Ann Martin - Kristy And The Snobs

Kristy and the Snobs

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a snob. Well, actually, there are a lot of other things I can't stand. Cabbage, blood, people who chew with their mouths open, and squirrels are a few of them. But snobs are way up there on the list.

This is unfortunate since I have moved to a wealthy neighborhood here inStoneybrook,Connecticut , recently, and it is overrun with snobs. What happened was that my mom, who used to be divorced, got remarried to Watson Brewer, this rich guy. Since my mom had a little house for the six of us (Mom, me, my three brothers, and our dog, Louie), and Watson had this mansion all to himself (his two kids only live with him every other weekend), it made more sense for us Thomases to move in with Watson than for him to move in with us.

So we did.

Watson's house is so big that my brothers and I, and Karen and Andrew (our stepsister and stepbrother, who live with us every other weekend), each have a room of our own. Mom and Watson share a room, of course, but their "room" is really a suite about the size of a landing field.

Anyway, to get back to the snobs - I'm surrounded. They're everywhere in Watson's neighborhood. The teenagers around here get their own cars (fancy ones) as soon as they're able to drive. They spin along with the radios blaring, looking fresh and sophisticated. I am so glad my big brothers, Sam and Charlie, aren't like that. Charlie can drive now, but the only thing he drives is Mom's beat-up station wagon. And my brothers and I still go to public school, not to snobby private schools. Guess what most families on our street have: (a) a swimming pool (b) tennis courts (c) a cook named Agnes (d) all of the above. The answer is (d) all of the above.

So far, Watson has (e) none of the above, which is one of the things I'm learning to like about him. However, he's been talking about putting in a pool, now that Karen and Andrew are older, so we'll see.

I've hardly gotten to know any of the kids here. When we first moved into Watson's house

it was summertime, the beginning of July. Most of the kids my age had been sent to fancy camps for the summer. (I would kill Mom if she ever did that to me.) Plus, I'm president of a group called the Baby-sitters Club. All my friends are in the dub, and they live way across town - where I used to live - so I spent a lot of time with them over in my old neighborhood last summer. What I'm trying to say is that school had started again before I met any of the kids on my street.

My first encounter with the snobby kids was on a Monday morning. My alarm clock went off at6:45 as usual. I rolled over and tried to ignore it.

"Please, please be quiet," I mumbled.

But the clock didn't obey. It went right on buzzing.

"Oh, all right, you win," I told it.

I reached over and shut it off, then sat up, rubbing my eyes.

"Louie!" I exclaimed. Our old collie was stretched across the foot of my big bed. Louie mostly sleeps with David Michael, but lately, he's been taking turns sleeping with all of us, even Karen and Andrew on the weekends they visit. I thought it was nice of Louie to share himself.

"You are such a good dog/' I whispered, leaning over to him. I stroked the top of his head between his ears. The fur there is almost as soft as rabbit fur. Then I took one of his paws in my hand.

"Oh, your pads are cold," I told him, rubbing the pink pads on the bottom of his paw. "It must be getting chilly at night. Poor old Louie."

Louie licked my hand and gave me a doggie smile.

"Thanks," I said.

I got up and looked through my closet, as if I had a really big decision to make about what to wear. Ever since school began I've been wearing the same kind of outfit almost every day - a turtleneck, a sweater, jeans, and sneakers. I don't care about clothes the way my friends Claudia and Stacey do. They always look really cool and put-together.

After I was washed and dressed, I ran down the wide staircase to the first floor and into the kitchen. Mom and Watson were with Sam and Charlie. (David Michael, my seven-year-old brother, is a slowpoke. He's always the last one down.)

Here's another thing about Watson that's not so bad. He helps out around the house - with the cooking, cleaning, gardening, every-

thing. I guess this comes from being divorced and having lived alone for awhile before he met Mom. He and Mom share the workload equally. They both have jobs, they both prepare meals (Watson is actually a better cook than Mom is), they both run errands, etc. Twice a week, a cleaning lady comes in, and my brothers and I are responsible for certain chores, but basically Mom and Watson run the show.

So I wasn't surprised when I stepped into the kitchen that Monday morning to find Mom making coffee and Watson scrambling eggs. Sam was setting the table and Charlie was pouring orange juice. It was a nice familiar scene.

"Good morning!" I said.

"Morning," everyone replied.

"Kristy, can't you wear something different once in awhile?" Sam asked me, eyeing my jeans and sweater.

"Why do you care what I wear?" I replied, but I knew perfectly well why he cared. He cared because he was fifteen and girls were practically the only thing on his mind. He thought he was the girl expert of the world, and he was disappointed in my lack of fashion sense. Plus, he was interested in this trds sophisticated girl down the street (one of the private-school girls) and he wanted everything

about our family to be up to Monique's standards, which were sky-high.

"I think Kristy looks lovely," said Watson.

"So do I," added Mom, kissing the top of my head.

"But," Watson went on, "if you ever do want a few, um, new clothes, all you have to do is holler."

It was a nice offer, but leave it to Watson to use a word like "holler."

"Thanks," I said. "Illremember that."

I absolutely adore Watson's kitchen. Although it has all the modern conveniences and appliances, it looks kind of like an old country kitchen. We eat at a big parson's table with two long benches. (Watson and Mom bought it when they got married.^ Most of the counter tops are covered with blue and white tiles. Copper pots and pans hang from the walls. The curtains - tiny pink and blue flowers on a cream-colored background - match the wallpaper. If s a wonderful, cozy room.

I plopped down on one of the benches, and almost at once Mom said, "Kristy, call David Michael, please, honey."

"DAVID MICHAEL!" I yelled.

"Kristy/' said Mom, giving me a look that was part smile, part exasperation.

"I know, I know." I got up, went to the

bottom of the stairs, and called him again.

"Kristy, can you come up here?" he replied.

I ran up the stairs and into his room. "What?" I asked.

David Michael was sitting on the floor next to Louie. "Call Louie," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Just call him."

I got down on one knee. "Louie! Come here, boy!" I dapped my hands.

Louie hobbled toward me. He was limping. "Hmm," I said. "I see what you mean."

"I looked at all his paws," David Michael told me, "but I can't find any cuts or insect bites or burrs."

"Poor old Louie," I said for the second time that day. "Well, don't worry, David Michael. We'll tell Mom, but it's probably nothing."

I should mention here that although we got Louie right after I was born, he's really more David Michael's dog than anyone else's. We all love Louie, but David Michael has especially loved him, even as a baby, and he's always taken care of him. He's never complained about messy dog food cans or smelly flea collars. It was David Michael who discovered a rock song called "Brother Louie." (That's the one that goes "Louie, Louie, Louie, Lou-ee.") Whenever he plays it, the real Louie howls