"BSC087 - Claudia Kishi, Live From WSTO! - Martin, Ann M" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

I typed my essay out carefully. Then I closed my eyes, held my breath, and prepared for the worst part.
Spellcheck.
My spelling stinks. The computer went wild. It must have stopped at a hundred misspelled words. I thought it would crash from overwork.
But when it was done, my essay looked like this:
WHY I WANT TO BE WSTO HOST OF THE MONTH
by Claudia Kishi
Here Is my idea of a great host for a kids' show:
Someone who's not shy but is also a good listener. Someone who knows what kind of music, fashion, and jokes kids like. Someone who understands the problems and concerns of kids of all ages. And most of all, someone who's reliable and hardworking.
And that someone is me, Claudia Kishi!
Okay, first of all, let me say right out, I don't have any radio experience. But I'm
an expert at talking. Just ask any of my friends. (On second thought, don't. Take my word for it!)
As for reliable and hard-working? Well, I baby-sit a Jot. In fact, I'm vice-president of a baby-sitters club that meets three times a week. I also used to run a column in the Stoneybrook Middle School newspaper, called Claudla's Personals.
From my column and my baby-sitting", I've learned a Jot. I think I Jmow what Jcids Jike Ч from infants right on up to eighth graders!
I once heard an old saying that went, "Having an open mind is one thing, but letting bats fly around inside it is something" eJse entirely." WeJJ, my mind is open to the experience of a radio show. But the only things flying around inside it are my ideas for programming. I can't wait to share them with you!
Not bad, huh? Serious but humorous, not too stiff, well-spelled. And it's always nice to throw in a little quotation. (I'd been dying to use that one. I read it in a book once, and I think it is so cool.)
"Good afternoon, this is Claudia Kishi on WSTO," I said as I pressed the print key.
Whoa, did that feel good! I started giggling.
Then I forced myself to stop. Do not NOT NOT get your hopes up, I thought. Probably dozens Ч hundreds Ч of kids would be entering. Kids who deejayed in summer camp. Whose parents were in the radio business. Who worked on school "radio stations" broadcast over P.A. systems. Who could write Pulitzer Prize-winning essays.
I had to be realistic.
One thing was sure: I did not want anyone to know about this. That way, if I won, I could surprise them all with the good news, but if I lost, I could just keep the humiliation to myself.
I took the essay out of the printer, folded it, and put it in an envelope. Before I stuck it in my shoulder bag, I gave it a little kiss.
"Tomorrow we expect a high in the low fifties, cooler by the Sound ..."
It was Monday, 5:29. I was in my bedroom, along with the other members of the BSC, listening to my clock radio. Well, I was listening to the radio. Everyone else was gabbing about I don't know what.
I was a train wreck. For five days I had not stopped thinking about my essay. I rewrote it over and over in my mind. I couldn't sleep.
And now, the Big Day had arrived. Today the winner was going to be announced.
When? On which show? I had no idea. I hadn't paid attention to that part.
Which meant I had to listen to everything.
Beeeeep. "WSTO news time is five-thirty,'* said the announcer.
"Order!" barked Kristy.
I managed to zap myself back into reality.
Dawn held up the BSC's "treasury," a ma-nila envelope. "Dues day!"
Everyone muttered and grunted and reached for money. (No complaining from me, though. I don't mind dues. Mainly because they help pay my phone bill.)
"And now, from the sixties," the WSTO deejay was saying, "an old, moldy, good, and goldy! Here are the Beatles with Ч "
"Claudia, could you turn that thing off?" Kristy said.
"I love the Beatles!" I blurted out. (Okay, I was exaggerating.)
"Since when?" Kristy asked.
"Well, uh, okay, I'll lower it." I turned the knob (slightly) and changed the subject. "Um, anybody want Skittles?"
"Me! Me!" a chorus of voices answered.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the Beatles wailed.
I dug the Skittles out of my sock drawer. No one seemed to mind the song much. Soon it was business as usual Ч munch, gab, gab,
munch. I kept quiet, my ears tuned to the radio.
The phone must have rung, because I noticed Kristy snatching up the receiver. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club," she said. "Okay. We'll call you right back." Then she hung up and announced, "We need two sitters for the Barrett/ DeWitt kids on Saturday."
Mary Anne looked in the record book. "Let's see, Dawn's free, and so are you, Kristy."
Kristy called Mrs. DeWitt back. "It'll be me and Dawn, Mrs. DeWitt. . . . Okay, 'bye."
Kristy hung up. The radio droned on: "We have a three-mile backup on Route Ninety-Five. . . ."
Kristy yawned. Jessi and Mal were playing Hangman on the floor. Mary Anne was scribbling in the notebook. Dawn and Shannon were looking at a magazine.
And I was listening to: "... allow at least a half hour leaving Stamford to the east ..."
Kristy reached for the radio. "This is giving me a headache."
"No, don't!" I snapped.
Rrrrrrinnnng!