Best Babysitters Ever. Caroline Cala

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.