"Martin, Ann M - Baby-sitters Club 004 - Mary Anne Saves the Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

"I DON'T WANT AN APRON!"
I watched Jenny smear the paintbrush over a big apple on the page. The apple turned red. Jenny lifted the brush and returned it to the cup. So far, so good.
I relaxed a little.
Then Jenny swung the wet brush back to the book. Two faint pink streaks appeared on her dress. Oh, well, I thought. It must come out with water.
But I wasn't sure. I decided that Jenny would have to wear an apron whether she liked it or not, and I dashed into the kitchen. I had just found one when I heard Jenny say, "Oops."
"Jenny?" I called. "What happened?"
There was a pause. "Nothing."
A nothing is usually the worst kind of something. I ran back to Jenny Ч and gasped. She had spilled the entire cup of water in her lap. A huge pinkish stain was spreading fast.
"Oh, Jenny!" I exclaimed.
Jenny stared at me with wide eyes. She looked as if she were daring me to do something.
"Okay. Off with your dress. Right now."
"NONONONONONONO!" Jenny threw herself on her stomach and began kicking her legs on the floor.
I took advantage of that to unbutton her
dress. "Off it comes/' I said. "Then I'll show you some magic."
Jenny stopped kicking and yelling. "Magic?"
"Yeah." I hoped the trick would work.
Jenny let me take her dress off. She followed me into the kitchen and sat on the counter while I held the dress under a stream of water from the faucet. She watched as the color flowed out.
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Does your mommy have a hair dryer?" I asked.
"Yup."
"Come show me where."
So Jenny, giggling, helped me blow-dry her dress. Then I told her that she would have to wear playclothes if she wanted to finish painting. She took me to her room, pointed to a drawer in her bureau, and said, "That's where the playclothes are."
I opened the drawer and found myself looking at three piles of neatly folded, spotless, almost-new shirts, blouses, and slacks. "These are your playclothes?"
Jenny gave me a look that plainly said, "I told you so."
I closed the drawer. "Okay, Jenny-bunny," I said. "Do you want to finish painting?"
"Yes."
"All right. Come on." We went back downstairs and Jenny spent the rest of the afternoon painting in her underwear. I got her dressed just five minutes before the Prezziosos came home.
"How was she?" Mrs. P. asked.
I glanced down at Jenny. "An angel," I replied. "An absolute angel."
Jenny smiled at me. Our secret was safe.
Chapter 7.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I decided to ask my father if he would extend my babysitting hours. If all the other members of the club were allowed to stay out until ten o'clock, I ought to be able to as well. After all, I was the same age as they were, I was just as responsible as they were, and I had just as much homework as they did.
The one job that I had had to turn down, when I was taking club phone calls the Friday after our fight, had been for a client who needed a sitter until ten o'clock on Saturday night. Kristy had taken the job.
I felt humiliated.
But I was nervous about facing my father. He wouldn't be angry; he just wouldn't see my side, unless I figured out exactly the right
way to approach him. And I wasn't sure I'd be able to do that.
But by Monday night, I was ready to talk to him Ч no matter what.
Unfortunately, he came home in a bad mood.
"We lost the Cutter case today," he told me. "I can't believe it. I thought it was open-and-shut. The jury was highly unreasonable."
I nodded. "Dad Ч "
"Honestly, sometimes people can be so unfair. . . . No, not unfair, unthinking. That's it, unthinking."
We were setting the table, getting ready for dinner.
"Dad Ч " I said again.
"Can you imagine letting someone go who so clearly was guilty of grand larceny?"
I shook my head. "I guess not. . . . Dad?"
"What is it, Mary Anne?"
Right then, I should have decided not to pursue the business of later hours, but I'd been planning on it all day. I'd rehearsed what I was going to say. I didn't know if it would work, but I was going to say, very rationally, "Dad, I've been thinking. I'm twelve years old now, and I feel that I could stay out until ten o'clock every now and then when I'm babysitting Ч not on school nights, of course, be-
cause I recognize that I need my sleep/ but just on some Friday and Saturday nights."
"Dad, I've been thinking," I said.
The phone rang.
Dad leaped for it. "Hello?. . .Yes, I know. . . . I know. . . . Right, an appeal. That's what I was thinkЧ What? . . . Oh, yes. Definitely. ..." The conversation went on for ten minutes while our frozen pizza finished baking and then began drying out in the oven.