Best Babysitters Ever. Caroline Cala

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