Ann Martin - Stacey's Emergency

Stacey's Emergency

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

I looked up from my homework. I watched Charlotte Johanssen, my baby-sitting charge.Charlotte is eight years old.

She was reading The New York Times.

She had just finished going through the Stoneybrook News.

"Wow," saidCharlotte .

"What?" I asked her.

"It says here that inNew York this woman had a gun and she "

"Stop!" I cried. "I don't want to hear about it! And why are you reading that story, anyway?"

"I don't know. It's right here in the paper."

I guess I couldn't faultCharlotte for reading something great (and grown-up) like the Times. But did she have to read the grisly stuff? And did she have to read it aloud?

"Gosh," saidCharlotte . "Here it says that

there was a huge fire in a big, fancy hotel one night and "

"Char! I really don't want to hear about it. . . . Okay?"

"Okay. Actually, I was looking for science articles. Oh, here's one! Hey, Stacey! There's a whole article about diabetes."

"Really?" Now I was interested. That's because I have diabetes myself. Diabetes is a disease. If your blood sugar level gets too high, you can become really sick. There are different kinds of diabetes and different ways to treat the disease. Some people just stick to a low-sugar diet. Other people have to have injections every day. (I'm one of those people. I know giving yourself shots sounds gross, but the shots save my life.) The injections are of insulin, which is what the pancreas (that's a gland in your body) produces to break down sugar. When your body's natural insulin isn't working right, then sometimes you have to give yourself insulin. From outside your body. But that doesn't always work. Natural insulin is more effective.

I am lucky in one way because I can give myself insulin. Before doctors knew how to do that, I guess people with diabetes suffered a lot. But I am unlucky in another way: I have a severe form of diabetes. My mom told me recently that I'm called a brittle diabetic. That

means that my disease is hard to control. I have to have the insulin shots and stay on a strict diet. And I mean strict. My mom helps me count calories. This is complicated. We don't simply count calories. We count different kinds of calories, likeproteins and fats, and we have to balance them. Plus, I have to test my blood. And I have to do it several times a day. How do I test my blood? I prick my finger (I know -- you're thinking that diabetes is all shots and finger sticks), then I squeeze out a drop of blood, wipe it on this thing called a test strip, and put the test strip into a machine. A number comes up o nthe machine, and the number tellsme if the level of sugar in my blood is too high (either because I've mis-

judged and eaten something that has a lot of natural sugar in it, like fruit, or because I have too littte insulin in my body), too low not enough sugar in my blood; (everybody needs some), or just right.

A few times recently I've seen some numbers that haven't been what they shouldl be. Plus, lately, I've been hungrier and thirstier than usual and also tired. (I've had some sore throats and stuff, too.) I haven't told Mom about the blood tests, though. She's been through a lot in the past months. (My parents just got divorced, but I'll explain about that later.) I don't want Mom to have to worry

about me as well as everything else. Anyway, I'm thirteen years old, and I know my body is going through lots of chemical changes. (Everyone's does when they reach puberty.) So maybe the insulin was just another chemical in my body that was changing reacting differently to my diet and injections. That is what I wanted to believe, but it was my own theory. To tell you the truth, I didn't want to worry Mom because I was already worried.

"What does the article say, Char?" I asked her.

"Oh, it's sort of boring."Charlotte skimmed down the page. "It's nothing about treating diabetes. It's about how scientists need more money for research so they can study the disease."Charlotte folded up the paper. Then she reopened it and began looking at the headlines again.

Charlotte Johanssen is really smart. She's an only child, and her parents spend as much time with her as possible but that isn't a lot. They both work hard, especiallyCharlotte 's mother, who's a doctor.Charlotte 's teachers once asked the Johanssens if they'd let Char skip a grade which Dr. and Mr. Johanssen finally said yes to. It was a big decision.Charlotte may be smart, but she's shy and clingy (although not as bad as she used to be) and has a little trouble making friends.

Sometimes she can be awfully serious, too, which is why I said then, "Hey, Char, let's read something more fun than the paper."

"Okay," she agreed. "Can I see what's in your Kid-Kit?"

A Kid-Kit is a box full of my old toys, books, and games, plus some new things, such as art materials. I bring the Kid-Kit with me on sitting jobs. I wish I could take credit for this great idea, but it wasn't mine. Kristy Thomas, the president and founder of the Baby-sitters Club (which I belong to), thought up Kid-Kits and a lot of other things as well. But I'll tell you about Kristy and the BSC later, along with my parents' divorce.

Charlottepoked through the Kid-Kit. She pulled out the first book she saw. "Oh, Pad-dington," she said, sounding disappointed. "We've already read this one."

"Keep looking," I told her.

Char did. Finally she emerged with The Dancing Cats of Applesap. "This is a new book, Stacey! Cool!"

"Do you want me to read to you?" (Of course,Charlotte could read the book perfectly well by herself, but there's nothing like being read to, no matter how old you are.)

"Yes!" saidCharlotte , jumping to her feet.

We both moved to the couch, and Char snuggled next to me while I began reading. I

glanced at her a couple of times, because she was so engrossed.

Charlotte and I could practically be sisters. Not because we look alike (we don't), but because that's how close we are.Charlotte even stayed at my house once when her parents suddenly had to go out of town for a few days. Maybe I shouldn't say this, but Char is my favorite sitting charge and I'm her favorite sitter. We mean more to each other than that, though, which is why I think of us as sisters.

Also, I wish I really did have a sister or a brother. But likeCharlotte , I'm an only child. And since my parents' divorce, I live mostly with my mother.

Maybe this would be a good time to tell you about the divorce. But beware, it's complicated! Oh, well. Here goes. I grew up inNew York City . My dad has a big-time job there. But just before I was going to enter seventh grade, the company he works for transferred him toStamford,Connecticut , so my parents went house hunting and found a place for us here in Stoneybrook, which is not far fromStamford . Then, in the middle of this school year (eighth grade), the company transferred Dad back toNew York . (I didn't mind much. I had joined the BSC and made friends inConnecticut , but I also wanted to return toNew York and live in the city that felt like home to

me.) However, we hadn't been back inNew York for more than a few months when my parents began to have problems with each other. They were always fighting. And the next thing I knew, they were getting a divorce. Worse, my father was staying inNew York , my mother wanted to return toConnecticut (she loves Stoneybrook), and I was given the choice of where I wanted to live. (In other words, with which parent I wanted to live.) It was an awful decision, but finally I choseConnecticut , promising my dad I would visit him on weekends and vacations whenever I could. I've been pretty good about that, but lately, what with feeling tired and cranky and just not well, I haven't gone toNew York as often as Dad would like. All my energy goes into baby-sitting, school, and homework. I can't think about traveling. It wears me out. Plus, I feel as though Mom and Dad have been using me a little. I know that's a terrible thing to say about your own parents, but it's true. And it makes me resent the divorce even more, which makes me want to stay put inConnecticut . I'm not trying to punish my dad, I'm just trying to feel like a normal kid with one home. Each time I have to get on the train and travel to see my father, I'm reminded of the divorce. I don't like to think of myself as a divorced kid, even though the parents of