Where Are They Now? The Baby-Sitters Club
While her friends went off to college, Kristy stayed behind in Stonybrook to protect the sanctity of the Babysitter’s Club. Her mother discouraged her staunch dedication to the BSC, I mean surely Kristy would have another “great idea” — several, even — if she’d just apply her energies elsewhere. But Kristy insisted that “the kids still need her,” even as all her original charges aged and went off to college, themselves. At her mother’s insistence that she take up other hobbies, Kristy became an umpire for the neighborhood’s softball league; though that gig soon ended in tragedy when Kristy made a far-too-aggressive call/ intervention that left one child broken-armed and another paralyzed. “I had to take her out,” Kristy explained. “She’d been stealing bases since the season started, and the other teams are all just looking the other way, heads up their asses… I mean, you can’t let people get away with sh-t like that.” Kristy still attends the games, sitting exactly 50 feet away from the dugout like the court mandated.
After barely graduating from RISD, Claudia moved to Bushwick based on the recommendation of a drummer she bought cocaine from this one time she was hosteling in Prague who told her she’d “totally dig that scene.” Little did he know, the last thing on earth Claudia was equipped to deal with was the abundance of mismatched neon tube socks, paint-splattered denim overalls, ironic side-boob tanks, authentic eagle feather hair accessories, ikat sweatbands, and sandalwood sandals indicative of Bushwick. Who were these women and why were they jocking Claudia’s GLORIOUS AND UNIQUE style? No. Just no. Claudia was not going to deal with that sh-t. She bailed on Brooklyn after six months and instead settled down in Portland, where she changed her name to Mangi and opened a used seashell shop. There, she became whole.
At the suggestion of her mother, Jessie attended Temple University after high school in an attempt to befriend at least one black person who wasn’t related to her. Jessi quickly embraced her new environment — over-zealously auditioning for the dance, step, and cheerleading team — but despite her best efforts to make new friends, her peers continuously demanded that she “stop acting so white.” “What the hell does that even mean? Like… I’m not acting white, I’m just from Connecticut.” Jessie eventually dropped out of Temple and took a year off to backpack through South America, looking for herself. Serendipitously, she did not find herself — she found Walt, Claudia’s cousin, who’d also been searching for the answers to his Japanese heritage in the Colombian mountains. The two eloped and soon became proud parents of Kimbra and Malakai; twins who are something of a fixture in the baby-modeling world, most notably featured in Calvin Klein’s Colors of the Wind campaign.
Mallory’s Ugly Duckling phase ended mere weeks before she began her freshman year at Montclair State University, prompting her to major in Human Sexuality as she — a gigantic, gingerly virgin — was ready to tend to the business of swiping her V-Card (in multiple slots, if time and sex-positive attitudes would allow it). After classes, Mallory would frequent Muff’s, a local bar where she practically applied her lessons with strangers and once, her Contemporary Sexuality professor (a Muff’s regular). After college, Mallory became a master of Karmamudr?, a form of tantric yoga, which she teaches to desperate couples in her empty garage on weekends. As surrogate aunt to Kimbra and Malakai, she constantly insists that Jessi encourage them to masturbate, at which point Jessi patiently reminds her that they’re only three years old. Mallory is not afraid to stick her finger up an asshole, but won’t do it without permission (even though she can pretty much guarantee it’ll be enjoyable).
[Disclaimer: At this point, I realize just how many times this has been done before, but say "F-ck it, I'm seeing this thing through."]
After returning to her beloved New York, Stacey began to identify as a gluten-free, lactose-intolerant, diabetic vegan, which means she can get away with eating… nothing, essentially. Her coworkers at WP+PR — where she is the skinniest Account Executive — are both impressed by and jealous of her chic, designer diet. Whenever she wears an all-black outfit — which is often, because hell-o, she’s a New Yorker! — she appears to have vanished, from certain vantage points. She often performs this trick at parties.
Mary Anne Spier and Dawn Schafer
Dawn, who attended university in San Francisco, began to reexamine her ‘individuality’ via sexual experimentation and discovered through this process that she prefers the company of women to men. And there was one woman in particular whose company Dawn had been missing ever since she fled from the East Coast — her stepsister, Mary Anne. To Dawn’s great pleasure, the two reunited at a family wedding, at which the typically conservative Mary Anne was heavily intoxicated due to a shocking revelation that had come to light hours before the ceremony — her long, long-term boyfriend Logan actually had his own long, long-term boyfriend and Mary Anne is a great girl and all but… you know. Dawn led Mary Anne to a gazebo under the guise of comfort, gently stroking her arm as her stepsister relayed her tale of woe, and so distraught/ flattered/ interested was Mary Anne by Dawn’s sudden flirtation that she was kind of just like, “Yeah, this makes sense, let’s do it,” and so… they did it. When Dawn awoke the next morning wrapped in bleak, Holiday Inn sheets, she found that Mary Anne had gone; in her place a perfectly-handwritten note: “Don’t ever speak of this again.” And they didn’t; Dawn returned to California and eventually settled down with Maegan, a petite redhead with whom Dawn adopted two standard poodles; Mary Anne grew out her hair and married Rex, a straight-but-impotent man who works long hours and never asks about the photograph of Dawn that hangs on their refrigerator.
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But I am here to talk about realities, realities that are based on experiences, guy talks (who cares about that?) and late night chats with good female friends of mine.
Many people know of Jack Kerouac’s fiction, but few know of his penchant for recording his dreams.
Why do we care so much about what people think? I remember in high school I made sure to get a t-shirt that had a visible moose logo on the front so people would know it’s from Abercrombie.
All hushed when my lips unlocked, listened to my insufferable struggling sketches of phrases.