‘Baby-Sitters’ Club’ By Bret Easton Ellis: Chapter 1

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If you like this, check out Part Two here.

…and Mary-Anne had been talking for about 10 minutes before I stopped totally zoning out, just trying to mellow really on the B-side of this new Beach Boy album. There is nothing more depressing than coming home after last bell at StoneyBrook High, trying to get my room in order for the Baby-Sitters' Club meeting, and then realizing that you really don't even give a shit anymore. Like, sorry that you have diabetes Stacey, but do we have to spend half the afternoon discussing it? And yeah, it really bums me out to watch Claudia just snort up half those Pixie Stixs when she is so blatantly trying to get attention to her sugar problem, but every time we try to talk to her about it she says she needs it to focus on her art and that her super-strict Asian parents are coming down on her ass again so what's the point, really? This whole club is really getting to be a drag but whatever, I started the project and I just know that bitch Marci is waiting for me to like, drop the ball on this whole thing so she can pick up all the money and maybe Mary-Anne's boyfriend Logan as a nice “fuck you too” perk.

“So, right, what Mary-Anne was saying,” I tried, but my voice was kind of mumbly so I started again and accidentally ended up shouting over Mary-Anne, and she got this look on her face like I slapped her or told her her mom just died (again). Whoops. So much for best friends, right?

“Sorry, I just want to make sure we're um, all clear on who is going to baby-sitting David Michael tonight, because that should be, our top priority right?” Now everyone was staring at me and I wish I had eaten lunch or at least some of those Jiff/Wonderbread peanut-butter sandwiches Mom made. There was still some organic Farmer's Market celery stalks that were half-wilting with Hidden Valley in those new melamine plates in the middle of the room, but I was two second's away from shaking Claudia down for some Snicker's or something, or maybe just going to grab the Tylenol P.M. in the medicine closet and my hands were shaking and why was everyone just staring at me?

“Yeah…but…David Michael is your brother” said Dawn in that stupid No-Cal way, which, like d'uh, obviously. As if I had forgotten, which I sort of had but that was besides the point. She flicked her L'Oreal model hair behind her head and I swear to god, she may think it looked cute but to me she looked like a friggin' horse whenever she did that.

“Right. Definitely. Dawn, I know that. But I'm going to the Richardson's tonight so I need someone here to watch David Michael.” Which fine, I sort of just grabbed the Richardson kids out of the pile which is against club rules or whatever, but it was my club and if I had to spend another night listening to an eight year old talk about his Megaman action figures like that makes him better than me, just because his dad sends him better gifts on Christmas….whatever.

“I'll take David Michael,” Mary-Anne said quietly, like literally I almost stopped the tape in the middle of “Wouldn't It Be Nice” (yeah wouldn't it) just to make sure the noise wasn't coming from some background noises that Brian Wilson had thrown in there.

“Thanks, yeah! Now, what were you saying about you and Logan?” I was totally dizzy from relief and relished the idea of drifting into a semi-conscious state of Ritalin withdrawal so Mary-Anne could bitch about her boyfriend. Another meeting of the Baby-Sitter's Club had come to a close.

Continued . . .

(Bret Easton Ellis is the acclaimed author of American Psycho, Less Than Zero, and Rules of Attraction. His books have been published in over 40 languages, and banned in 8 countries. This is his first attempt at writing young adult fiction.)

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