by Wendy Mass
“Wow, you really are going to be a great babysitter,” she says, hurrying alongside me.
“I know.”
It’s easy to tell when we’ve reached the right room, because ten other girls (and two boys) our age are sitting at big round tables covered with things like first aid kits, fake babies with fake diapers, board games, and boxes of microwavable macaroni and cheese. This is definitely going to be an interesting four and a half hours.
The teacher, a woman in her forties or fifties with a no-nonsense blunt haircut and a very efficient manner, has us go around the tables and introduce ourselves and say what kind of babysitting experience we’ve had. The last girl to go is the only one I don’t know from school. She looks very young and I wonder if she’s in a lower grade. “My name’s Kira,” she says. Her voice is very soft. “My family just moved here last week. I have two younger brothers. Usually my older sister or brother takes care of them, but it’s going to be my turn soon.”
I can’t tell if she’s happy about this or not. The teacher checks her name off the list, then hesitates. “You are twelve, right?”
Kira nods, blushing slightly.
“Okay, then,” she says, laying her attendance sheet on the counter. “My name is Rosemary, and I’ll be your guide for the afternoon. By the time you leave today, you’ll have learned how to be safe and responsible babysitters who get asked back by your clients. Our class will be divided into three sections.” She holds up one finger. “First, ensuring a safe and healthy environment.” Another finger goes up. “Second, caring for the younger child, newborn through age five. And last, we’ll learn how to handle the older child. Between each section we’ll have a fifteen-minute break.”
Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Annabelle has already drifted. She’s admiring her nails (each one recently painted a different pastel color). I give her a little kick and she straightens up.
“But before we begin,” Rosemary says, “we need to talk about something that weighs heavily on the mind of every young babysitter.”
She lets her words hang in the air. When no one volunteers anything, she takes a deep breath and announces, “Death!”
Fourteen pairs of eyes widen. Did she just say death?
She starts pacing. “The leading cause of death for a child under seven is household accidents.” She starts counting on her fingers again. “Bites, stings, burns, choking, strangulation, drowning, falls, fires, poisoning, injuries from toys, blood loss from wounds. And who could forget that silent killer, carbon monoxide!”
Me! I want to yell. I could forget that. I’d like to forget that now. And all those other things, too! The rest of the class is stunned into silence as well, no doubt also wondering if they were cut out to be babysitters after all. And to think, she didn’t even mention home intruders or ghosts!
Annabelle raises her hand. Rosemary leans over to check her attendance list. “Yes, Annabelle?”
“I thought babysitting was supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun,” Rosemary assures us. “As long as everyone takes the job seriously. And your main job is to ensure the safety and security of the children you are watching.”
Annabelle is not so easily put off. “But how can I have a good time if I’m worried that any second some kid could fall down the stairs and crack his head open?”
Rosemary’s lips form a straight line. Then she says, “Well, hopefully you will have put in place the proper safety protocols to prevent that from happening. That’s why you’re all here today.”
Before Annabelle can interrupt further, Rosemary picks up an armload of paperback books. She walks through the room, placing one in front of each of us. “This is your Babysitter’s Training Handbook. It is your new bible. Read it carefully, cover to cover, before beginning your first assignment. It will teach you how to instantly recognize a hazardous situation and how to defuse it. It will teach you basic first aid skills and how to handle various emergencies. The book goes into more depth than we’ll be able to in these few hours.”
“When does the fun come in,” Annabelle mutters.
Rosemary raises her voice. “Of course, it also covers topics like appropriate games to play at each age level, preparing healthy meals and snacks, and how to set up a smooth and easy bath and bedtime routine.”
By the time the first break comes, I have learned how to dress a wound, wash out an eye, tell the difference between first-, second-, and third-degree burns, and perform CPR without (hopefully) cracking any ribs or causing the child’s lungs to explode. I actually do feel more confident in case something unexpected happens. But considering how many bathroom breaks Annabelle has taken, I think she’s second-guessing the way she’s chosen to spend the day.
I spend most of the break sipping from the cup of grape juice Rosemary gave each of us, and watching the other kids talking. The only other person not talking to anyone else is the new girl, Kira. She has her face buried in a book, her dark hair streaming over it. I wish I had thought to bring a book. I’m always curious what other people are reading, so I can’t help peering over her shoulder as I cross the room for a juice refill.
At first glance I see photographs, not words, and assume it’s a photo album of her family, or maybe the friends she left in her old hometown. Her face appears in almost all the pictures. But at second glance, my brain registers another familiar face. JAKE HARRISON is in Kira’s photo album! With her! On a ski slope! In a pool! On the red carpet at a movie premiere!
I must make some kind of squeal or gasp, because she jerks her head up and then fumbles to close the album. I can’t help it; my eyes are bugging out of their sockets. They simply will not return to their regular size. “How … where …” I fumble for the right words but they don’t come.
“It’s not what you think,” she whispers. “They’re not real.”
My brow crinkles and I move to sit down in the empty seat next to her. “Not real? What do you mean?”
With a glance around to make sure no one’s listening, she creaks the album back open and I eagerly lean closer. Now that I’m a few inches away instead of a few feet, I can see that while it’s Kira’s face all right, it has been carefully cut out of another picture and pasted over some other girl’s body, most likely Madison Waters’s. And the pictures aren’t really photographs, they’re cut out from magazines. Even up close, I can tell a lot of attention and concentration went into making sure everything lined up perfectly. It is very impressive, really.
“I know it’s really stupid.…” she says, lowering her head so I can’t see her eyes anymore.
I assure her it’s very cool and not stupid at all. I think she says thanks, but her voice is so soft it’s hard to tell for sure. Rosemary announces break is over, so I push back my chair to go. This time I clearly hear her say, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
I make the lock-my-lips-and-throw-away-the-key gesture and return to my table. Annabelle is busy texting and doesn’t look up right away. This is good since it will allow the shock that’s probably still on my face to fade a little.
“Sari says hi,” Annabelle reports, slipping her phone into her bag just as Rosemary plops a baby boy doll in front of her. “Thanks,” Annabelle says brightly, picking up the baby by his leg. Rosemary places a girl baby in front of me, which I’m glad about. I know all I ever need to know about a boy baby’s anatomy and the diapering challenges that come with it.
For the next hour we diaper, dress, undress, swaddle, rock, feed, and sing to our babies. We practice playing LEGOs with imaginary toddlers, read to them, and take turns using the microwave to prepare mac ‘n’ cheese. The two boys in the class were a little uncomfortable at first, but they really got into making LEGO castles. I think if I were a little boy, having an older boy as a babysitter would be cool.
Halfway through the next break, my cell phone goes off. I hadn’t set it on vibe this morning, figuring only four people can call me now, all of whom know where I am. I pull the phone out of my bag and see our home number
flashing on the screen.
“Hello? Should I be worried?”
“Nope,” Mom replies. “You should be thanking me.”
I take the phone out into the hall. Annabelle follows, texting Sari again.
“Why should I be thanking you?”
“Because I just got you your first gig!”
“My first gig?” I repeat.
“Your first babysitting job!” she says. “Annabelle’s mother is going to pick you girls up fifteen minutes early and bring you right home so you can prepare.”
“But … but I haven’t had time to read the manual,” I argue.
“So you’ll bring it with you and if there’s a problem, you can just look it up.”
I guess I can’t argue with the logic of that.
“You’re the one who said you’re ready to start making money, right?”
“I do, I want the job. It’s just …”
I look up to see Annabelle hopping around the hall with her fingers crooked behind her head like bunny ears. I have to laugh.
“Okay, Mom. Tell them I’ll do it.” Anything to get Kyle sooner.
“Will do,” she says, hanging up.
Annabelle hops a few more times, scrunches her nose up and down, then asks, “So who are you babysitting for?”
I pause. “I have no idea.”
As we head back into the room, she says, “I hope it’s not the Harris twins down the block from you. I heard they set their last babysitter’s hair on fire.”
I explain the situation to Rosemary, and she gives me and Annabelle some forms to take home with us that she’d normally give out at the end of class. “Bring this one with you tonight,” she instructs me. “It’s for the family to fill out — information about the child, any special needs, phone numbers, house rules, things like that.” I promise I’ll bring it.
Annabelle and I have to leave right in the middle of a lecture about not letting older kids manipulate you into breaking their parents’ rules. The rest of the rooms off the long hall are empty now, but the senior citizens are still going strong, bets flying left and right as we enter the main room.
“Isn’t that Leo and Amanda from school?” Annabelle asks, pointing to the couches in the back of the room. I look over, and sure enough, it’s them. They’re talking and laughing with a group of old men. From their ease on the couch, I’d guess they come here regularly.
“Should we go say hi?” I ask. I usually defer to Annabelle for social protocol.
She shakes her head. “My mom’s waiting outside. And you don’t want to be late tonight. The whole promptness thing and all.”
I glance back at them one last time, and just as I do, Amanda looks up and meets my eyes. And then, I swear, she winks! Why would Amanda Ellerby wink at me?
“C’mon,” Annabelle says, pulling me out the door. “I’d like to salvage some sunlight today. I’m getting paler by the second.” I let her pull me, but when I take one last look, Amanda is engaged in conversation as though she never saw me.
Chapter Eight
I let myself into the house with my key — a small task, but one that still makes me a little giddy — and quickly locate Mom in Sawyer’s playroom, playing with Play-Doh. “It’s not the Harris twins, is it?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll be babysitting for Emily St. Claire. I’m sure you remember her mother from my book club.”
“I guess so.” I don’t want to admit that all her book club friends are kind of interchangeable. I only see them once every few months when the meeting is at our house, and Sawyer and I usually get shooed away pretty quickly. I don’t think much book talk gets done what with all the food and wine they go through.
“Look, Rory,” Sawyer says, holding up a blob of purple Play-Doh. “I made a horsey!”
“That’s great, Sawyer!” I say, bending down to ruffle his hair.
“Wanna play?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I have to play Play-Doh with someone else tonight.”
Mom pulls some purple horsey from the tips of her hair and says, “I think Emily is too old for Play-Doh.”
“Really?” I had pictured a really little kid for some reason. “How old is she?”
“Ten, I think.”
“Ten! She’s only two years younger than me?”
Mom nods. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s just … weird. I mean, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t have to be. I thought it would be a good way to break you into the whole thing. No diapering, no reading books to her for hours on end.”
I have to admit that’s true. “But what if she won’t listen to me?”
“You could have that problem at any age,” she replies. “But don’t worry, she’s a lovely child. She’s always very helpful when the club meets at their house. I left some pasta for you in the kitchen; then get changed and I’ll drive you over there a little before six.”
At six on the dot I ring the bell. Mr. St. Claire, who I’ve never met, opens the door. He’s wearing a black suit and silver tie. He looks very dashing.
“Rory, I presume?”
I nod. He steps aside and motions me in. Their house is much bigger and more modern than ours, and very, very clean. Definitely no toddlers living here. It doesn’t even look like a ten-year-old lives here. Remembering the opening line Rosemary taught us for a new job, I say, “Thank you for hiring me. I’m very happy to be here with Emily tonight.”
He tilts his head in confusion. “Hiring you? Your mom said since this was your first time babysitting, you were doing it on a volunteer basis, for practice.”
My mind instantly fills with all the ways I’m going to get Mom back for this.
Mr. St. Claire laughs. “I’m just kidding. You should see your face.”
I force a smile. “Good one.”
“Come meet Emily,” he says, leading us from the entry-way down the hall. As we walk, I pull out the Family Information Form for them to fill out. After a few twists and turns, we wind up in a spotless kitchen where Mrs. St. Claire and Emily are seated at the table, working on homework. I recognize Mrs. St. Claire now. Tonight she’s wearing a shiny purple dress and tall black heels. I don’t think I’ve ever seen people this dressed up for a night out in Willow Falls. I’m already planning on how to describe the dress to Annabelle, who’s interested in such things, when I remember that Rosemary said it’s an unspoken rule that you don’t gossip about the people you sit for because word always gets back.
I say hello to Mrs. St. Claire. She introduces me to Emily, who nods at me pleasantly enough and returns to her homework, her long ponytail swinging around in a graceful arc.
I hand over the form, and then wonder if I should have brought along my Red Cross Babysitting Certificate.
“What’s this?” Mrs. St. Claire asks, flipping through the three pages.
Startled at the question, I reply, “It’s the Family Information Form.”
She leafs through it and laughs. “I don’t think even I know this much about my family!” She tosses it on the counter and says, “All you need to know are the numbers on the fridge — the doctor, the police, and our cells. Emily’s already eaten but help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Bedtime is at eight-forty-five. We’ll be home by eleven o’clock. No wild parties.”
She and her husband laugh at that last one. They have a strange sense of humor, these two.
“You girls have fun,” Mrs. St. Claire says, bending over to kiss the top of Emily’s head. “No TV until your homework’s done.” Turning to me she says, “Call me if anything comes up.”
“Okay,” I promise. They breeze out of the room, their heels clicking on the floor. I hurry along behind them.
Halfway down the hall, Mr. St. Claire turns around. “Is there a problem, Rory?”
I shake my head. “I’m just, you know, following you to the door.”
“Why’s that exactly?”
I shift my weight uncomfortably. “You know, to, um, lock the door behin
d you?”
He starts to laugh, but then Mrs. St. Claire elbows him and he stops. “You know what, Rory,” she says, “you’re right. That’s a much better idea than us locking it from the outside. This way you know it’s secure. Maybe we should send all our babysitters to that class.”
She pats me on the arm, and I close the door behind them and turn the lock. I’m not sure if she was being sincere or not, but I’m not ready to abandon Rosemary’s teachings yet. And just to prove it, I double-check the door and neighboring window, watch that the smoke detector above the front door is blinking to indicate a charged battery, and sniff the air to make sure I don’t sense any poisonous gases. Now I just have to worry about the other eight or nine ways Emily could die tonight under my watch.
When I get back to the kitchen, she’s just leaning on her arm, staring down at a math problem, red-faced.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sitting in the chair next to her.
She mumbles that she can’t figure out the last math problem.
“I’m pretty good at the basic stuff,” I tell her. “Can I take a look?”
“Sure,” she says, sliding her math book toward me.
I expect basic fourth grade math. Long division, that sort of thing. What I don’t expect to see are tables and graphs with signs and figures that I don’t even recognize. I actually turn the book around to make sure it’s not upside down. “Um, what is this?”
“I’m kind of in an advanced math class,” she explains with a shrug.
“I didn’t know we had an advanced math class.”
“I go to a private school. In River Bend.”
“Oh.” I slide the book back to her. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“It’s okay,” she says, closing it. “If I’m stuck, nobody else in my class will get it, either.”
I watch her as she systematically places all her assignments in color-coded folders. Mom hadn’t mentioned that this kid was some kind of genius. We learned in class today to try to make the child feel comfortable with you if it’s your first time sitting for them. Sure, but who’s going to make me feel comfortable?