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“This meeting of the ABC Club will now come to order,” said Enjolras. “Grantaire, put that Twinkie down.”
Instead of putting the Twinkie down, I stuffed it in my mouth. “Sorry, your highness,” I said with my mouth full. Enjolras hates being called “your highness.” And people talking with their mouths full. And Twinkies. And me. Maybe he’d stop hating me if I stopped doing things he hates, but what if he didn’t? I’d hate that.
I guess I should tell you about me and my friends. We’re all eighth graders at Musain Middle School, we all baby-sit, and we’re all in the ABC Club. Parents can call us and reach nine experienced sitters at once, instead of having to make tons of individual calls. We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 5:30 to 6:00, in my room, because I have my own phone, with a private line, no less. “ABC” doesn’t stand for anything. Combeferre says it’s a pun in French, and Enjolras says it could mean “All Baby-sitting Citizens,” but really it just means that along with plain old baby-sitting, we help kids with their homework and learning how to read. Some of us (everyone but me) are better at it than others (me). We have a club record book where we keep track of clients and appointments and money, and a club notebook where we write about all our jobs. We pay dues every week, which is annoying, but the club does get us all more jobs, so I guess it’s fair. And sometimes we use the money for pizza parties, which is pretty cool.
Today was Monday, the first meeting after a long weekend of baby-sitting. Bahorel, as usual, was sprawled out on the floor. He’s the one who started this whole thing. He’s always been good with kids, so he started baby-sitting as soon as he was old enough, and as soon as he started baby-sitting, guys at school started picking on him for being a boy baby-sitter. He beat them up. Then he got a bunch of us boy baby-sitters together to form a baby-sitting business. Bahorel is really something. Something really loud. He lives across the street from me, and I can always hear when he’s home. His clothes are pretty loud, too. Today he was wearing a bright red vest over a tie-dyed t-shirt in neon colors. I should put on sunglasses.
Jehan was also on the floor, but curled up in a corner with his notebook. He’s a poet. I’m not sure what his definition of “poet” is, but after knowing him half my life, mine is “weirdo.” He’s always going on about the beauty of the flowers, or the clouds, or the kids he just sat for, or just about anything. He’s shy with most people, and still quiet with us, except when he gets really excited about something. He’s practically the opposite of Bahorel, but he too has bizarre taste in clothes. I don’t know how he pulls off a loose pink shirt with ruffles down the middle, a wide purple belt that looks like snakeskin, too-short pastel orange bellbottoms, black socks with pandas on them, and green loafers, but he does. Almost.
Thunk, thunk. That’s the sound Courfeyrac’s feet made as he kicked my laundry hamper. He was sitting on top of it, and I kept waiting for it to cave in. Not that I really want him to get hurt – I like Courfeyrac. Everyone likes Courfeyrac. He can make friends with anyone. He moved here (from New York!) just last year, and in like a millisecond he was the most popular guy in school. Sometimes his friendliness gets him in trouble. Like this one time, he brought a friend to an ABC Club meeting, and the guy started ranting about how we were doing baby-sitting all wrong, that we were too young to have so much responsibility, or something. I wasn’t paying much attention. That guy’s never been back to the club, but somehow Courfeyrac is still friends with him. He’s got plenty of girl friends, too. He says things that would sound totally cheesy coming from anyone else, but because it’s him, girls eat them up. Hmph. Maybe I do want him to get hurt.
That’s Joly and Bossuet on the beanbag chair. They always sit together. Joly wants to be a doctor someday, probably so he can cure himself of all the diseases he thinks he has. Health class with Joly is a nightmare. If it’s in the book, he feels the symptoms coming on. Right now he has a cold, which he thinks proves him right about everything else. Whatever, call me when you have polio.
Bossuet is like the unluckiest guy in the world. If a kid throws a tantrum or has a super-gross diaper, Bossuet’s the one sitting for them. If a few of us decide to cut class, Bossuet’s the one who gets caught. But he just laughs it all off. And he was lucky enough to make friends with Joly. They’re best friends. Courfeyrac thinks they’re dating, but Courfeyrac thinks a lot of stupid things. He thinks I have a crush on Enjolras, can you believe it? I don’t like guys, not like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with guys who do, I just don’t. I loves the girls and I loves good junk food. Anyway, Joly and Bossuet can’t be dating, because Joly is dating this girl Musichetta. Or maybe Bossuet is. It’s hard to tell, sometimes.
Over in the director chair was Enjolras, who I do not have a crush on, thank you very much. It wouldn’t do me much good if I did, anyway. Like I said, he kind of hates me. I know he only lets me be in the club because of my phone. He’s- well, let’s just say that if I did like guys, he’d probably be the guy I’d like. The girls in our grade all think he’s the hottest thing since sliced bread, and I can see why. He’s got this amazing blond hair and piercing blue eyes – seriously, when he looks at you it’s like he’s got a spear in your heart and you can’t move or you’ll die – and basically he looks like all those old statues of Greek gods. But he’s also got personality, you know? He really believes in stuff like liberty and justice for all, and he’s trying to make it happen, sometimes by baby-sitting, sometimes by crashing school board meetings. You should’ve seen the protest he organized when Principal Orleans tried to reinstate an old dress code. And Enjolras doesn’t even care about seeing down girls’ shirts! It was just the principle of the thing! You’ve got to admire a guy like that.
He’s also a total health food nut, and whenever I start passing out the Skittles or whatever, he looks deeply disappointed in me. He looks disappointed in people a lot. He has a great disappointed face – I bet he practices in the mirror. Or maybe not, I mean, he has a great everything face. I could stare at his face for hours.
Okay, let’s pretend I didn’t just say that.
Enjolras is the president of the ABC Club. He insisted on taking a vote for that, with a secret ballot and everything, even though everyone agreed that he should get the job. It’s not like Bahorel wanted it. Enjolras also insisted on secret ballots for all the other positions, because of course he did. I ended up as vice-president, I guess because we meet in my room and the vice-president doesn’t have to do much of anything besides deal with parents too stupid to call during meeting times.
Combeferre, sitting in my desk chair, is the secretary. It’s the perfect job for him, he’s really good at keeping records and minutes and all that stuff, but I know Enjolras wanted him to be vice-president. They’re best friends. Or at least really good friends, Enjolras might think having a best friend is undemocratic or something. Combeferre is the one who thought up the name of the ABC Club and decided to make it a teaching thing. He’s a total nerd, with glasses and everything. He read somewhere that like a jillion kids out of a zillion can’t read by the time they get to eleventeenth grade, and he wants to fix that. Like Enjolras, he really thinks he can change the world by baby-sitting. Me, I’m in it for the money.
Speaking of money, Feuilly is the treasurer, because he’s the best with math and budgets. He has to be – his family is really poor, and he when he isn’t baby-sitting he makes things to sell and does other jobs to help them make ends meet. That doesn’t matter to us, but some guys at school tease him about it. Or they did, until Bahorel introduced them to his fists. We used to give Feuilly first dibs on baby-sitting jobs, but he said that wasn’t fair, so now we don’t. Or at least we try not to be so obvious about it. Today Feuilly was sitting on the floor with his back against my bed, putting the finishing touches on a handmade toy truck.
And finally, taking up the whole bed because after all, it’s my bed, there’s me, Grantaire. I’m not just a disappointment to Enjolras, I’m a disappointment to everybody. I’m not heroic like Enjolras, or smart like Combeferre, or popular like Courfeyrac. I’m not much to look at, either. My parents and teachers are always saying I could be a good student if only I applied myself, but I don’t see the point. When am I going to need any of this in the real world? And what’s so great about the real world, anyway? Life sucks and then you die. I used to take an art class, and I guess I was okay at that, but it got boring, so I quit. I’m a connoisseur of junk food, but my parents don’t approve, so I’m also a connoisseur of hiding spots. Twinkies under my bed, M&Ms in my sock drawer, Snickers in a hollowed-out book by some French guy who didn’t know when to shut up, you get the picture. I always share with the club, of course. Sometimes I try to get healthier snacks for Enjolras, but it’s not like I can keep carrot sticks in my room, and going to the kitchen would interrupt the meeting.
Oh yeah, the meeting. Where were we again?
Right, staring at Enjolras and not hearing a word he said.
Enjolras sighed, in that infinitely patient and yet completely exasperated way he has. “Grantaire, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
I made a wild guess. “You asked if I got any calls over the weekend?”
“That was part of it, yes. Did you?”
“Yeah, one,” I said. “The Magnons called on Saturday and needed someone for that night, and Joly was the only one free, so I called him.”
“Thags for thad,” said Joly sarcastically. “They gabe be their code.”
He had to be exaggerating his stuffy nose talk. No one seriously sounds like that. “You’re welcome,” I said, just as sarcastically. “Buy some medicine with the money I got you.”
“There’s do cure for the cobbod code!”
Bossuet patted Joly’s arm. “I’ll make you some chicken soup.”
“If I may continue?” said Enjolras. “As I was saying before Grantaire decided to pay attention, Feuilly has informed me that the treasury is running low, and I believe it is time for another fundraiser.”
“Bake sale!” shouted Bahorel.
“Bahorel has moved that we have a bake sale,” acknowledged Enjolras.
“I second the motion!” said Courfeyrac. “Those things make so much money.”
Combeferre looked at Enjolras and shrugged apologetically. “All in favor, say ‘aye.’”
“AYE!” said everyone but Enjolras and me.
Enjolras looked at me, stabbing me with those blue, blue eyes. “You don’t think we should have a bake sale?”
I blushed. I hate blushing, it’s so stupid. But somehow it always seems to happen around Enjolras. “Well, I mean, I know you don’t approve of all that sugar.”
“Whether I personally approve or disapprove is immaterial,” said Enjolras. “The people have spoken. And Courfeyrac is right, bake sales do tend to be profitable.”
“Then I guess I’m with the people,” I said.
“Good. We may need your dessert expertise.” Enjolras smiled at me. He smiled! At me! It was like the sun breaking through the clouds – no, more like the sun breaking through a whole thunderstorm. I swear I heard angels sing.
“My- yeah, sure, anything for you!” I said. I heard Feuilly stifle a laugh, and that’s when I realized that everyone was watching me. Courfeyrac looked smug. Bahorel was mouthing “K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” which is what made Feuilly laugh. Joly and Bossuet looked amused, too. Combeferre shook his head, but he was smiling a little. And Jehan had that gooey-eyed look he gets when the prince and princess finally kiss in a Disney movie.
I looked back at Enjolras, who raised an eyebrow. A perfect, golden eyebrow. It was his confused face – I didn’t get to see that one very often. I blushed again.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, score one for Courfeyrac.