Lunch. Technically, it was just a thirty-minute stretch immediately following algebra. But to Malia, lunch was quite possibly the only redeeming part of the school day, and the only area in which she could ever be considered an overachiever. She did her best to savor her successes, especially since they felt so few and far between. Every day, she’d sprint directly from class to the cafeteria and grab whatever meal was the day’s special. Then she’d settle at her usual table in the front right corner and wait for the show to begin.
Connor Kelly usually arrived early to lunch, too. The high point of Malia’s existence was watching him saunter up to the soft-drink vending machine. She’d watch as he inserted a dollar and pushed the buttons for B-7, the code that would shake loose a single can of iced tea–lemonade. She knew it sounded weird, but he did it so gracefully. His tan, surfery hands were weirdly manly for a seventh-grader. He’d pause for a moment, right there in front of the machine, crack open the can, and take a big sip. She’d never seen anything look so good. Ever.
Then Connor would disappear from sight, off to the back corner table, where only the cutest boys sat. Malia would dig into her lunch, pretending to be engrossed in her phone, until the rest of the gang showed up. Along with Bree, the usual lunch table consisted of four other girls: Stephanie, Ivy, Shoko, and Mo.
Bree was the first to arrive. As soon as she spotted Malia, she bounded over to the table.
“Alia! I haven’t seen you in, like, three hours. I missed you.”
“I have to say, I really appreciate your willingness to support my rebrand,” Malia told her. She really meant it. Bree was probably the only person in Malia’s life who made an effort to call her Alia.
“Of course!” Bree placed her tray on the table and sidled up for a hug.
“So, I have some news,” Malia told her, just as Shoko and Mo shuffled up to the table. “I’ve had two more calls come in from the elementary school listserve.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s so great!” said Bree.
“Why are you guys working when you can just, like, ask your parents for money?” asked Mo. Mo wasn’t trying to be mean. She just didn’t know better. Her mom drove a Mercedes. Mo wore a new pair of shoes practically every single day. It was overwhelmingly clear that she couldn’t feel their pain.
“Because working builds character,” Malia lied. Her mom had told her this once.
Malia half-heartedly stabbed at her mac and cheese, a congealed glob more orange than any cheese she’d ever seen, in a shape that loosely resembled a brain. But then she remembered: thanks to babysitting, she would be able to buy new shoes, too. Things were only going to get better. Their next (and biggest) job with the Larssons was happening that very evening.
“We should tell Dot the latest!” said Bree.
At lunchtime, Dot always sat with her “school friends,” the super-intellectual kids who wore mostly black and only took honors classes. They were a little weird, but mostly respected. In an odd way, they were even more powerful than the popular kids, because they retained an air of mystery, and people were a little afraid of them. Plus, they always knew the answers when they got called on.
Malia and Bree waited until Dot glanced in their general direction, then aggressively waved her over.
Malia saw Dot’s shoulders move up and down in a sigh. It wasn’t that Dot was embarrassed to be seen with them, exactly, but they usually kept their distance at school, especially at lunchtime, where interactions were highly specific and very isolated. Seventh-grade politics were complicated.
Dot’s hair was in a messy braid and her artfully ripped black T-shirt read Pink Floyd on it. Another one of her elusive references. Who was this Floyd, and why was he pink?
“What’s up?” Dot asked.
“We just wanted to let you know that we have two new jobs confirmed,” Malia said. “So we are set.”
As Malia spoke, Bree rummaged around in her backpack and pulled out a large folded-up piece of paper. She unfolded it again and again, until she’d unfurled an enormous chart, huge enough to contain a map of the world. Instead, it had at least two dozen photos of Taylor Swift glued all over it, along with glittery dollar sign stickers. In the center, there was a huge thermometer made out of colored paper, the kind you’d see at a fundraiser, showing how much money had been raised. NOT MITZVAH! was scrawled across the page in rainbow glitter glue. Apparently, Bree had taken it upon herself to construct the poster tracking the club’s earnings.
“Dude, what’s with all the Taylors?” Malia asked.
“I decorated it,” Bree said with a shrug.
Dot’s eyes shifted back and forth, her face glowing pink with embarrassment.
“Okay, so! This shows how well we’re doing, financially speaking,” Bree continued. “Right now we have zero dollars, since we already spent the money from the Woos, but after all the new jobs we’ve booked, we’ll be back in business in no time. Of course, we have a ways to go until we can throw our party, but—”
“Bree!” Dot glanced around nervously. “Could we maybe do this later?”
“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Bree started to fold up the Taylor map, but it was too late. Everyone else at the table was already engrossed in what they were saying, and a bunch of their classmates all over the cafeteria were now craning their necks to see what was going on.
“That does seem effective, what you guys are doing,” said Dot a little too loudly.
“Are you trying to distance yourself from us?” Malia whispered.
Dot leaned in closer. “You guys know I love you, but this is lunch. And I hate Taylor Swift. I don’t want people to get the wrong impression,” she hissed under her breath before giving them a wink and swiftly scurrying away.
Bree turned to Malia without missing a beat. “Alia, I just want you to know I’m so glad we’re doing this together,” she said. “I’m so proud of us. We’re going to kill at the Larssons’ tonight!” She paused for a moment before adding, “Not literally, of course.”
Of course Malia had seen the Larssons’ house before. Situated on a bluff overlooking the ocean, it was one of the biggest, most beautiful homes in the neighborhood, and nearly impossible to miss. In fact, it was the largest house in the whole town, second only to the Abernathy estate, which was owned by a crazy rich lady and was so big it looked like the White House. But Malia had never actually been close enough to touch it. Up close, it was insane. The massive gray building rose out of the ground and practically soared into the sky, like a castle. It was definitely worth hanging out with three small children if it meant a few hours of pretending to live here.
Bree, Dot, and Malia stood in front of the huge wooden front doors. Malia reached for the doorbell—a fancy metal situation that was shaped like King Triton—and waited. After a moment, the giant door swung open. But the face that greeted them wasn’t Mrs. Larsson’s.
“Chelsea! What are you doing here?”
Malia checked the number above the front door to make sure they had, in fact, gone to the right house. Yes, this was still 4 Sand Crab Way, home of the Larsson triplets.
Today was the correct date. They had arrived right on time.
So it made absolutely no sense why Malia’s evil big sister had answered the door.
“The question is more like, what are you doing here?” Chelsea sneered down at Malia. “Shouldn’t you be at home, being a child?”
“I am so confused. Why are you at the Larssons’ right now?”
“Because I’m babysitting,” she said.
“But . . . we’re supposed to be babysitting.”
Malia looked to her friends for backup. Dot and Bree put their hands on their hips and nodded their heads in agreement.
“Right.” Chelsea tented her fingers. “About that. Camilla told me she saw you guys at the mall last week. And I thought, why should you be earning that kind of money when you’re utterly unqualified?”
“Because it was my idea.”
“Correction. It was Kristy’s Great Idea. I saw that book in your room. You stole it from Kristy, and I stole it from you. Then I stole your phone. I intercepted a call from Dina Larsson confirming today’s gig, and explained that I would be taking over. I also spoke with Mrs. Woo, to explain that we would be sitting for her girls in your place next Sunday. And now I’m going to put you out of business.”
This was so typically Chelsea. Malia should have seen it coming. It was ironic, really. She seemed so perfect on the outside, but at her core, she was practically an insect.
“You—you—you suck!” said Bree.
Chelsea just smiled. “I have to say, the Larssons seemed kind of relieved to be leaving an actual teenager in charge. And you were right, they pay bank.”
“I’m telling Mom!” This was, like, the worst comeback ever, but it was the only thing Malia could think of.
“Good luck with that, Malia.” Malia swore Chelsea overenunciated the M just to spite her. “Mom will totally take my side. I can drive. I wield a certain worldly authority. You’re, like, twelve. No wait, you’re literally twelve. Why would anyone trust you with their children?”
“Because we’re nice?” Malia made a mental note to get better at comebacks.
Chelsea laughed a sinister laugh.
“Game over, baby babysitters. Go back to enjoying a life of puberty and poverty.”
And with that, she slammed the door in their faces.
Bree frowned. “Wow, your sister is such a—”
“Yep. Ever since we were babies,” Malia groaned.
“That just made me so glad I’m an only child,” added Dot.
“What are we going to do?” Malia whined.
If Malia was being perfectly honest, she was actually kind of relieved that Chelsea was dealing with the Larsson triplets. Malia still wasn’t particularly fond of booger eaters.
But then there was the issue of money. They were counting on the Larsson job as their biggest yet. They’d already spent every penny they’d earned, and Malia was no closer to throwing the most kickass party ever witnessed by the members of the seventh grade, including but not limited to one Connor Kelly.
Worst of all, though, being outsmarted by Chelsea was absurd and humiliating. Malia could handle being thrown out of the morning carpool or perpetually locked out of her room. She could deal with the fact that Chelsea was taller than her, and prettier than her, and that Chelsea had actual boobs. Malia could even get over that time Chelsea hid all her presents on Christmas morning and told her that Santa didn’t love her, or the time Chelsea started a rumor that Malia pooped in her bed (not true). And not to forget the time Chelsea secretly programmed her number into Malia’s phone as “Connor Kelly” and texted her declarations of love, then died laughing when she believed them. Malia had almost gotten over that.
But this? This was too much. Malia may have been the average sister. But even average people deserved a victory, sometimes.
“Let’s take her down,” Malia said.
Malia didn’t know how to fix it, but they had to find a way. No matter what happened, she couldn’t let Chelsea win.