"Babysitters Club 028 Welcome Back, Stacey!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Babysitters Club)

"We'll see," said Mr. Walker.
Mrs. Walker paid me then, and Henry and Grace each had to hug me twice before I could leave. When the door was closed behind me, I walked to the elevator and rode down to the 12th floor.
The doors opened.
I could hear the fight even before I reached my apartment.
Mom and Dad were at it again.
Slowly I crept toward 12E.
"Look at this bill!" my father was yelling, and I mean yelling. "Four hundred and ninety dollars on jewelry at Altman's? Do you think I'm made of money?"
"You ought to be," replied my mother sarcastically. "You practically live at the office. I'm surprised Stacey recognizes you anymore."
I looked at my watch. Five-thirty. What was
Dad doing at home? He usually didn't get home until seven-thirty or eight. Mom and I were used to eating our dinners alone those days.
I put my hand on the doorknob and felt around in my pocket for my keys. I was about to go inside. But then I drew back. I did not want to walk in on the middle of a fight. I did that once and my parents immediately started arguing about me. See, I have diabetes and I have to stay on a strict low-sugar diet, give myself insulin shots everyday, and go to the doctor a lot. If I don't do those things, I could get really sick. So Mom and Dad would argue over whether I'd stick to my diet at a party (of course I would), or whether I should be allowed to go to summer camp (they finally let me). That kind of thing.
No more noises were coming from inside my apartment, so I decided it would be safe to go inside. I was just about to put the key in the lock when my father positively roared, "Fifteen hundred and sixty-eight dollars at Tiffany's. Good lord, what did you buy?"
Chapter 2.
I stood there, frozen. I couldn't move. Part of me was wondering just what my mother had bought, but most of me was waiting to hear how she'd answer Dad. Sometimes she cries.
Not that time. She spat out her answer as if the words tasted bad. "Jewelry," she said. "Maybe if you were home more often I wouldn't be so bored. When I get bored I shop . . . sometimes."
"Sometimes? Try all the time. And if you're so bored, get a job," shouted Dad. "Do something useful with your life instead of supporting every store in the city. Spend more time with your daughter."
"Stacey doesn't need me so much anymore," replied Mom. Now she did sound a little teary.
"Doesn't need you!? She's a diabetic."
"Exactly. She's a diabetic. Not an invalid. And she's thirteen. She's growing up. It would be nice, though, for her to see her father. I mean, just occasionally. So she doesn't forget what he looks like. I hope she's going to ... afterward." (What had Mom said? I'd missed something.) She was sounding sarcastic again, though, not tearful.
(And how had I gotten into this argument, anyway?)
"Do you know what you are?" my mother continued. (Her voice was as loud as my father's. I hoped our neighbors were enjoying the fight.) "You're a workaholic," she screamed.
"I have to be, to pay all your bills," retorted Dad. "Besides, you always ask too much of me. You expect ... six different places at once." (I was missing words again.) "At the office, with you, with Stacey, with our friends. You've been too darn demanding. And you're a spoiled brat. You even expect us to move out of the city. Well, soon we won't have to worry about any of those things."
They wouldn't? Why not? I wondered.
"Moving would be healthier for Stacey. She was in much better shape when we lived in Connecticut."
"So move," said Dad. "But I'm not going to commute on top of everything else. And what are you going to do without Tiffany's?"
"Find another jewelry store," snapped my mother. "I've got to . . ."
(Darn. What was I missing? I pressed my ear to the door.)
"Well," said my father, "Stacey and I are perfectly happy."
I was trembling. I'd heard my parents fight before, but not like this. They'd fought about a restaurant bill being too high, or about Dad getting home from work later than usual three nights in a row, but I'd never heard anything like this. It sounded much worse. I was scared to death. Mom wanted to leave the city? Dad thought Mom was lazy and demanding and spent all his money the wrong way? (I thought it was their money.)
Slowly I stepped back. I pulled my keys away from the lock. I dropped them in my pocket. Then I crept down the hall (as if there were a chance my parents could hear me over their shouting). I sped up when I reached 12C and ran the last few yards to the elevator. I poked frantically at the down button. A few seconds later, the elevator arrived with a
crash. The doors opened up, allowed me inside, and closed.
ZOOM.
Our elevator never travels naturally. It clanks and swooshes and comes to stomach-dropping stops.
The doors opened in the lobby. I ignored Lloyd and Isaac on duty at the desk, and even James as he held the front door open for me. I just ran. I ran by them, out onto the sidewalk, and all the way to my friend Laine Cummings' apartment, which is several blocks away. By the time I reached it, I was crying.
Laine lives in one of the fanciest apartment buildings in all of New York City. It's called the Dakota. Lots of famous people have lived there, and still do, and I think the movie Rosemary's Baby was filmed in it. Mr. Cummings is a big-time producer of Broadway plays, and Laine's family has buckets of money.
Naturally, with so many famous people and so much wealth, the security at the Dakota Apartments is pretty tight. But the guards know me, since Laine and I have been friends for years, so I never have any trouble getting in. Not even on that day when I was crying, and my face was flushed and my hair a mess from all that running.
When I reached the door to the Cummingses' apartment, Laine opened it, gawked at me for a second, and led me through the living room, down a hallway, and into her bedroom.
She closed her door behind us. "What on earth is wrong?" she asked.
I couldn't blame her for looking so surprised. After all, I'd been fine in school that day. (Laine and I go to the same private school.)
"You aren't sick again, are you?" she asked worriedly.
I shook my head. Then I tried to calm down. I knew that if I spoke, my voice would wobble, so I took a few deep breaths. At last I managed to say, "I came home from baby-sitting and Mom and Dad were fighting."
"Your father's home already?" asked Laine.
I nodded. "I don't know when he got there. I didn't even go inside my apartment. I just stood at the door and listened. I could hear almost every word. They were really going at it." For some reason, as soon as I said that, I knew I was going to cry. And I did. In a major, awful, hiccupping, gulping way.
Laine, who had been kneeling on the floor, moved to the bed and sat down next to me.
She put an arm across my shoulder. "What were they fighting about?" she asked after a few moments.
"Oh," I said, wiping my eyes, "everything. Everything in their lives. Money, New York, me."
"You?"
I nodded again. "I think I was just an excuse, though. Dad said Mom should spend less time shopping and more time with me. But I don't feel, like, neglected or anything. And Mom said she wants to move out of the city because it would be healthier for me, but I don't want to move out of the city."
"Move out of the city to where?" asked Laine.
"I don't know. I guess to Long Island or someplace nearby."