They're not 13 anymore.
My cell buzzed in the pocket of my track pants. Three times in a row, so I told my client, Elizabeth, “Do you mind if I check my phone?” And she shook her head as well as she could with a barbell on her shoulders.
It was Jesse: Hey, are you available?
I just dropped of O at MA’s, and she seems to be in a pretty bad place.
I’d stay myself, but the daycare charges a fortune if I don’t pick up D by 6:30.
“Um, Mrs. Bruno? I don’t think you’re supposed to use PEMDAS for this,” a girl in the third row announced, without raising her hand.
“Oh?” I studied the whiteboard, then at the paper in my hand. There were two sets of parentheses, two minus signs… but a couple of x-es thrown in that I didn’t have any clue what to do with. Part of the reason I had been an early childhood education major in college was precisely so I wouldn’t have to deal with complicated math.
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Growing up in the 80s and 90s, most of us either read the Baby-Sitters Club or knew someone reading the Baby-Sitters Club. Perpetually 13 (or 11, for poor Mallory and Jessi), the group of friends enthralled tweens across the globe. Everybody who read the series had a favorite: sporty Kristy, sensitive Mary Anne, artsy Claudia, fashionable Stacey, hippie Dawn, dancer Jessi, dull-as-toast Mallory*, rich Shannon, male Logan, or showed-up-way-too-late-in-the-game-to-really-count Abby.
The books taught little girls everywhere that kids could run businesses and really cool kids got type 1 diabetes.
Ever wonder what happened after they graduated from middle school? Heck, after they graduated high school?
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