The Good, the Bad and the Bossy (Best Babysitters Ever). Caroline Cala

children.

      Malia calmly guided Jonah across the yard and into the house. As a now-experienced babysitter, she knew exactly how to clean and bandage his scraped knees, tell a goofy joke to put an end to the tears, and, yes, do away with his crying-induced snot.

      “BUT IT HUWTS!” yelled Jonah, who could not yet pronounce the r sound.

      “I know it hurts, but look how brave you are,” Malia said, expertly applying a Band-Aid emblazoned with smiling cartoon rabbits. “And now that you’re all patched up, I have a surprise for you.”

      Jonah continued to pout.

      “You get to have ice cream!”

      At the mention of a frozen treat, Jonah’s small, chubby face visibly brightened.

      Babysitting had taught Malia many things, including how easily little children could be bribed with snacks, how willing they were to believe whatever an older person told them, and, last but certainly not least, how nice it was to buy things with your own money. But on a deeper level, babysitting had shown her what it meant to transform. One day, you could be a regular seventh-grader with no crisis management skills whatsoever, and then, before you knew it, there you were: herding four children around a home, all while making grilled cheeses, breaking up a fight, and negotiating nap time like it was nothing. For Malia (who, before the club, had always struggled with school and sports and every activity known to man), being good at something felt really, really nice.

      Malia and Jonah made their way back to the yard.

      “What? How come you get ice cream?” yelled eight-year-old Fawn, the oldest Gregory child, upon seeing Jonah’s chocolate-dipped cone. She angrily crossed her arms.

      “YEAH!” echoed Plum and Piper, the six-year-old Gregory twins. “Not fair!”

      “Don’t worry, I brought enough for everyone,” said Malia, holding the box aloft.

      “Not so fast. Everyone has to sit down before they can have some,” said Bree with authority. As one of five siblings, Bree was an expert at dealing with little kids and generally navigating chaos. Immediately, everyone sat, and Dot distributed the cones.

      Malia also remembered a time – around the same point when boogers were enough to trigger a meltdown – when a gig like this would have driven her and her friends over the edge. But now they could watch four children and actually enjoy doing it.

      As the small ones devoured their ice cream, Malia craned her neck to peer over the chain-link fence, trying to catch a glimpse of the neighbours. The house next door was small and blue, with a grey-shingled roof and some spindly evergreen trees dotting the back yard. To almost anyone, it looked like a regular old house. But to Malia, it was a place of endless wonder.

      It wasn’t the home itself that was magical, but the people who lived there, particularly one Connor Kelly (aka the only boy worth loving). That house was the place where he woke up each morning and played video games and ate waffles. Connor’s jeans – the very same jeans he casually stuck his hands in the pockets of – were somewhere inside, along with his backpack and his T-shirts and his bike and his toothbrush. The toothbrush that touched his beautiful smile. Malia shivered. It was almost too much to handle.

      “Any sightings?” asked Dot.

      “Not yet,” said Malia. But there was still hope.

      For years, Malia had watched Connor float through the halls of Playa del Mar’s public school system the same way her older sister watched the shoe sales at the local mall – with a laser focus. But now, thanks to the Gregory gig, the unthinkable had happened: Malia could observe him in his natural habitat. That is, if he ever came outside.

      “MOM!” yelled the Gregory twins, at the sound of a car in the driveway.

      Mrs Gregory appeared at the gate, where a peaceful, controlled scene awaited her. This was the magic of babysitting. By this point, Jonah’s accident seemed like a distant memory. Any traces of sugar had been discarded. This was a skill they had learned over time – the ways of the artful clean-up. In the early days, the parents might return home to find their children spinning wildly, like sugar-addled tops. But today, all Mrs Gregory saw were the smiling faces of her four beloved children and the three somewhat older children who had kept them alive and relatively happy for the last few hours.

      “I’ll definitely be calling you again soon,” said Mrs Gregory as she counted out a stack of crisp bills. “My sister invited me to a luncheon next weekend, and we’ll need someone to watch the kids.”

      “Of course!” Malia said.

      “We’d love to,” Bree added, nodding so vigorously that her dangling iridescent gemstone earrings twinkled in the light.

      As the girls started down the driveway, Malia saw something from the corner of her eye. It was orange. It was moving. OH MY GOD IT WAS HIM.

      The orange blob was none other than Connor Kelly, sauntering down his front lawn. The only thing standing between them was the Gregorys’ chain-link fence (and about a stratosphere’s worth of middle-school politics, but really, who was counting?). Malia couldn’t breathe. Her excitement level was like she’d seen a pop star and a movie star and a YouTube star and an actual star from the sky, all at the same time.

      “Hi!” Malia said, so softly she barely heard it herself. It reminded her of how sometimes, when she ordered at the school cafeteria, some boy would place his order at the exact same moment as she did, but speak way louder, and no one would hear her voice.

      “Hi?” Malia squeaked, a little louder.

      Connor didn’t seem to notice.

      “Hi!” Malia said, at a volume that was unfortunately loud. This time Connor looked up.

      “Oh, hey,” he said, brushing his floppy hair off his forehead.

      A bird chirped. Malia swore the sun began to shine a little brighter. Or was she just about to pass out? HOW WAS HE REAL?

      “Um, okay,” Malia said.

      “Okay what?” Connor said.

      “You know, just saying hi. Hi!”

      “Hi,” said Connor.

      In her frequent daydreams of this situation, Malia was bursting with topics to discuss with imaginary Connor. But now, faced with real Connor, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She glanced awkwardly down at her sneaker. Luckily, Connor interrupted the silence.

      “So, I just found out I’m going to a concert,” he said.

      “Right now?” Malia asked. Maybe she could go, too.

      “No, in three weeks,” he said. “Veronica’s coming to the Arts Centre.”

      Malia gasped. Veronica (simply “Veronica,” no last name necessary) was the biggest superstar imaginable. In the past year, she and her blue hair had skyrocketed to fame unlike anything ever witnessed before. Even Bree had virtually abandoned her love for Taylor Swift when faced with the glory of Veronica.

      “Oh! Yeah, me too,” said Malia. The lie escaped before she could realize what was happening.

      Truth be told, Malia had never really caught Veronica fever. She thought Veronica was just okay, with her endless rotating wardrobe and her larger-than-life concerts. But Malia vowed then and there that no matter what it took, she would be at that show. It was the event of a lifetime – not because of Veronica, but because of Connor.

      “Yeah, Charlotte’s dad got a box for the concert, and everyone is going,” said Connor. “Aidan, Bobby, Violet, Mo . . .”

      “And me!” said Malia, with perhaps a bit too much force. “So I’ll definitely see you there.”

      “Yeah. Sounds great,” said Connor, sweeping his floppy hair away from his perfectly sun-kissed forehead.

      “I can’t wait! I mean, to see Veronica.