Best Babysitters Ever. Caroline Cala

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      “Yes,” said Malia.

      “And the volume’s turned up?” Bree asked.

      Malia double-checked it. “Yep,” she confirmed.

      “Hmm,” Dot said.

      The three of them continued to sit there, gazing at the phone, its silence being mocked by the gentle sitar music drifting in from the living room stereo, where Dot’s mom was leading a guided meditation.

      They looked back and forth at one another. Dot could practically hear them blinking.

      “Maybe we could go knock on a few doors in the neighbourhood,” said Malia after ten seemingly endless minutes had ticked by.

      “Like Girl Scouts?” Bree asked.

      “Like proactive people,” Malia said.

      “That sounds so fun!” said Bree. “But it makes me wish we were selling Girl Scout cookies. Or maybe just that we were eating Girl Scout cookies.”

      “Just think of all the cookies we can buy once business is rolling in,” Dot said.

      And so, they decided to take the show on the road.

      Dot once read that you only get one chance to make a great first impression. So at her urging, the three of them ran home to change into more appropriate attire before making house calls.

      Dot settled on her most professional outfit: black T-shirt, black skinny jeans, black ballet flats. She was going for a kind of Audrey-Hepburn-meets-French-au-pair vibe. She wanted her clothes to say, “I’m responsible enough to watch your children, and also stylish enough to provide sartorial inspiration.” If she were a parent, she imagined that’s something she’d care about.

      “What’s with all the black? You look like a mime,” said a denim-shorts-clad Malia as they made their way down Poplar Place en route to their first house.

      “I’m going to take that as a compliment, thankyouverymuch,” Dot said, and then added, “Did you even change? You look like you’re heading to or from some nonexistent softball practice.”

      Bree, on the other hand, was one sparkle shy of a Halloween costume. She glittered all over – sparkly headband, sparkly eye shadow, shimmery leggings, silver sandals, and a huge silver backpack to top it all off. She looked like the human embodiment of a My Little Pony.

      “Bree, do you want to, like, borrow a blazer or something?” Dot asked. Then clarified, “You know, so people don’t think you’re unprofessional.”

      “Or a professional figure skater,” added Malia.

      Bree looked confused. “But children love sparkles,” she said.

      They made their way up to the first home on the block, a pretty two-storey white house with navy-blue awnings, owned by the Woo family. Dot pressed the doorbell, then waited. Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds. There was no sign of life.

      “Maybe they’re not home,” she said with a shrug.

      They were just about to leave when an exasperated Mrs Woo flung open the front door. Her hair darted in at least eighteen different directions and there appeared to be flour splattered in artful puffs all over her clothes.

      “Good afternoon!” Dot started. “I’m Dot, and this is Malia and Bree, and we’ve recently formed a new babysitting –”

      “Babysitting! Yes! Please come in.” Mrs Woo stepped aside and gestured for the girls to enter. “How much time do you have? I have a bunch of errands I’d love to run, so if you could just hang out for a couple of hours, that’d be perfect.”

      “You want us to babysit . . . right now?” Dot ventured.

      “YES!”

      Well, this was unexpected.

      “You girls are in what grade again?” she asked.

      “Seventh,” Dot answered, flashing her biggest smile, like she was running for political office.

      A little furrow formed between Mrs Woo’s brows. “So you’re how old?”

      “Twelve. But we always work as a team, to provide maximum supervision.”

      “Whatever, that sounds great,” she said, waving a hand. “Do you have mobile phones?”

      “Yes,” they all said in unison.

      “Do you know how to use them?”

      They nodded.

      As Mrs Woo surveyed them, Dot realized how little their attire – or credentials – actually mattered. They could have been wearing anything, including matching T-shirts with swear words printed on them, or even no clothes at all. Mrs Woo seemed so absurdly excited to be getting out of the house, she barely paid them any attention.

      “Wonderful! I’m sure you’ll be fine.” The three of them exchanged excited glances as Mrs Woo barreled on. “There is plenty of food in the fridge and cabinets. Help yourselves to whatever you want. All of our emergency contact information is on the fridge. Um, I’ll be back by seven.”

      She grabbed her purse and scooted straight out the door, faster than a flaming hermit crab scuttling back to the sea.

      And just like that, they were in business.

      It started out nicely enough. The Woo girls – Ruby, age five, and Jemima, age three – weren’t particularly gross or annoying. The little one, with a ponytail on top of her head that resembled a waterspout, was even sort of cute.

      “So, what do you guys want to do?” Dot asked, in a pitch that was slightly higher and more animated than her usual dry monotone. It was then Malia realized that aside from Bree’s siblings, she’d never seen Dot attempt to interact with a small child before.

      “I want to play chefs!” announced Ruby.

      “What does that entail?” Malia asked. Her mind immediately jumped to a kitchen engulfed in flames.

      “Mom lets us play it all the time. We put a bunch of stuff in a bowl and then I mix it all up,” explained Ruby.

      “And then YOU eat it!” added Jemima, clapping her little imp hands.

      Dot, Bree, and Malia looked at one another and shared a collective shrug.

      “Uh, sure, that sounds great!” Malia said.

      “YAYYYYYYYYYY!” yelled Jemima, running towards the kitchen, her ponytail bobbing all the way.

      “You guys play chefs. I’m going to take a tour of the rest of the house,” said Dot in her regular voice, before she disappeared from sight.

      Bree СКАЧАТЬ