It was my turn to widen my eyes. Ten o'clock? Kristy could stay out until ten? That meant I had to be home earlier than any other club member.

I could feel my face flush. Kristy might just as well have pinned a sign to me that said

BABY, because that's what I was. The only baby in the Baby-sitters Club.

Kristy walked off, smirking.

I hung my head, mad at Kristy and mad at my father.

I knew I had to do something — but what?

Chapter 6.

According to our new emergency operating procedures, the Baby-sitters Club meetings were being handled by one club member at a time. Friday was my first day. Since Claudia and I were speaking, she stayed in her room with me, but we stuck to Kristy's new rules, and I took all but one of the jobs that afternoon.

The last call that came in was from a woman named Mrs. Prezzioso. I knew the Prezziosos slightly. They live on Burnt Hill Road not far from Dawn, and are friends with the Pikes, the eight-kid family our club members often sit for. I had met the Prezziosos several times at the Pikes'.

"Hello, the Baby-sitters Club," I said when I answered Mrs. Prezzioso's call.

"Hello. This is Madeleine Prezzioso over on

Burnt Hill Road. To whom am I speaking?"

To whom was she speaking? "This is Mary Anne Spier/' I said.

"Oh, Mary Anne. Hello, dear. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you," I replied politely. "How are you?" I should mention here that the Prezziosos, all three of them, look extremely prim and proper — but Mrs. Prezzioso is the only one who acts that way, too. She's fussy and fastidious, kind of like the neat half of The Odd Couple. She's always polite, and she usually appears to have stepped right out of the pages of one of those magazines that gives tips on getting out hard-to-remove stains and baking the perfect loaf of zucchini bread. She buys three-piece suits and monogrammed handkerchiefs for Mr. Prezzioso. And Jenny, their three-year-old daughter. . . . Well, Mrs. Prezzioso dresses her as if every day were Easter Sunday. She puts ribbons in her hair and lacy socks on her feet. I've never seen Jenny in pants or slacks, Mrs. P. probably thinks jeans is a dirty word.