Copyright © 2019 by Alloy Entertainment, LLC

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

hmhbooks.com

Produced by Alloy Entertainment

30 Hudson Yards, 22nd Floor

New York, NY 10001

alloyentertainment.com

Cover illustration © 2019 by Bev Johnson

Cover design by Opal Roengchai

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Cala, Caroline, author.

Title: The Best Babysitters Ever / Caroline Cala.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: Mayhem ensues in their sleepy California beach town when three best friends, motivated by unlimited snacks, no parents, and earning money for an epic seventh-grade party, find an old copy of The Babysitters Club and decide to start their own babysitting business.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018021264

Subjects: | CYAC: Babysitters—Fiction. | Clubs—Fiction. | Moneymaking projects—Fiction. | Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Business, Careers, Occupations. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Adolescence.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C27 Be 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021264

ISBN: 978-1-328-85089-8 paper over board

ISBN: 978-0-358-54765-5 paperback

eISBN 978-1-328-52788-2

v3.0521

To all the wild girls—past, present, and future

Chapter One

Malia

Technically, the Baby-Sitters Club was someone else’s idea. But Malia was the one who stole it, and she thought it was okay to be proud of that.

The epiphany came during the worst week ever. Monday started off with an algebra test where she left half of the answers blank, followed by gym class, where she walked many, MANY semi-aerobic circles around the basketball court, upon which Connor Kelly—aka the only boy worth loving—was practicing free throws. Malia was wearing her new silver leggings and the ultra-curling mascara she’d borrowed from her best friend Bree Robinson even though it made Bree freak out because sharing mascara could apparently lead to eye infections. But Connor didn’t look at her once.

On Tuesday morning, Malia walked to school—yes, walked, on foot like some kind of pilgrim—because her evil big sister, Chelsea, cast her out of their regular carpool. One of Chelsea’s dumb friends had a science project that was taking up Malia’s usual spot in the back seat, and so she was left without transportation.

Like that wasn’t bad enough, on her way down the front walk, she dropped her phone, and the screen shattered into a billion little pieces. Malia could already hear her mom’s voice the moment she saw it. Ma-li-a, she’d say, drawing the name out like some kind of curse word. You have to learn to be more responsible. Every time she said Malia’s name, no matter the occasion, it sounded like it was laced with disappointment. After all, Malia wasn’t turning out anything like Malia Obama, the brilliant first daughter after whom she was named. Instead, she was destined to be Malia Twiggs, which anyone had to admit sounded kind of bootleg. This is what led her to rebrand herself as Alia, a campaign that had been met with moderate success. Malia was still constantly correcting people for including the M. But she had faith that eventually it would stick.

It was only October and so far, seventh grade was turning out to be all kinds of meh. Even Malia’s once-favorite pastime—killing time at the Playa del Mar Mall—had become insanely depressing. She and her friends wandered in endless loops, eating food-court chicken, and looking at all the things they had no money to buy. Her mom called it window shopping and said it was good for building character, but Malia called it torture, since that’s what it actually was.

To make matters worse, seventh grade wasn’t bad for everyone. Seemingly all of her classmates were bringing their A game, like Sheila Brown, whose thirteenth birthday party had featured an actual elephant, and Charlotte Price, who’d hosted the most lavish bat mitzvah the world had ever seen. Thanks to her high-flying classmates, Malia’s own upcoming birthday was hard to look forward to. Her typical plan—a backyard party with her two best friends—was usually the highlight of her fall, but this year, such a gathering would pale in comparison. Malia had yet to come any closer to realizing how to make her joint-birthday-party dreams a reality.

So anyway, there she was, broke and bad at math, with zero romantic prospects, and now she couldn’t even check Instagram without the threat of cutting her fingers. It was almost too much to handle.

Wisdom of the universe, come to me! Malia said, which is something her other best friend Dot Marino’s mom told her to do whenever she felt confused. Dot’s mom was a yogi-slash-tarot-card-reader, which, in their tiny hippie beach town, was actually less weird than it sounds. She was kind of nuts, but in this one instance, Malia figured it couldn’t hurt to follow her advice.

Malia continued on her walk for another block, when straight up ahead, she spied a bunch of cardboard boxes outside the local library, labeled FREE STUFF! Even she could afford free stuff! It looked like the librarians had gone on a wild cleaning spree, ferreting out any old books, magazines, and DVDs that no longer had a place on the shelves.

The biggest box was overflowing with books—cookbooks, gardening books, an illustrated volume of dog breeds, and a guide to achieving optimum colon health. (Ew.) Malia noticed a little yellow corner peeking out from the middle of the jumble.

She pulled it loose to reveal an ancient paperback. It was wrinkled and worn, and the bottom corner was entirely missing, like someone had tried to eat it and then changed her mind. The Baby-Sitters Club was spelled out in red-lettered alphabet blocks, followed by the title Kristy’s Great Idea. The cover illustration showed four girls wearing the most basic clothes she’d ever seen. Like, there was a turtleneck. And loafers. And a vest. Malia had seen the newer version of this book floating around school, and a couple of her friends had even read it, but the original cover was really something to behold.

Four friends and baby-sitting—what could be more fun? read the tagline. Um, she could think of about eight million things. Still, she couldn’t explain why, but she felt like she was meant to find this book. It was a sign from the universe.

Malia settled onto the rickety wooden bench in front of the library and read the first chapter. She learned how Kristy Thomas, a sports-loving tomboy with a mom who said things like Drat! had this big idea to form a babysitting club. She and her three friends met multiple times a week, answered a corded telephone, ate various things wrapped in plastic, and got hired to watch people’s children. Weird, she thought. Is this seriously what people found fun in the ’90s? The idea of minding kids for money had honestly never occurred to her before. She didn’t read much more, but she didn’t have to. She had an idea. Technically, she had Kristy’s idea. Now it was time to recruit the rest of the club.

Chapter Two

Dot

Jingle-jangle. Jingle-jangle.

The first thing Dot saw upon waking was her mother standing over her, waving her hands in sweeping circles just above Dot’s body. Her mom’s frizzy red hair formed a halo around her face as her long beaded necklaces jangled like wind chimes in the presence of a very powerful ceiling fan. The sleeves of her tunic billowed in the air as she hovered the palms of her hands to rest just above Dot’s eyes.

What. Are. You. Doing? Dot asked through gritted teeth.

This was not a normal way to wake up. Unless you were Dot. In that case, you were pretty much used to it.

Dot, honey, there’s no reason for an attitude. I was just doing a Reiki attunement.

Dot groaned and pulled her pillow on top of her head. Her sheets and pillowcases were black—much like the decor in the rest of her bedroom—and thus excellent for blocking out both unwanted sunlight and the antics of eccentric mothers.

Your energy is feeling a bit orange right now, her mom continued. Are you stressed about something?

A perfectly innocent question. Like being jolted awake via crazy witchery was not inherently stressful.

Dot let loose a monotone groan loud enough to drown out whatever statement came next. Dot heard her rummaging around somewhere in the room, no doubt disturbing the highly organized chaos Dot had worked so hard to achieve. Her bedroom was super tiny, so everything—from her expertly styled bookshelves to the painstakingly placed collage that occupied the entire wall above her desk—had its place. She could always tell if anything was moved by even an inch. For a few blissful moments, Dot heard no sounds. Perhaps her mom had vacated the premises. Perhaps she would be permitted to sleep for a few more moments, to escape the heinous reality that was being twelve.

WHAT is THIS? her mom yelled.

No such luck.

Dot slowly removed the pillow to discover her mom standing in front of the immaculately color-coded bookshelf, brandishing a stick of deodorant. She waved it in the air like Excalibur, her face filled with a disgust that would be more appropriate had she just unearthed the limp carcass of a recently deceased rodent.

That is deodorant, Dot said matter-of-factly. After all, she was fairly certain her mom already knew what it was.

This . . . this . . . chemical cesspool is a known carcinogen! she spat. Why is it in our house? What happened to the rock crystal deodorant I bought you?

Puberty happened. And then the crystal didn’t work anymore. Dot was grateful her mother hadn’t yet stumbled across the stash of other contraband products hidden in the closet: lipstick, tinted moisturizer, dry shampoo, and—most controversial of all—spray-on bronzer. Her mom exclusively used natural and organic products, many of which she made herself, like some kind of suburban shaman. She insisted Dot do the same—otherwise risk unimaginable peril—but there was only so much that coconut oil could do. I mean, the youths of America are out there stealing things and doing drugs. Wouldn’t you rather my only vice be proper grooming?

NO! Her mom flung her arms into the air, prompting a whiff of patchouli to waft across the room and assault Dot’s nostrils.

Dot staggered out of bed, any hope of a peaceful morning now shattered.

Mother, maybe you should learn to pick your battles.

One day you’re going to have babies of your own, and then you’ll understand, she cried, clutching her hands to her chest. Unless they come out having three heads because you continue to slather this poison all over your body!

Dot had often thought her mom missed her calling as an actress. She could easily win an Oscar for her dramatic reactions to all things. Instead, she was a yoga teacher. A very, very theatrical one.

Dot calmly exited the room, though she knew her mom would just follow her around the bungalow. Their home was so freakishly tiny it often felt impossible to get away from her. Dot continued down the narrow hallway, over the layered vintage rugs, past the five-foot-tall amethyst geode, and into the kitchen.

Some kids had parents who made them breakfast, and entire families to eat it with. But her mom had never been much of a cook, and Dot had no siblings to speak of. Ever since her dad left when Dot was little, she’d been expected to rummage through whatever organic, gluten-free goodness they had lying around and fix something for herself. Dot supposed she was thankful for the independence. It would help when she lived on her own one day, far away from the sleepy beach town that was Playa del Mar.

Dot opened the cabinet to survey the goods: hemp flakes (scary); cashew spirulina algae balls (so scary); sugar-free, vegan peanut butter cookies (not quite as scary, but not appropriate for breakfast). She settled on some kind of gluten-free rice flakes that had a picture of a friendly manatee on the box. Why would they use such a benevolent animal to market something so awful?

She poured some flakes into a bowl with the phases of the moon painted along its rim, and drowned the whole thing in cashew milk. They never kept any dairy products in the house, something her mom insisted upon long before it was trendy.

These flakes taste like nothing, Dot said. They are truly impressive for how little flavor they possess.

Her mom filled a copper watering can and proceeded to water one of what felt like three thousand ferns dangling from hooks above the counter.

That’s better than if they had a bad taste, no?

At least that would provide some sort of experience.

Dot started plotting which snack she’d purchase from the school cafeteria to serve as the second half of her breakfast. Something completely forbidden, like a huge chewy cookie, made with gluten and sugar and dairy, encrusted with M&M’s.

Just so you know, I’m having my crystal healing group over this afternoon for a full-moon meditation. If you come straight home from school, you’re more than welcome to join us. I think Jamie is bringing her Wiccan spear!

That sounds, uh, magical, Dot said. Too bad I’m supposed to meet up with Malia and Bree after school. Her mom’s face fell. But please tell everyone I said hello.

We’ll be sure to do a visualization for you, her mom said. Is there anything you’ve been particularly wanting lately?

Other than the ability to freely purchase the things normal parents kept in the house—like, say, body wash—only one thing came to mind. All Dot wanted was to live in New York City, in an apartment of her own, wearing all-black clothes and talking about interesting things with interesting people—writers, designers, researchers, inventors, entrepreneurs. People who stayed up until the wee hours because they were bursting with ideas and entire worlds they wanted to bring forth. People who wanted to change the world by the sheer will of their passion. The kind of people who just didn’t exist in this tiny town. But of course Dot couldn’t