Okay, getting back to Friday. I didn't eat the other half of the Kit-Kat, and it wasn't long before the phone rang.

I picked it up. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," I said cheerfully.

"Uh, hello dear, Ginger Wilder here," a voice answered. "I got your number from the Barretts."

Ginger Wilder here? That was a strange greeting, I thought. Was I supposed to know who she was or something?

"Right," I said warmly, "we've all sat for the Barrett kids: Buddy, Suzie — "

"And dear little Marnie," Mrs. Wilder said, cutting me off. "Yes, Mrs. Barrett has mentioned that you girls are quite lovely and talented. Now, I'm looking for a sitter on a regular basis. Is this something you handle?"

"Regular?" I repeated. "You mean like a permanent job?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Ginger Wilder said with a chuckle. "You see, my mother has become awfully ill. She's seventy, never been sick a day in her life, and now all of sudden, bam! Thursday she tripped and broke her ankle, then she came down with the flu, and now shingles, of all things. She really needs someone to look after her for a few weeks, and my sister and I have worked out a caretaking schedule."

I noticed she pronounced schedule "shed-yool." Up till then, I'd only heard English actors on TV say it that way. And what on earth did she mean by shingles!

"My days," she continued, "are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. My husband doesn't come home till eight, eight-thirty, so I'll need someone those three evenings to sit for my daughter, Rosie. She's seven."

"I think we can handle it — "I began.

"It will be frightfully easy," Mrs. Wilder barged on. "Rosie is quite occupied with her lessons after school. We've found the most marvelous private teachers who come to our house. Makes things very convenient. You know, it's tough enough to manage a daughter's career and be a good mother without having to traipse around town from teacher to teacher. . . . Anyway, I don't mean to chew