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First published in USA 2019 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
First published in Great Britain 2019 by Egmont UK Limited,
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Published by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016
Text copyright © 2019 Alloy Entertainment, LLC
Cover illustration © 2019 Sarah Hoyle
First e-book edition 2019
ISBN 978 1 4052 8814 9
Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1820 2
www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record of this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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TO All THE WILD GIRLS –
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE: MALIA
CHAPTER TWO: DOT
CHAPTER THREE: BREE
CHAPTER FOUR: MALIA
CHAPTER FIVE: DOT
CHAPTER SIX: ALIA ALIA ALIA
CHAPTER SEVEN: BREE
CHAPTER EIGHT: ALIA (NOT MALIA)
CHAPTER NINE: DOT
CHAPTER TEN: MALIA* (*THE “M” IS SILENT!!)
CHAPTER ELEVEN: BREE
CHAPTER TWELVE: MALIA
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DOT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MALIA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BREE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MALIA
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DOT
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MALIA-BECAUSE-CLEARLY-NOBODY-IS-GOING-TO-SAY-ALIA-SO-WHATEVER
CHAPTER NINETEEN: DOT
CHAPTER TWENTY: MALIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: BREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: DOT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: BREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: MALIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: BREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: DOT
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: MALIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: BREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: MALIA
CHAPTER THIRTY: DOT
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: MALIA
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: BREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Back series promotional page
CHAPTER ONE: MALIA
Technically, the Baby-Sitters Club was someone else’s idea. But Malia was the one who stole it, and she thought it was okay to be proud of that.
The epiphany came during the worst week ever. Monday started off with an algebra test where she left half of the answers blank, followed by gym class, where she walked many, MANY semi-aerobic circles around the basketball court, upon which Connor Kelly – aka the only boy worth loving – was practising free throws. Malia was wearing her new silver leggings and the ultra-curling mascara she’d borrowed from her best friend Bree Robinson even though it made Bree freak out because sharing mascara could apparently lead to eye infections. But Connor didn’t look at her once.
On Tuesday morning, Malia walked to school – yes, walked, on foot like some kind of pilgrim – because her evil big sister, Chelsea, cast her out of their regular carpool. One of Chelsea’s dumb friends had a science project that was taking up Malia’s usual spot in the back seat, and so she was left without transportation.
Like that wasn’t bad enough, on her way down the front path, she dropped her phone, and the screen shattered into a billion little pieces. Malia could already hear her mom’s voice the moment she saw it. “Ma-li-a,” she’d say, drawing the name out like some kind of swear word. “You have to learn to be more responsible.” Every time she said Malia’s name, no matter the occasion, it sounded like it was laced with disappointment. After all, Malia wasn’t turning out anything like Malia Obama, the brilliant first daughter after whom she was named. Instead, she was destined to be Malia Twiggs, which anyone had to admit sounded kind of bootleg. This is what led her to rebrand herself as “Alia”, a campaign that had been met with moderate success. Malia was still constantly correcting people for including the M. But she had faith that eventually it would stick.
It was only October and so far, seventh grade was turning out to be all kinds of meh. Even Malia’s once-favourite pastime – killing time at the Playa del Mar Mall – had become insanely depressing. She and her friends wandered in endless loops, eating food-court chicken, and looking at all the things they had no money to buy. Her mom called it “window shopping” and said it was good for building character, but Malia called it “torture,” since that’s what it actually was.
To make matters worse, seventh grade wasn’t bad for everyone. Seemingly all of her classmates were bringing their A game, like Sheila Brown, whose thirteenth birthday party had featured an actual elephant, and Charlotte Price, who’d hosted the most lavish bat mitzvah the world had ever seen. Thanks to her high-flying classmates, Malia’s own upcoming birthday was hard to look forward to. Her typical plan – a backyard party with her two best friends – was usually the highlight of her autumn, but this year, such a gathering would pale in comparison. Malia had yet to come any closer to realizing how to make her joint-birthday-party dreams a reality.
So anyway, there she was, broke and bad at maths, with zero romantic prospects, and now she couldn’t even check Instagram without the threat of cutting her fingers. It was almost too much to handle.
“Wisdom of the universe, come to me!” Malia said, which is something her other best friend Dot Marino’s mom told her to do whenever she felt confused. Dot’s mom was a yogi-slash-tarot-card-reader, which in their tiny hippie beach town, was actually less weird than it sounds. She was kind of nuts, but in this one instance, Malia figured it couldn’t hurt to follow her advice.
Malia continued on her walk for another block, when straight up ahead, she spied a bunch of cardboard boxes outside the local library, labelled FREE STUFF ! Even she could afford free stuff ! It looked like the librarians had gone on a wild cleaning spree, ferreting out any old books, magazines, and DVDs that no longer had a place on the shelves.
The biggest box was overflowing with books – cookbooks, gardening books, an illustrated volume of dog breeds, and a guide to achieving optimum colon health. (Ew.) Malia noticed a little yellow corner peeking out from the middle of the jumble.
She pulled it loose to reveal an ancient paperback. It was wrinkled and worn, and the bottom corner was entirely missing, like someone had tried to eat it and then changed her mind. The Baby-Sitters Club was spelled out in red-lettered alphabet blocks, followed by the title Kristy’s Great Idea. The cover illustration showed four girls wearing the most basic clothes she’d ever seen. Like, there was a turtleneck. And loafers. And a vest. Malia had seen the newer version of this book floating around school, and a couple of her friends had even read it, but the original cover was really something to behold.
Four friends and baby-sitting – what could be more fun? read the tagline. Um, she could think of about eight million things. Still, she couldn’t explain why, but she felt like she was meant to find this book. It was a sign from the universe.
Malia settled on to the rickety wooden bench in front of the library and read the first chapter. She learned how Kristy Thomas, a sports-loving tomboy with a mom who said things like “Drat!” had this big idea to form a babysitting club. She and her three friends met multiple times a week, answered a corded telephone, ate various things wrapped in plastic, and got hired to watch people’s children. Weird, she thought. Is this seriously what people found fun in the nineties? The idea of minding kids for money had honestly never occurred to her before. She didn’t read much more, but she didn’t have to. She had an idea. Technically, she had Kristy’s idea. Now it was time to recruit the rest of the club.
Jingle-jangle. Jingle-jangle.
The first thing Dot saw upon waking was her mother standing over her, waving her hands in sweeping circles just above Dot’s body. Her mom’s frizzy red hair formed a halo around her face as her long beaded necklaces jangled like wind chimes in the presence of a very powerful ceiling fan. The sleeves of her tunic billowed in the air as she hovered the palms of her hands to rest just above Dot’s eyes.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Dot asked through gritted teeth.
This was not a normal way to wake up. Unless you were Dot. In that case, you were pretty much used to it.
“Dot, honey, there’s no reason for an attitude. I was just doing a Reiki attunement.”
Dot groaned and pulled her pillow on top of her head. Her sheets and pillowcases were black – much like the decor in the rest of her bedroom – and thus excellent for blocking out both unwanted sunlight and the antics of eccentric mothers.
“Your energy is feeling a bit orange right now,” her mom continued. “Are you stressed about something?”
A perfectly innocent question. Like being jolted awake via crazy witchery was not inherently stressful.
Dot let loose a monotone groan loud enough to drown out whatever statement came next. Dot heard her mom rummaging around somewhere in the room, no doubt disturbing the highly organized chaos Dot had worked so hard to achieve. Her bedroom was super tiny, so everything – from her expertly styled bookshelves to the painstakingly placed collage that occupied the entire wall above her desk – had its place. She could always tell if anything was moved by even an inch. For a few blissful moments, Dot heard no sounds. Perhaps her mom had vacated the premises. Perhaps she would be permitted to sleep for a few more moments, to escape the heinous reality that was being twelve.
“WHAT is THIS?” her mom yelled.
No such luck.
Dot slowly removed the pillow to discover her mom standing in front of the immaculately colour-coded bookshelf, brandishing a stick of deodorant. She waved it in the air like Excalibur, her face filled with a disgust that would be more appropriate had she just unearthed the limp carcass of a recently deceased rodent.
“That is deodorant,” Dot said matter-of-factly. After all, she was fairly certain her mom already knew what it was.
“This . . . this . . . chemical cesspool is a known carcinogen!” she spat. “Why is it in our house? What happened to the rock crystal deodorant I bought you?”
“Puberty happened. And then the crystal didn’t work anymore.” Dot was grateful her mother hadn’t yet stumbled across the stash of other contraband products hidden in the closet: lipstick, tinted moisturizer, dry shampoo, and – most controversial of all – spray-on bronzer. Her mom exclusively used natural and organic products, many of which she made herself, like some kind of suburban shaman. She insisted Dot do the same – otherwise risk unimaginable peril – but there was only so much that coconut oil could do. “I mean, the youths of America are out there stealing things and doing drugs. Wouldn’t you rather my only vice be proper grooming?”
“NO!” Her mom flung her arms into the air, prompting a whiff of patchouli to waft across the room and assault Dot’s nostrils.
Dot staggered out of bed, any hope of a peaceful morning now shattered.
“Mother, maybe you should learn to pick your battles.”
“One day you’re going to have babies of your own, and then you’ll understand,” she cried, clutching her hands to her chest. “Unless they come out having three heads because you continue to slather this poison all over your body!”
Dot had often thought her mom missed her calling as an actress. She could easily win an Oscar for her dramatic reactions to all things. Instead, she was a yoga teacher. A very, very theatrical one.
Dot calmly exited the room, though she knew her mom would just follow her around the bungalow. Their home was so freakishly tiny it often felt impossible to get away from her. Dot continued down the narrow hallway, over the layered vintage rugs, past the five-foot-tall amethyst geode, and into the kitchen.
Some kids had parents who made them breakfast, and entire families to eat it with. But her mom had never been much of a cook, and Dot had no siblings to speak of. Ever since her dad left when Dot was little, she’d been expected to rummage through whatever organic, gluten-free goodness they had lying around and fix something for herself. Dot supposed she was thankful for the independence. It would help when she lived on her own one day, far away from the sleepy beach town that was Playa del Mar.
Dot opened the cabinet to survey the goods: hemp flakes (scary); cashew spirulina algae balls (so scary); sugar-free, vegan peanut butter cookies (not quite as scary, but not appropriate for breakfast). She settled on some kind of gluten-free rice flakes that had a picture of a friendly manatee on the box. Why would they use such a benevolent animal to market something so awful?
She poured some flakes into a bowl with the phases of the moon painted along its rim, and drowned the whole thing in cashew milk. They never kept any dairy products in the house, something her mom insisted upon long before it was trendy.
“These flakes taste like nothing,” Dot said. “They are truly impressive for how little flavour they possess.”
Her mom filled a copper watering can and proceeded to water one of what felt like three thousand ferns dangling from hooks above the counter.
“That’s better than if they had a bad taste, no?”
“At least that would provide some sort of experience.”
Dot started plotting which snack she’d purchase from the school cafeteria to serve as the second half of her breakfast. Something completely forbidden, like a huge chewy cookie, made with gluten and sugar and dairy, encrusted with M&M’s.
“Just so you know, I’m having my crystal healing group over this afternoon for a full-moon meditation. If you come straight home from school, you’re more than welcome to join us. I think Jamie is bringing her Wiccan spear!”
“That sounds, uh, magical,” Dot said. “Too bad I’m supposed to meet up with Malia and Bree after school.” Her mom’s face fell. “But please tell everyone I said hello.”
“We’ll be sure to do a visualization for you,” her mom said. “Is there anything you’ve been particularly wanting lately?”
Other than the ability to freely purchase the things normal parents kept in the house – like, say, body wash – only one thing came to mind. All Dot wanted was to live in New York City, in an apartment of her own, wearing all-black clothes and talking about interesting things with interesting people – writers, designers, researchers, inventors, entrepreneurs. People who stayed up until the wee hours because they were bursting with ideas and entire worlds they wanted to bring forth. People who wanted to change the world by the sheer will of their passion. The kind of people who just didn’t exist in this tiny town. But of course Dot couldn’t tell her mother that. That dream was still years away.
In the meantime, though, Dot did have one slightly more practical wish: to throw a birthday party to rival her classmates’.
“Well, Malia and Bree and I are trying to plan our annual joint birthday party . . .” Dot started, hoping her mom’s psychic powers might kick in before she had to straight up ask for a budget. Her mom nodded supportively but said nothing, so Dot was forced to continue. “This year is a big one, since everyone is turning thirteen. Charlotte Price had Drake perform at her bat mitzvah.” Her mom showed no sign of knowing who that was. “And Sheila Brown had an actual elephant at her party.”
“An elephant! Where on earth did she get an elephant from?” Her mom was indignant. “That’s exploitation! Not to mention irresponsible. Did they have a proper handler?”
Dot realized she would have to change her approach. “Of course, we don’t want to do anything like that. We love animals! We also love parties. So we’re hoping to have a really good one this year.”
“I’d be happy to read tarot cards, if you’d like!” said her mom. “Ooh, or I could have my friend Patricia do aura readings.”
“Sure!” said Dot, not wanting to hurt her mother’s feelings. “I mean, maybe. I’d have to talk about it, you know, with the other girls.” She stalled for a moment before continuing. “We were thinking that since this year feels so special, maybe we could do better than the usual bag of crisps on a table. Like, maybe we could host it somewhere exciting, at an actual venue.”
“A venue?” Her mom wrinkled her nose. This wasn’t going the way Dot had hoped. “Why do you girls need a rented space? Filled with the energy of who knows how many people have hosted parties before you.”
“We just thought –”
“Dot, my love, I want you to have the best birthday party ever. But I don’t think it takes an overpriced location to accomplish that – not to mention all the sugar and artificial colouring and wasteful plastic utensils that often accompany such a bash. Celebrations are about togetherness. You can have that anywhere!”
Dot sighed. This was a lost cause.
“Is there anything else you’ve been hoping for lately?” her mom asked.
“Well, it might be nice if my armpits could magically stop producing sweat.”
“Very funny,” her mom said, swooping in for a hug. “I love you, my little Dot.”
Legend has it when Dot’s mom first saw her on the sonogram, she said Dot looked like . . . a dot. The name stuck. Dot wasn’t sure if her mom had been joking when she told her that story, but Dot didn’t care. One day when Dot was famous and important, it would make for a wonderful line in her memoir.
“I love you, too, Mom,” she said, and actually meant it. At the end of the day, it was the two of them against the world. As kooky (and messy, and flaky, and eccentric) as she was, her mom was basically everything to her. She worked incredibly hard so the two of them could be comfortable. Plus, she had spawned Dot, after all.
“But I’m keeping this poison death stick!” her mom said, snatching the deodorant off the counter and slipping it into the pocket of her tunic.
Only six more years, Dot reminded herself, as she did each morning. Six more years until she turned eighteen and could live an independent life.
Sometimes, when something is so right, you just know. You know?” Bree said.
“Mm-hmm,” said her mom, without turning her attention away from the stove.
“And I know that if Taylor Swift and I could meet, we would be best friends.”
“That sounds great, sweetie,” her mom said, placing all her focus on flipping a blueberry pancake.
“What do you think, Taylor?” Bree asked, scooping up their tabby cat and burrowing her face in her soft squash-coloured fur. Bree loved the cat so much, almost as much as the real Taylor Swift. She was a really nice cat and probably Bree’s favourite family member. She only scratched Bree sometimes.
“No, Taylor! Choc-it Puddin’!” corrected Bree’s two-year-old half sister, Olivia. Their parents had let Olivia name the cat and she chose to call it Chocolate Pudding. But the cat was orange and chocolate pudding is brown, and that name made no sense. So Bree unofficially changed it to Taylor.
Bree’s mom loved to remind her that Bree had named their previous pet, a sunfish named Belieber. But Belieber died, along with Bree’s love for Bieber the year he got all those tattoos. Plus, everyone knows that naming a cat is a much bigger deal than naming a fish. You couldn’t even hug a fish.
“Choc-it Puddin’! Choc-it Puddin’!” chanted Olivia, kicking her feet against her booster chair and banging her plastic toddler spoon on the table.
The cat made a perturbed meow and leaped from Bree’s arms. Sure enough, it left a scratch. Maybe the cat sensed that no matter what, she would always be second to the real Taylor. Animals were psychic like that.
“What’s going on in here?” asked Ariana, sailing into the room in a long, floral dress. It had tiny spaghetti straps and fell almost all the way to the floor. The sheer fabric shifted in the breeze as she walked.
Ariana was seventeen and a senior in high school. She was Bree’s stepdad Marc’s oldest daughter, so she and Bree weren’t actually related. Bree often thought if she couldn’t grow up to be Taylor Swift, then she would want to be just like Ariana. Sometimes when Ariana went out, Bree stole her clothes and pretended to be her.
“I was just talking about how if Taylor Swift and I were to meet in real life, we would totally hit it off,” Bree said.
Ariana rummaged around in the cabinet until she unearthed an energy bar. “Ugh. Thank god, I thought we were out of these!” she said. With that, she pivoted on one sandalled foot and floated out of the room.
“Is that all you’re eating for breakfast?” called Bree’s mom, but Ariana was already gone.
“So everyone. It’s almost my birthday!” Bree announced. “That means we should probably start planning the annual birthday party. Mom, you said we could make it extra special this year, right? Because I’m becoming a teenager.”
“Of course,” her mom replied absentmindedly.
“Yesssssss, pancakes!” exclaimed Bailey, Bree’s nine-year-old brother, who actually bounced into the room. When Bree’s hair was a little shorter, people used to mistake them for twins, which was weird because he was three years younger than Bree. And also, because he’s a boy.
Her five-year-old half sister, Emma, followed close behind him. She was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and matching leggings printed with multi-coloured donuts. Her clothes were way cooler than Bree’s when she was in kindergarten.
“Charlotte Price had Drake perform at her bat mitzvah. Can you believe that?” Bree said, slightly louder now that all of her little siblings were in the kitchen. Still, zero family members were willing to share whether they did or did not believe it. “I was thinking, maybe Taylor Swift could perform at my birthday party.” Silence. “I think she would totally do it, because we are basically the same person.” More silence. “Does anyone want to hear why Taylor Swift and I would definitely be best friends?” Bree asked. Again, no one answered – Emma began counting by twos, Bailey drummed on the table, and Olivia continued to contribute absolutely nothing useful – but no one objected, either, so Bree just kept talking. “Reason one: cats. We both love cats. And Taylor the person would probably love to meet Taylor the cat.”