Best Babysitters Ever

All day, Malia couldn’t wait for school to be over. Not just because it was a Tuesday, which always felt like the dumbest day of the week, but because she couldn’t wait to tell her friends about the Baby-Sitters Club. Who would have guessed she could feel such passion for an old, mildly stinky paperback about the joys of wearing sweaters and minding children?

First, though, she’d have to endure the dreaded trip home. The minute Malia was released from environmental science, her final class of the day, she sprinted out the middle school’s front doors, across the soccer field, and over to the high school car park, her denim backpack bouncing forcefully against her body. Malia’s sister, Chelsea, was both punctual and impatient, and always insisted on leaving before the school buses had a chance to populate the roads.

Malia arrived at Chelsea’s green Mini Cooper just in time. The taillights were on, but she hadn’t yet pulled out of her parking spot. Malia angrily knocked on the passenger window. Chelsea rolled her eyes, then unlocked the door.

“Were you going to leave without me?” Malia asked, exasperated.

Chelsea just shrugged, as if stranding one’s little sister at school was par for the course. Which, in their family, she supposed it was.

Usually, Chelsea’s friend Camilla occupied the passenger seat, and Malia would be relegated to ride in the back, alongside the book bags, gym clothes, and discarded sporting equipment. But today, the front seat was empty, so Malia hopped right in.

“Where’s Camilla?” Malia asked.

“She got a ride home with her new boyfriend,” said Chelsea, expertly backing out of the parking space. “She’s been spending, like, a hundred per cent of her time with him these days. Because she’s lost sight of her priorities.”

“Her priorities?” Malia asked.

“School. Sports. Friends. SATs. Volunteering. Getting everything in order for university applications.”

Malia had only been in her sister’s presence for forty-five seconds and already she felt stressed.

“Some people are perfectly happy being average,” Malia said. “Some people prefer to, like, actually enjoy their lives.” She originally meant to imply that Camilla was average, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Malia realized she was talking about herself.

Chelsea took one perfectly manicured hand off the steering wheel and flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder. She smelled like light, flowery perfume and smug overachievement. Sometimes, Malia fantasized about cutting all of Chelsea’s hair off while she was sleeping.

“You lack so much context, Malia. One day you’ll see.”

“Alia,” Malia corrected.

“Malia, discarding a consonant isn’t going to change who you are.”

“I never said I was changing who I am! I just prefer it. Why can’t you take me seriously?” she snapped.

The car slowed to a stop as they approached a blinking construction sign.

“Huh.” Chelsea screwed up her face in a look of confusion. “It looks like Albatross Avenue is closed. Can you map something for me on your phone?”

“I can’t – the screen is broken.”

Chelsea let out a low whistle. “Mom is going to kill you.”

“I’m aware of that, thanks for the reminder.”

“Isn’t this, like, the fourth phone you’ve broken this year?”

“It’s the second,” Malia corrected.

“Not including the time you spilled juice all over Mom’s laptop.”

“Yeah . . .”

“And that time you somehow managed to break the whiteboard at school,” she added.

“Oh my god, Chelsea, what is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” she said, her tone more like a parent than a sister who was relatively close in age. “I’m just saying, I understand why mom won’t let you have nice things when you clearly don’t appreciate their value. There’s no way she’s going to get you another phone.” They drove in tense silence for what felt like a million blocks as Chelsea navigated her way through neighborhood streets, accommodating the detour. Finally, she slowed the car down as they made the turn on to Poplar Place.

“Do you think I’ll be voted homecoming queen?” she asked for what must have been the thirtieth time that week.

“Of course,” Malia reassured her sister, in a tone she hoped sounded more sincere than jealous. Malia actually did hope Chelsea got it, mainly so she would shut up about it.

As soon as the car pulled into their driveway, Malia bolted out of the passenger door and down the sidewalk. She couldn’t get away from Chelsea – and back into the company of normal humans – soon enough. It was hard enough making it through her days without failing every test or breaking everything in sight. Chelsea’s presence only served to hammer home Malia’s inferiority. Luckily, Malia saw Dot and Bree already sitting at their regular spot, the little gray gazebo at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Dot and Malia had been best friends ever since Miss Kogan’s kindergarten class. With her long honey-coloured hair and lightly freckled face, Dot was ridiculously – almost unintentionally – pretty. And with her extensive knowledge of random vintage pop culture – like John Hughes movies and obscure nineties bands – she was chock-full of trivia that boys found charming. She always had an argument ready for anything. Other people could find Dot intimidating, but once you got to know her, it was impossible not to love her.

Bree moved here when they were in first grade, after her mom remarried and they bought the biggest house on Poplar Place. She and Malia immediately bonded over the fact that none of the crayons in art class effectively matched either of their skin tones (Malia’s was brown, while Bree’s was what her mother confusingly deemed “olive”). They also bonded over eating glue, which was obviously Bree’s idea. Later that year, the school replaced all the crayons to better reflect the diversity of the student body, but their friendship was already cemented.

As Malia walked towards the gazebo, she saw they were engrossed in something on Bree’s phone. When she got closer, she realized they were watching a YouTube video of Sheila Brown’s party from the previous weekend. Even Dot, who said such a celebration was “bourgeoisie” and “contrived”, had seemed mildly enthusiastic while perched atop the elephant’s big grey body.

“You guys!” Malia exclaimed, pulling the book from her bag. “I have. The answer. To all. Our problems.”

No one looked up.

“GUYS! Connor Kelly just said he loved me on social media!” That got their attention. “Just kidding! But I have something to show you.” Malia held the ratty paperback aloft, like it was Simba from The Lion King. A duo of confused expressions stared back at her.

“I think Ariana used to have that book!” said Bree. “Although it probably got sacrificed in my mom’s insane cleaning spree. A couple of months ago, she kept running around the house muttering ‘Marie Kondo!’ and putting everyone’s stuff into bin bags.”

“Wait, what? Who’s Marie Kondo?” Malia asked.

“Some crazy lady who wrote a book about how tidying is magic,” Bree explained. “Anyway, we gave away, like, every single thing in the house.”

“You shouldn’t let your mom just give things away. Ariana’s really stylish,” said Dot, pushing her giant tortoiseshell glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “You could have easily sold everything and kept the money.”

“YOU GUYS. If you’d listen to me, I have another way to make money. Money we can use for our own incredible party.” Finally, the group fell silent. “Okay, so I found this book, about four girls who form a babysitting club. They’re all a little different – there’s a tomboy and a Goody Two-shoes who wears loafers and a cool girl from New York City –”

“Ooh, can I be like that one?” asked Bree, rocking back and forth in her seat. The rickety gazebo floorboards groaned a little under the force of her enthusiasm.

“– and one whose parents won’t let her wear dangly earrings and eat junk food, but she does that stuff anyway.”

“Oh, I love earrings! Maybe I’m more like her,” Bree said, tucking her shiny black hair behind her ear.

“You can be whoever you want!” Malia said, exasperated. “The point is, do you know how the four girls buy the clothes and the candy and the makeup they wear on actual dates?”

“They make cash money. By babysitting,” Dot chimed in. “P.S. I already read all those books like three years ago. A lot of people have.”

“That’s fine. This isn’t about reading the book – I’m not saying we form a book club. I’m saying we form a babysitters club. We can advertise at school and tell everyone we’re open for business. Parents call us when they need a sitter, and we make easy money. I can get a new phone, Dot, you can buy all the deodorant and processed food you want, and, Bree, you can . . .” Malia trailed off. Bree’s family was loaded, so her situation wasn’t quite as dire. But then again, who didn’t want their own money? “Most importantly, though, we can raise funds for an amazing party on our own.”

“But we don’t even like kids?” said Bree, though it sounded like more of a question.

“We technically are kids. Plus, this sounds like kind of a huge time commitment,” said Dot, twirling a piece of golden hair around a metallic-black-painted fingertip. “Also, no one has actual clubs anymore. Social media has made them obsolete.”

Malia rolled her eyes. This was harder than she thought.

“All of that may be true. But none of it matters. Think of it like this: we get to hang out, eat other people’s snacks, and watch other people’s Netflix. We can try on the parents’ shoes and use their expensive makeup and hair products when they aren’t home. We don’t even have to clean up after ourselves! And at the end of it, we get paid. All we have to do is make sure nobody, like, dies.”

Slowly, her friends started nodding their heads.

“Plus, just think about it. How nice will it feel to pool some of our earnings and put it towards our joint birthday party?”

Bree’s parents usually sprang for some decorations and a cake in the shape of whatever was popular that year, but nothing had ever come close to creating the kind of excitement spawned by a rapper or a circus animal.

“To have any chance of competing, we need to do something major,” Malia concluded. “This is the way.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like a no-brainer,” said Bree. “I spend most of my time watching kids at home for free. I might as well get paid to do it for other people! Plus, um, I’ve kind of always wanted to be in a club.”

Malia and Bree both stared at Dot, who was pretending to be transfixed by an ant making its way across the floor of the gazebo. Finally, she held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “Fine. I’m in. But I don’t change nappies.”

“Aw, you guys! This is so fun. How do we do this?” asked Bree, flapping her hands like an excited penguin.

“We should tell our school to post something on their Facebook page so parents know we’re in business,” Malia said. “If we hate it, we can always stop.”

“Sounds fair enough,” agreed Dot, crossing her freckly arms. If Malia had Dot’s approval, clearly the idea was a winner.

“Also, we should each have a specific job. Like, the Baby-Sitters Club had a president, a secretary, and a treasurer.” Malia was proud of herself for being so organized.

“That’s . . . quaint,” said Dot. “But I believe in thinking big. We should have a CEO. And a chief operating officer. And a director of marketing.”

Malia nodded and tried her best to look convinced. She didn’t want to admit that she had absolutely no idea what any of those jobs meant. Luckily, Dot kept rambling.

“Malia, you can be the CEO, which is basically like the president.”

“Alia,” she corrected her. “Remember? It’s Alia now.”

Dot rolled her eyes, making absolutely no move to correct herself. “I’m probably the most creative, so I’m happy to head up marketing. I’ll come up with our mission statement and build our website. Bree, that means you’re in charge of operations. Does that sound okay?”

“What does operations mean?” asked Bree. “We don’t, like, do surgery. Do we?”

“I sincerely hope you’re kidding,” said Dot. Bree didn’t let on one way or another. “In our case, operations means you’re the one in charge of finding us actual jobs. Like, maybe you can hit up the parents of your little siblings’ friends, by getting the contacts off their class email lists.”

Malia had to hand it to Dot – she was pretty good at figuring this stuff out.

“Ewwwww!” shrieked Bree, pointing at something in the distance.

Malia turned around expecting to find a tarantula the size of a 4x4. Instead she saw three kindergarten boys – Chase, Clark, and Smith – playing by a nearby bush. Malia’s parents loved to point out how they all had first names that sounded like last names. Because Malia’s parents were so awesome at picking names.

The boys had built a circle out of rocks, with a stick propped up in the middle. Malia watched as one by one, the five-year-olds plunged their fingers deep into their noses, like they were digging to reach a foreign land. When they unearthed a decent enough treasure, they added it to a small pile of bogeys at the top of the stick.

Malia stood up and walked a little closer to them. If she was going to babysit, she reasoned, she should probably figure out how to deal with kids. As a younger sibling, it wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

“What are you doing, squirts?” Malia asked. The Baby-Sitters’ Club founder, Kristy Thomas, called her little brother squirt, and it seemed like a nice vintage thing to say.

Smith looked up at her. “We’re making a sacrifice to the squirrel gods,” he said, like this was a completely normal endeavour. Then he turned back to the crew and plunged his index finger into his left nostril.

“YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND! YOU’RE A GIRL!” Clark added, with a very unnecessary amount of rage.

Ugh. Children were weird AND gross. Yet here Malia was encouraging her friends to spend time with them. On purpose. She made a mental note to negotiate rates that were worth it.

Then again, everyone was a little gross. That was part of being a person. As usual, it made Malia think of Connor Kelly, who was about as perfect of a human specimen as one could find. Even he had his moments. The other day at lunch, he was eating a burrito when he laughed so hard he snorted a black bean out of his nose. It shot all the way across the table and hit Aidan Morrison in the eye. It should have been gross, Malia thought, but it wasn’t. It was cute.

Malia turned back to her friends, who were smiling and laughing. They’d already moved on from the bogey incident, and were casually stalking someone’s whereabouts on Instagram.

Everything was going to be great.

What could possibly go wrong?

Dot wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about this whole Baby-Sitters Club thing. Yes, she was drawn to the promise of a regular income. She wanted an amazing party just as much as her friends, and that was only the beginning. She’d already made a mental list of things she’d buy once they were in business, and it was not short. She could practically taste the limited-edition seasonal Oreos and smell the clouds of dry shampoo waiting in her future.

But in the present, she felt anxious. No amount of money could change the fact that children were horrid. Starting a business was a lot of work. And despite the part where she had a pretty decent grasp of what makes people tick, she’d never actually held a marketing job before. Or any job, for that matter.

“Our growing organization is stressing me out,” Dot announced as soon as Malia and Bree had settled in her bedroom for their first official club meeting. Malia sat backwards on Dot’s desk chair, while Bree sprawled out on her stomach across the bed. Dot nervously paced back and forth between them. “We have a lot of stuff to do if we’re going to get this business off the ground.”

“Way to be a killjoy,” said Malia.

“To get things rolling, I have a couple of ideas for the website,” Dot said. “I think it might be cool if we populate it with stills of babysitters from old movies, like from way back in the eighties and nineties, when it was cool for teenagers to babysit.”

“Parents will probably love that, because they’re old,” added Malia.

“Yes, I think it will totally resonate.” Dot nodded.

Bree screwed up her face. “Huh?”

“You know, resonate – when an idea stirs up feelings in somebody. Like, if Malia were to hear a pop song about unrequited love. That would resonate with her, because she loves Connor Kelly but he doesn’t care about her.”

Malia shot her a death stare. “It’s Alia. Who Connor could have a secret crush on. And Alia would like to go back to talking about the website, please.”

“Right, yes,” Dot continued. “So the site could also have an ‘about’ section, with a photo of us and a little bit of background about our unique skills.”

“You guys, this sounds so nice!” said Bree. “I’m so excited!”

“We also need to develop a system to track our progress,” Dot continued. “I think we’ll feel more motivated to hang out with nasty children if we can see at a glance how much money we’re actually earning. We can make an Excel spreadsheet –”

“Or a poster!” said Malia, like this was art class.

“Ooh, yes, a poster! With a picture of Taylor Swift on it!” Bree clapped her hands. “Or it can be a collage with, like, lots of pictures of Taylor Swift. I have a box in my room filled with photos of her that I cut out of magazines. There are probably four hundred in there, at least.”

“Let’s keep our eyes on the prize,” Dot said. “Our goal is to throw the most amazing party this town has ever seen – not to mention other stuff, like success and freedom and red-velvet Oreos. We already know what Taylor Swift looks like.”

“Yes, but what could be more inspirational?” Bree asked.

“A party,” said Malia.

“Oh, right,” said Bree.

“Let’s not limit ourselves,” Dot said, pacing back and forth in front of her colour-coded bookshelf, her wall full of vintage concert posters, and her collection of old records. “My financial goals are varied and far-reaching. Clothes. Candy. Deodorant. Eventually, New York. The sky’s the limit.”

“Speaking of far-reaching, I got access to the elementary school database,” said Bree. “It’s actually really easy, so we can send out our first email blast, if you want.”

“Oh my god, it’s like our debut!” Malia nervously tapped her pen against the desk.

Dot flinched. It could be an only child thing, or a byproduct of the nosy-mom-who-searches-through-her-stuff thing, but it bothered Dot whenever anyone was all up in her personal space the way her friends were right now. They inevitably touched things and moved them around and made scratches on surfaces where no scratches were before.

“Um, Alia? The pen. Could you not?” Dot figured if she used her new made-up name, maybe Malia would be more receptive. It worked; Malia ceased her tapping.

All things considered, though, the e-blast was a cinch to put together. The girls just filled out their names and contact information (Malia insisted on using her recently fixed phone so she could feel “presidential”) and a short description of the service they provided (“swift, responsible babysitting by a team of experienced professionals”). Then the server blasted it out to all the parents with kids in kindergarten to fourth grade.

So what if they lied about the part where they had experience? After all, they’d been small children not long ago. Shouldn’t that count for something?

“Woo-hoo!” said Bree, snapping Dot’s laptop shut.

They high-fived one another. Then they stared at the phone, waiting for their first call to come in. Another minute ticked by. Nothing happened.

“Is the ringer on?” Bree asked.

“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.