do you want to come over? We can watch old movies. That is, if you can stand my brother and sister. They're sort of pains."

"No problem," I replied. "I would love to watch old movies, and I'm good with kids. I baby-sit all the time."

"Great. We'll have a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers festival."

."I'll be right there."

When we got off the phone, I looked at the paper on which I'd written Quint's address. I didn't think Quint lived too far away. Still, I wasn't allowed to walk around the city by myself.

"Laine?" I said. I stood in the doorway to her room.

"Yeah?" Laine's reply was m.u.f.fled. It came from deep within her closet. On the floor around the closet were mounds of clothes, papers, books, stuffed animals, boxes, and crumpled shopping bags. Her parents had told her to clean out her closet before it exploded.

"I need some help."

Laine emerged from her closet, looking dusty and rumpled. "What's wrong?"

I explained to her about Quint.

Suddenly Laine began to sound like my parents. "Gosh, I don't know," she said. "You're going over to this guy's apartment, and you've only met him once?"

"Well . . . yes. But he's really nice. And it's not like we'll be there alone. His mother and brother and sister will be there, too."

In the end, Laine agreed to walk me to Quint's, but only if she could come upstairs and meet Quint's family. She made certain to write his name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper.

"Why?" I asked.

"It's just safer, Jessi. Trust me. Someone should always know where you are."

"Because I'm eleven?"

"No!" Laine looked exasperated. "It doesn't have anything to do with your age. If I visit a new Mend, my mom or dad does exactly what I'm doing now."

"Okay." I wanted to feel grown-up, but I felt like a little kid. Still, I could understand why Laine was being cautious. It was the responsible thing to do.

Laine and I stood outside the door to Quint's apartment. The nameplate under the peephole read Walter. Quint Walter. I liked that name.

I pressed the bell and immediately the door was flung open.

"Hi, I'm Morgan," said a little girl. "Are you Quint's new girlfriend?"

His new girlfriend? How many girlfriends did Quint have? I managed a smile, though. "I'm Jessi," I said. "And this is my friend Laine. She's leaving."

"I'm leaving after I meet your mother, Morgan. Is she home?" asked Laine.

Five minutes later, Laine was gone. I could tell that she liked Quint and his family. But that didn't prevent her from calling over her shoulder as she waited for the elevator, "I'll be back at five to walk you home!"

Goody, I thought. "Okay," I said.

The elevator arrived, and Laine disappeared behind the door.

I turned to face the Walters. There was Quint's mom, who reminded me a little of my own mother, except that she was very soft-spoken, almost shy. There was Morgan, an imp who liked to play tricks. She was six. And there was Tyler, nine years old. "He's usually lost to the world of computers," Quint told me. "I wish he were today. But he and Morgan are being pills." Mr. Walter was at work. "He's a chemical engineer," said Quint.

"Are we going to have a movie festival, Quint?" asked Morgan. "Are we? Is your girlfriend staying?"

Quint looked pained. "Mom," he complained.

"Mom," said Tyler, imitating his brother.

"Kids," said Mrs. Walter.

"I like his girlfriend," announced Morgan. "Hey, Jessi. Want some ABC gum - ?"

"No, she doesn't want any Already Been Chewed gum," Quint answered for me.

"Morgan, are you and your brother going to be pests today?" asked Mrs. Walter. Tyler answered for Morgan. "No, we're going to be pests tomorrow. Today we plan to be pains. Is that okay?"

"Absolutely not," said Mrs. Walter firmly.

In the end, Tyler and Morgan were banned from the TV room. Quint and I got to watch the videos by ourselves. Quint had rented Top Hat and another old movie starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. We were mesmerized by the dancing, though most of it was tap. Very little was ballet.

"Okay. Who do you like better?" Quint asked as he rewound the second tape. "Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell?" (Eleanor Powell was another of Fred Astaire's dance partners.) "Eleanor, I guess," I replied. "Ginger Rogers usually danced in those long dresses or skirts, so you couldn't see what she was doing. If you wanted to see tapping, you had to watch Fred. But Eleanor didn't hide her legs."

"I like Eleanor better, too," said Quint. "But as far as I'm concerned, n.o.body beats Fred."

"Male chauvinist!" I exclaimed. "What about Ann Miller?"

Quint grinned. "You win. Want to take a walk? We can return the videos."

"Sure," I replied.