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“Look at that!”
    I looked. All I could see in the dusky light was a bunch of helium balloons bobbing down the street toward us. I looked harder and realized that a person was behind them. Either that, or the balloons were propelled by a pair of legs wearing jeans and sneakers.
    The balloons spoke. “Hi!”
    I peered around them. Holding tightly to a handful of strings was a pretty girl, probably a couple of years older than I, tall and very thin, wearing a sweatshirt I would have died for.
    She separated a red balloon from the bunch and handed it to Charlotte. Then she turned to me. “I’m Liz Lewis,” she said, “president of the Baby-sitters Agency. I hope you’ll call me if youever need a sitter for your little sister.” Charlotte giggled. “The number’s on the balloon. Later!” She walked on.
    A shiver ran down my spine, and I suddenly felt cold through and through.
    Charlotte was holding the balloon in both hands. She turned it around and read slowly, “The Baby-sitters Agency. Call Liz Lewis 555-1162 or Michelle Patterson 555-7548.” She looked up at me. “More baby-sitters? What’s an agency, Stacey?”
    â€œIt’s another long story. Come on. Let’s go home.”
    I knew I’d be on the phone with Kristy again that evening.

Sunday, November 23
    It is almost one week since Liz Lewis and Michelle Patterson sent around their flyers. Usually, our club gets about fourteen or fifteen jobs a week.
    Since last Monday, we’ve had nine.
    That’s why I’m writing in our notebook.
    This book is supposed to be a diary of our baby-sitting jobs, so each of us can write up our problems and experiences for the other club members to read. But the Baby-sitters Agency is the biggest problem we’ve ever had, and I plan to keep track of it in our notebook. We better do something fast.
    Kristy was worried. She took the balloons as a personal insult. It turned out that she’d run into Liz that afternoon herself. Only Kristy had had the nerve to tell Liz who she was—president of the Baby-sitters
Club,
and therefore Liz’s number one rival. According to Kristy, they had “exchanged words,” which I guess meant that they had had an argument. But by the time I was talking to Kristy over the phone in the evening, all she could say was, “Why didn’t
we
think of balloons? Why didn’t
we
think of balloons?”
    The very next day, though, Monday, something wonderful happened that took our minds off the agency—followed by something horrible that put our minds right back on it.
    The Baby-sitters Club had walked home from school together. When we reached Bradford Court, Claudia went to her house to work on a painting for art class, and Mary Anne went to her house because she was supposed to bake cranberry bread for the Thanksgiving dinner she and her father would be sharing with Kristy’s family (which included Watson, Kristy’s stepfather-to-be, and his two little kids; Kristy said it was going to be one interesting meal).
    â€œWant to come over for a while?” Kristy askedme after Claudia and Mary Anne had left. (Not one of us had a baby-sitting job that afternoon.)
    â€œSure,” I replied, eager for even a
look
at Sam Thomas.
    We stepped up to her front door and Kristy took her house key out of her purse. Since her parents are divorced and Mrs. Thomas works full time, Kristy is often the first person home in the afternoon. But when she put the key in the lock, she discovered that the door was open.
    â€œThat’s odd,” she murmured. “I hope David Michael didn’t get here first. He hates to come home to an empty house.” We walked into the front hall. Kristy’s mother was there.
    â€œMom! What are you doing home?” exclaimed Kristy.
    Mrs. Thomas smiled. “Hi, honey. Hi, Stacey.”
    â€œHi, Mrs. Thomas,” I replied.
    â€œLook who’s here with