Best Babysitters Ever Read online

  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.

  Chapter Three

  Bree

  “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-colored 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 favorite 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 sandaled 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-colored 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 favorite 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 tan 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 curse words” and “no shoes on th
e 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.

  Chapter Four

  Malia

  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 parking lot, 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 percent 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 college 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 onto 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 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-colored 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 ’90s 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 toward 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 gray 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 months ago, she kept running around the house muttering ‘Marie Kondo!’ and putting everyone’s stuff into garbage 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 shoul
dn’t let your mom just give things away. Ariana’s really stylish,” said Dot, pushing her giant tortoiseshell glasses farther 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.”