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

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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.”

“PUDDIN’-PUDDIN’-PUDDIN’-PUDDIN’!” Olivia shouted.

“Reason two: we both love to be on stage. Taylor’s favourite things are obviously music and singing and dancing and performing and I love those things, too.”

“Everybody,” said Emma, “I can sing all fifty states in alphabetical order. Ready?”

Their mom came to the table with a stack of pancakes and deposited one on each of the plates in front of Bree, Bailey, Emma, and Olivia. Bailey immediately covered his entire plate with syrup, while Olivia hacked her pancake to bits with her spoon.

“Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas. California, Colorado, Connecticut!” sang Emma, spreading her arms wide like an opera singer.

“Reason three!” Bree was talking even louder now so everyone could hear her over Emma. “Well, this might be kind of embarrassing, but you know how Taylor has had a lot of boyfriends? Well, I’ve liked a ton of different boys this year. I mean, I guess none of them have really technically been my boyfriend or anything, but I think Taylor and I both have really high standards and it can be super hard to find somebody who’s totally worthy, you know?”

A blueberry sailed out of nowhere and hit Bree in the face. Olivia giggled.

“Bree, my love, don’t throw food,” chided her mom.

“But I –” Bree started.

“Is everyone’s lunch packed?” her mom asked.

“I didn’t throw –” she tried again.

“The lunches are all lined up by the door already!” said her stepdad, zooming into, and immediately out of, the room. Marc was wearing his usual uniform of an expensive lawyerly suit, his short brown hair brushed neatly to one side. Though he spent most of his days in an office, Marc was always tanned from a regular routine of weekend surfing, and left a trail of cologne in his wake. He wore so much of it, in fact, that when the tooth fairy left money under any of their pillows, the bills reeked of Marc’s cologne.

“Mom, Olivia threw it,” Bree said loudly.

“CHOC-IT CHOC-IT PUDDDDIIIIIINNNNN’!!!!!”

“What’s that, Olivia?” Mom scooped Olivia up and kissed the top of her head. “Yes, you named the cat! You picked such a good name!”

Sometimes Bree secretly wished they could trade Olivia for another cat. They could even name the new cat Olivia. Bree wouldn’t mind.

“Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island!” sang Emma, putting on her emoji-print backpack and skipping away.

“Dishes in the sink, please!” Mom trilled. She probably said this more than any other phrase, except maybe “indoor voices” and “no swear words” and “no shoes on the carpet” and “don’t stick things in Olivia’s nose”. Okay, on second thought, Bree supposed her mom actually had a lot of phrases.

“But anyway. The thing is, like, I know how silly it probably sounds, because Taylor and I haven’t actually met yet, but I’m telling you. I have a feeling.”

“Uh-oh. Is it a tingly feeling? Better get that checked out,” said Bailey, breezing out of the room.

“What does that even mean?” Bree asked.

But nobody answered. Because everyone had already left.

“It’s okay,” Bree said to herself, which is something she did when everyone else in her family was too busy to talk to her. “You’ll be at school soon and your friends will pay attention to you.” And just like that, she felt super excited for the day ahead.

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.

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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