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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 and Malia trailed the girls into the kitchen. Everything in the Woo house was white – white ceramic floor tiles, white carpet in the living room, white furniture as far as the eye could see. The kitchen was no exception. How did they keep it so clean with two little kids running around?
“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!” said Ruby, jumping up and down while pulling various items out of the fridge. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” She barely paused before concluding, “Because you didn’t cook it!” Both girls dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Can I play chefs, too?” asked Bree.
“No!” yelled Ruby. “Get out of my kitchen! I’m Gordon Ramsay and your food SUCKS!”
Bree turned to Malia, stricken. That child is evil! she mouthed.
The girls continued unloading every imaginable item from the fridge – ketchup, mustard, pickles, sauerkraut, sriracha, maraschino cherries – and lining them up on the counter. Malia surveyed the wide range of smells and colours they had amassed in mere minutes, and imagined them splattered all over the kitchen. “Chefs” suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.
“Hey, guys! How about if we play something else?” Malia ventured.
“NO!” yelled Ruby.
“NO-NO-NO-NO-NO!” parroted Jemima.
“How about hide-and-seek?” asked Bree.
The girls stopped grabbing foodstuffs and exchanged mischievous grins.
“We LOVE hiding!” Ruby said, prompting Jemima to giggle.
“Great! We’re going to close our eyes and count to thirty,” said Bree. “Ready?”
The girls nodded.
“One, two, three, four . . .”
They heard the sound of small feet scampering away. As the footsteps faded off into silence, Bree stopped counting. Malia opened her eyes and gave Bree a defeated shrug before opening the fridge and placing all the condiments back inside.
“I can’t believe we’re already, like, babysitting,” Bree said.
“I know!” Malia laughed. “I thought we would at least have time to research or something.”
“How long should we wait before trying to find them?” Bree asked.
“I dunno. Little kids are super bad at hiding,” Malia said. “They’ll, like, stand in the corner, in plain sight. We might as well wait a few minutes so we can enjoy some peace.”
They took this as an opportunity to snoop around the Woos’ home. The television was very large. The living room couch was delightfully squishy. The wall leading up the staircase was packed tight with family photos: trips to Disneyland and Hollywood, hiking and beach weekends, dance recitals, baby photos, and costumes of Halloweens past. Bree and Malia took their time looking as they slowly made their way up the staircase.
Dot appeared at the top of the stairs. “Where are the kids?” she asked.
“We’re playing hide-and-seek!” said Bree.
“Did you hear them come up here?” Malia asked.
Dot shook her head.
“Squirts?” Malia ventured. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”
The three of them slowly made their way through the house, searching everywhere. The girls weren’t in their shared bedroom, or their parents’ room, or any of the bathrooms. They searched beneath the tables, under beds and couches, inside the closets, even in the oven (Bree’s idea). Ruby and Jemima were nowhere to be found.
“Ruby? Jemima?” called Bree.
No answer.
“Guys! No more hiding!” Malia yelled.
“If you come out now, you automatically win!” Dot added.
Nothing. Not even a sound.
“I . . . I don’t know what happened,” said Bree helplessly. “What if they’re really gone?” She looked like she might cry.
“They have to be here somewhere,” Dot said, visibly trying to remain calm. “Their legs are less than a foot long. How far could they possibly go?”
“We’re willing to declare this a victory!” Malia shouted. “Come out whenever you want!”
Still nothing.
“Should we look in the garage?” Malia suggested. At that point, it was the only place they hadn’t searched.
Slowly, they cracked open the hallway door that led to the garage. It was dusty and crowded, with stuff piled floor to ceiling – gardening tools, a lawn mower, the girls’ tiny bicycles, boxes of holiday decorations, old bowling trophies, and lord knows what else.
“I don’t think we should go out there,” Bree said nervously.
“We have to at least look,” Malia argued. “They have to be somewhere.”
Malia bravely – or maybe it was more like dumbly – ventured down the stairs. She had only taken a few steps forwards, when, in typical fashion, she tripped on a rake. In her defence, the garage was dimly lit and the tool seriously came out of nowhere. Malia staggered forward, catching her balance before she could fall down. The rake flew a few feet forward, clattering to the ground with a tremendous sound.
Still, there was no sign of the Woo kids anywhere.
After taking one more lap through the house, they headed back to the kitchen, defeated.
“Do you think they actually left?” Bree asked, nervously picking the polish off a fingernail.
“That’s against the rules. You can’t hide-and-seek outside a property’s zoning regulations. It’s not called hide-and-trespass,” said Dot, slamming her hands down on the counter.
“What if they ran away from home? What if we go to jail for losing them?” Bree whined.
Dot plunged her head into her hands. “That’s the worst story ever. Once upon a time, three girls got hired to babysit. And then they went to jail. The end.”
“I’ll never meet Taylor Swift from the inside of a prison,” Bree whispered as one lone tear trickled down her cheek.
“There’s no need to panic. We didn’t technically do anything wrong,” Malia said, unconvincingly.
Just then, Bree snapped into action. “You guys, it’s time to resort to emergency measures.” She pivoted with military precision and retrieved her silver backpack from the kitchen floor. She unzipped it, only to unearth the contents of an entire supermarket candy aisle. Bree pulled out bag after bag of candy, in all shapes and sizes: gummy bears, peanut butter cups, mini chocolate bars, sour gummies, chocolate caramel turtles.
“Sugar! You’ve been holding out on me!” Dot gasped, seeming genuinely miffed.
“What are you doing?” Malia shrieked. “Is this really the best use of our time?”
“This is. The secret. To dealing. With children,” Bree said calmly.
“Dude, at the moment, there are. No children. To deal with. The children are missing. Like, we are maybe going to get arrested for losing them. And you’re setting up a lovely dessert bar? This isn’t a bat mitzvah.”
Bree continued tearing into each of the bags and depositing their contents into different size bowls. The candies made melodic tinkling sounds as they made their journey into each vessel, like a sweet symphony of sugar. Just then, they heard a sound even sweeter than glucose hitting ceramic: the stampede of miniature feet running their way.
“SUGARRRRRRRRRRR!” yelled Ruby.
“CHOC-CHOC-CHOCKO-CHOCK-CHOCK-LET!” yelled Jemima. Just because she couldn’t say “chocolate”, it didn’t stop her from wanting to inhale it.
Dot and Malia stood there with their mouths hanging open.
“I told you,” said Bree.
“What the –” Malia started, at the same time as Dot said, “But you didn’t even know we were babysitting today! Why do you have so much stuff ?”
“I live with small people. This is how you keep the power.”
“Where were you guys?” Dot yelled.
But the girls were too excited to answer. They grabbed tiny fistfuls of candy and shovelled them goblin-style into their mouths. Soon Ruby was whirling in dizzy circles, spinning like a child-shaped top while Jemima hopped all around her, yelling in gibberish, like a demonic rabbit.
They’d just finished stashing the evidence of their candy trickery into Bree’s backpack when they heard the scrape of a key in the front door.
“Quick! How do we take the batteries out of these things?” Malia asked, pointing at the deranged kids. Surely, Mrs Woo would notice that her children were practically vibrating from the sugar.
“MOM’S HOME!” yelled Jemima.
“NOT THE OGRE! NOT THE OGRE! EVERYONE MAN YOUR STATIONS! HEAD FOR THE BRIDGE!” yelled Ruby.
“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Jemima screamed, throwing her hands in the air.
The girls’ mother appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Mrs Woo!” Dot trilled, giving her a tiny little wave, like a beauty pageant contestant.
“How were your errands?” added Bree, completely ignoring the bedlam unfolding around them.
Mrs Woo entered the room slowly and gingerly, like the lone survivor in a zombie movie, surveying the wreckage of the planet she once called home.
“Oh my,” Mrs Woo said as Jemima ran straight into the wall. The force of it caused the little girl to fall backwards and land on her back, her tiny feet kicking upwards like an overturned beetle. “I’ve never seen them like this before. They’re so . . . energized.”
Uh-oh.
Ruby pulled Jemima to her feet and the two of them careened toward Malia, wrapping their tiny arms around both of her legs in a surprisingly strong embrace.
“Can they come play again?” Ruby shouted.
“Please, please, PLEASE!” Jemima added.
Mrs Woo shook her head in disbelief. “Wow, they never like anyone!” Her face broke into a wide smile. “Can you girls possibly come back next weekend? Maybe Sunday afternoon?”
Malia, Dot, and Bree exchanged glances. Had they actually pulled this off ? More importantly, could they possibly do it again? What if they really did lose the kids next time? Or worse?
But then something magical happened. Mrs Woo pulled out her wallet and counted out a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills.
“Um, YES,” they all said in unison. “We can come back Sunday.”
“I am SO glad to have found you three!” she said, handing the money to Malia. “This is such a lifesaver.” The moment the cash hit her palm, all of Malia’s fears evaporated. It didn’t matter if kids were even worse than cavities and routine vaccinations and standardized tests at the same time. They were a road that led to money.
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