Miss Impossible

by Caroline Cala

  The sound of children singing a French song drifted softly from the living room. The three Gregory kids sounded like little cherubs forming a chorus in the clouds. What was this?

  “Oh! That sounds so nice,” said Bree.

  “A very worthy investment,” Dot agreed, nodding.

  “Well, I guess we’ll be going, then,” said Malia.

  “We’ll be sure to call you in the event that Genevieve is unavailable!” Mrs. Gregory said, giving them a little wave before closing the front door behind her. The girls stood on the step for a moment, processing what had just happened.

  Dot sniffed the air like a hound. “Is it just me, or does it smell like baguette?” she asked. Dot was a big fan of baguettes. She would know that smell anywhere.

  “You’re imagining things,” Malia said.

  “No, it does smell kind of like bread.” Bree sniffed. “Or maybe croissants?”

  “Yes, and it’s making me hungry,” Dot said. Because it totally was.

  “You guys,” Malia grumbled. “That is absurd. It cannot be. There is no way that girl is inside baking French bread products in addition to teaching the kids how to count and sing like some sort of small French angels. She looks like she’s our age. There’s just no way.”

  But anyone with a working nose would have to admit the air outside the Gregory house did smell suspiciously delicious.

  “Bread products aside, should we be worried about what just happened?” Dot screwed her face up. “Do we think this is going to spiral into another Seaside Sitters situation?”

  “Not that again,” Bree wailed.

  She was referring to the time when Malia’s evil older sister, Chelsea, had started her own rival babysitting organization and nearly put them out of business. In the end, though, Best Babysitters had prevailed.

  “No. Seaside was a whole organization,” Malia said confidently. “This is just some French girl who’s new to town and trying to earn some extra cash.”

  “With perfectly tousled hair,” added Bree.

  “And an apparent talent for baking,” Dot chimed in.

  “Whatever. I’m sure this is just some weird phase,” Malia continued, almost like she was trying to convince herself. “Like, remember when the Seaside Sitters were teaching everyone Dutch?”

  “Ja,” said Dot, then laughed at her own joke.

  “That lasted for about five minutes, and this will be the same. The kids will probably never go for it. They’re going to miss us, and our inside jokes, and our silly games. Just wait. This will never last.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Bree, though she didn’t sound convinced.

  “This is just one girl, who was hired by one family,” Malia said. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Ja!” Bree agreed.

  “Très,” Malia added, in a very strong French accent. “Très, très ridicule.” She paused for a moment, lightly nibbling on her thumbnail. “But maybe we should make some calls, you know, just in case. To confirm that everyone is still on board for their regularly scheduled jobs this week. Once we talk to everyone, we’ll know there’s no reason to worry.”

  Bree nodded.

  Dot knew better. Malia’s whole “casual thing” was all an act, and she was probably freaking out inside.

  First, they called the home of the Larsson triplets—Ruckus, Thor, and Bronson—who lived with their two moms in a giant house on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Though they had initially gotten off to a rough start with the family due to a failed babysitting job that had resulted in a priceless sculpture being broken, the Larssons had since become one of their most dependable clients. The moms, Dina and Erika, paid super-high rates and had the most impressive snack cabinet on the planet.

  Malia put her phone on speaker so everyone could hear the conversation.

  “Malia!” said Dina Larsson, after just one ring. “It’s so nice to hear from you.”

  Surely this was a good sign.

  “It’s so funny you called,” Mrs. Larsson continued, before Malia could even get a word in. “Because I’ve been meaning to give you girls a shout today. I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but as it turns out, Erika and I have decided to try something new for the boys.”

  Malia frowned. The corners of her mouth turned so low, she looked like a frowny emoji.

  “We’ve hired a French au pair. You know how valuable language skills are, so it was an opportunity we simply couldn’t pass up,” Dina explained.

  “Riiiiiight,” Malia said, slowly. She looked like she was trying hard to keep her cool. “We totally get it. But please know we’re always available if you change your mind.”

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Malia said as soon as she hung up.

  “Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out,” said Bree, as Malia scrolled through her contacts to make the next call. Dot couldn’t tell who Bree was trying to soothe—Malia or herself.

  Next they called Mrs. Woo, Ruby and Jemima’s mom, who reported that the Woo girls were also enthusiastic new students of French. Even their favorite client, Aloysius Blatt, a child genius who surely didn’t need the likes of a French tutor, had also gone to the dark side. Even one of their very last resorts—spending extra time helping to babysit Bree’s siblings—yielded terrible results, as Bree’s family had hired a new French “helper” to come to their home a few afternoons a week.

  “I can’t believe it!” Bree cried. “This is worse than the time they went out to celebrate my birthday and accidentally left me at home.”

  Malia nodded solemnly. “At least that was an accident,” she agreed. “This just feels like betrayal.”

  It turned out that there were three French sisters—Genevieve, Sophie, and Claire—and they were all babysitters. Motivated, hireable babysitters. With presumably perfect hair.

  “Whoa,” said Malia, as they trudged slowly down the sidewalk into their suddenly free afternoon. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I can’t believe we’ve lost all our jobs to French au pairs!” said Dot. “I mean, really, what is the appeal?”

  “We were wrong,” Bree said, worry coloring her voice. “This is worse than Seaside Sitters. Like, way worse.”

  “Also, can you believe the way Genevieve looked at us?” Dot grumbled.

  “Like what?” asked Bree.

  “The way she squinted at me! Like we were a bunch of unfashionable basics!” Dot huffed. “I also half tuck in my shirts! I also artfully tousle my hair! I speak French that is kind of okay! Like, not full sentences really, but I understand a bunch of words. And I also know how to mind children.” She didn’t like feeling less-than, and this French sitter had gotten under her skin.

  “Yes, and you are good at pretty much everything,” Malia said. “It’s not a contest. There are some sitters who can teach some kids a different language. So what? That does not make them better.”

  “But it does make them hired,” Bree said.

  Malia wasn’t having it. “No. We bring just as much value to the Playa del Mar babysitting market as any au pair.”

  “I agree,” said Dot. “But if the parents are dazzled by these fabulous newcomers, we’re out of luck.”

  “Then maybe we just need to work on our image!” said Malia. “You’re the director of marketing. Why don’t you brainstorm some ideas?”

  Right now, Dot’s only idea was to stay as far away from this as she possibly could. She didn’t like the situation one bit—not just because they had lost the Gregory job, but also because it had made her feel bad. Malia might be one to go marching into the flames, but that wasn’t her style.

  One thing was clear: This wasn’t good.

  Chapter Three

  Bree

  “I don’t feel better yet!” yelled Bree, as she turned a corner.

  “Me neither,” Malia chimed in.

  “When are the en-dolphins going to start working?” Bree asked.

  “Endorphins,” Dot corre
cted her. “Keep going, they’re bound to kick in soon.”

  After the news broke about the French au pairs, Dot had suggested a bike ride to help cheer them up. And get their endorphins going. Or something like that. They had biked all over town, and Bree still felt pretty low. Now they were almost at their final destination: the gazebo at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  As they reached the intersection, a tiny green creature darted out into the street right in front of them.

  “What IS that?” Malia called.

  It looked sort of like a frog and sort of like a newt. Bree recognized it at once.

  “Salamander!” Bree yelled, slamming on her brakes. “Watch out!”

  Bree steeled herself for impact. The salamander narrowly missed getting squished by the bike’s tires. It continued running in its funny way, then looked around, like it had gotten lost. Run, run, look. Run, run, look.

  “Be careful!” Bree called after it. The salamander didn’t acknowledge her one way or another.

  “Close call,” Dot said.

  “I know!” Bree exclaimed. “I can’t believe I almost hurt it!”

  Salamanders were a tiny species of amphibian that sometimes frolicked in Bree’s family’s backyard. Just a few weeks ago, when her mom was gardening, one of them popped out of a bed of daisies when her mom wasn’t expecting it and run right across her foot. Her mother had been so surprised and frightened, she’d thrown her trowel in the air and run straight into the house. To this very day, the little shovel was still there, exactly where her mom had left it.

  Bree didn’t think salamanders were scary. She thought they were cute. And she was really glad she hadn’t run one over.

  They continued down the road, everyone biking a bit more carefully this time. That is, until an absurd commotion erupted from a nearby bush.

  “ROARRRRRRRR!!!!!!!” The bush rustled as an earsplitting noise rang out.

  “What the—” Bree knew better than to take her eyes off the road, yet she couldn’t help but look over at what appeared to be an actual dinosaur emerging from the shrubbery lining the stretch of highway. It was short (for a dinosaur), but still taller than a person.

  The girls were so focused on the dinosaur, they didn’t notice the tiny stampede of salamanders that had wandered into the street.

  “YOU GUYYYYYYS!” Bree called, as their bikes careened directly into the salamander traffic.

  “Oh my god!” Malia exclaimed, bringing her bike up short. “I think I squished its tail!”

  “You WHAT?” Bree shrieked. She couldn’t stand the thought of a poor, defenseless animal suffering because of a bicycle.

  “The tails grow back!” Dot called.

  “Huh?” Malia hopped off her bike.

  “Salamanders have the distinction of being the only amphibian that can regenerate body parts!” Dot said. “So you don’t have to feel bad!”

  “But doesn’t it hurt in the meantime?!” The thought was still too much for Bree to handle.

  “ROARRRRRRR!!!!” said the dinosaur again.

  Bree looked over just as the dinosaur collapsed onto the ground, where it appeared to be deflating. The sound of laughter erupted from within the bushes, and three small figures climbed out.

  Dot snorted.

  “Ugh!” said Malia. “I should have known.”

  “YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A REAL DINOSAUR WE TRICKED YOU THAT WAS THE BEST!” yelled a tiny, angry boy. Bree recognized him as Smith Morris, a boy who lived on the cul-de-sac.

  Chase, Clark, and Smith Morris were three inseparable brothers whose first names all sounded like last names. They were incredibly close in age—Chase and Clark were five-year-old twins and Smith was just eleven months older—and the three of them were always, always together. They had more energy than a hornet on Red Bull and more aggression than a Tasmanian devil that had been wronged. They were skilled climbers, occasional biters, and amateur but determined pranksters. In short, they were every babysitter’s nightmare.

  Ever since they’d begun the club, the girls had made a pact to avoid watching them, at any cost.

  “MWAHAHA!” Smith yelled at the top of his lungs, running around the girls like an imp. “I’M GOING TO SQUASH ALL THE SALAMANDERS!”

  “Yes!” yelled Chase, putting his fist in the air.

  “You will do no such thing!” Bree hollered back.

  “What color are salamander guts?” asked Clark.

  “I BET THEY’RE GREEN AND BLACK AND YELLOW!” screamed Smith.

  “Let’s find out!” said Chase.

  “If you try to hit a salamander, I’m going to turn you in to the police,” said Dot.

  “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” yelled Smith.

  “Yes, we can!” Malia argued. “For animal cruelty.”

  Bree noticed a salamander standing near the curb, looking at her with what she could swear was a look of concern.

  “Don’t worry, salamander,” she said. “We’ll protect you.”

  It cocked its head a little, then scurried off.

  Could salamanders even hear? Bree wondered. Did they have ears? She wasn’t sure. She realized there was an awful lot she didn’t know about salamanders, including why they seemed so intent on crossing this one particular stretch of street. But she was determined to find out.

  * * *

  Later that night, Bree settled onto the family room couch with her laptop, ready to do some lizard-themed research. Veronica, her hairless sphynx cat, curled up on a blanket next to her, prepared to nap until someone offered him dinner. Bree’s nine-year-old brother, Bailey, was sprawled on the floor in front of them, playing a driving video game.

  “Salamanders in Playa del Mar,” Bree recited, as she typed it into the search engine. She was greeted with a wide array of salamander facts and photos.

  “Look, Veronica, aren’t they cute?” Bree asked, pointing to her screen. There were so many types of salamanders, and Bree thought all of them were adorable. They were slick and scaly and a little bit wrinkly in places, sort of like Veronica.

  Veronica—named after Veronica, a pop star so famous no last name was necessary—opened his huge yellow eyes and gently pawed at the screen.

  “I know, I like the spotted one, too.” Bree patted Veronica’s wrinkly head.

  In recent days, Bree had gotten much better at offering encouragement, thanks to Dr. Puffin, Veronica’s cat therapist. After weeks of dedicated therapy sessions, Bree now understood that when Veronica did something good—like snuggling up next to her or actually pooping in his litter box as opposed to any number of potted plants scattered throughout the house—she was meant to offer lots of positive reinforcement, to encourage more of the same behavior. The more Bree praised him, the more pleased Veronica seemed that his efforts were not in vain. Truth be told, cat parenting wasn’t all that different from babysitting.

  Of course, many of Veronica’s behavioral improvements were due to the fact that Bree had recently had a major breakthrough. After many feline outbursts (and more destroyed objects than she cared to remember), Bree had discovered that Veronica hated glitter (which was sad, as glitter was formerly Bree’s favorite color). The mere sight of anything sparkly was enough to drive Veronica over the edge, or at the very least, encourage him to shred the offending item.

  Since the breakthrough, Bree had needed to make some major life changes. Her decor, her school projects, and especially her wardrobe had become decidedly less flashy. She could get away with the occasional metallic, if it was something small, like nail polish. But full-on glitter was a thing of the past. If she was really being honest, Bree had to admit that she missed shiny things.

  But no matter—Veronica was worth it. He was her beloved, wrinkly, hairless cat-baby, which no amount of glitter could ever compete with. And looking on the bright side, the situation had forced Bree to open herself up to a whole new world of self-expression—filled with neon colors, loud prints, and mixed patterns. The world was her brightly colored oyster.

  Bree gave V
eronica one last pet, then settled in to read about salamanders. She learned that a newt was always a salamander, but a salamander was not always a newt. She learned that a salamander is a type of amphibian with a long tail in its adulthood. She learned that salamanders also go by the names spring lizard, water dog, and mud puppy. Last but not least, she learned that salamanders like to stay cool, which means they often avoid the sunlight. This explained why they’d been crossing the street in the evening, when it was especially easy to get hit by rush-hour traffic.

  “Oh my goodness!” Bree exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Bailey, who was completely engrossed in running other drivers off the virtual track.

  “Did you know that every year, the salamanders of Playa del Mar migrate across the same stretch of Waveland Avenue?”

  “No,” Bailey said, never taking his attention off his animated race car. “I don’t think I even know what that means.”

  “IT MEANS THAT INNOCENT LIZARDS ARE DYING,” Bree shrieked. “AND SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!” Her tone caused the napping Veronica to stir.

  “Look what you made me do!” Bailey grumbled, throwing down his controller. “You scared me, and my car just got completely trampled by these other cars!”

  “That’s exactly what’s happening to the salamanders!” Bree said, hoping this might help prove her point. “The salamanders are trying to cross the street, and they’re getting squished! Right here in our own town. And we need to help them.”

  “You’re so weird,” said Bailey, shaking his head as he left the room.

  Bree followed him into the kitchen, where she found her stepdad, Marc, massaging some kale at the counter.

  “The salamanders are getting squished!” she repeated for this slightly larger audience. Perhaps an adult would care.

  “The who?” said Marc.

  “The salamanders,” Bailey said, rolling his eyes. “Bree is obsessed.”

  “Is that like a band you kids are into?” Marc asked, concentrating on a large, dark green leaf.

  “No! It’s a type of amphibian that’s partial to shady, leafy, aquatic habitats!” Bree said, repeating what she had just learned.