11. You Can Count on Us 11. You Can Count on Us

I’m packing my overnight bag for babysitting duty when I realize I haven’t told Halle about my email from Olympia—or about Mom’s decision to try out for Clean Sweep. I would have if she’d stopped talking about Michael long enough to listen.

Ever since she spotted Michael staring at her in the hall on Monday, Halle’s become this other person. Someone I hardly know. When she’s not mooning over him in class, she’s talking about him at lunch and during walks to and from school. It almost makes me glad I don’t have a crush. I think I’d drive myself nuts.

Mom brings me downstairs to wait for the car service Dad ordered for me and Halle. She wanted to bring us uptown in a cab herself, but Dad insisted we were old enough to go on our own. I’m glad he won the argument. I mean, who wants to be taken everywhere by their mother? Liberty is allowed to take the bus by herself, and so is Kevin. Then again, if I were Kevin’s mom, I wouldn’t care where he went or how he got there. I’d just be glad he was somewhere else.

“You’ve got everything you need?” Mom asks, scanning Thirteenth Street for the car. “Your cell charger? Clean underwear? A toothbrush?”

I almost make a joke about bringing the toothbrush she uses to clean the kitchen floor, but I stop myself in time. “I’m all set,” I say, grateful to spy Halle jogging toward us with her sleeping bag. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Mom says. “Just displaying the usual motherly concern.”

Just then, the car pulls up to the curb. Mom motions for Halle to hurry and gives me a quick squeeze good-bye. “Text me when you get there,” she says. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t, Mom. Promise.”

Mom stands back and watches as the driver pops the trunk for our bags. “Have fun!” she calls out to us. “Wear your seat belts!”

I give her one last wave before climbing into the backseat. Halle climbs in after me and cracks the window. After I barfed on the bus last year on a field trip to the Bronx Zoo, she knows better than to trust my stomach in a moving vehicle.

“Guess what I did after school?” Halle blurts out the minute Mom’s out of sight. She puts on her seat belt and makes me do the same.

“Your homework?” I say, clicking the buckle into place.

“No, silly. I Skyped with Michael for twenty-five minutes! I got to see his room and everything.”

“Cool,” I say.

“Michael’s got a gerbil, two turtles, and a goldfish named Sylvia.”

“Michael’s sure got a lot of animals,” I say, wishing I could have a pet. “But Sylvia? That’s a strange name for a fish.”

“It was his grandmother’s name,” Halle says, scowling. “I think it’s cute.”

Suddenly I feel my stomach lurch. To keep from getting carsick, I close my eyes and take in the familiar sounds of New York City at rush hour: the brum-brum of jackhammers, the screech of police sirens, voices everywhere. When the car reaches Dad’s building thirty-five minutes later, my stomach and I are grateful to get out. I send Mom a quick text to let her know we’re here and take the elevator with Halle up to the twelfth floor.

Barbara is waiting for us at the door. She and Dad are only going downstairs to the Morgensterns’ apartment for dinner, but my stepmom looks ready to walk the red carpet. She’s wearing a short sequined dress, a matching jacket, and sparkly gold jewelry. She’s even got a rhinestone clip in her hair.

“Kat! Halle!” Barbara pulls us into a group hug. Her clinking bangles feel cold against the back of my neck. “I’m so glad you girls could watch Henry tonight. I was going to arrange for a sitter, but Dennis wouldn’t hear of it. He said you were old enough, but—”

“But nothing,” Dad says, joining us in the entrance hall. “Kat and Halle are up to the task. Right, girls? And we’ll just be downstairs.”

Halle offers my dad a wide grin. “That’s right, Mr. Greene. You can count on us.”

“Where is Henry anyway?” I ask. My brother is usually out like a shot when the doorbell rings.

“Watching TV,” Dad says. “Go say hi.”

I wave a quick good-bye to Dad and Barbara, grab a juice box from the fridge, and head for the family room to find Henry.

My brother is already in his pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He’s surrounded by loose socks. “What are you doing?” I ask, pointing to Henry’s mess. “Where did those socks come from?”

“My dwesser dwawer.”

That’s another thing about my brother. It takes an interpreter to figure out what he’s saying. “Okay, Henry,” I say slowly. “Let’s put the socks away and get ready for bed.”

“No!” Henry balls his chubby hands into fists. “I don’t wanna go to bed. I’m not tiyood!”

A tantrum will erupt if I don’t do something quick. I run into Henry’s room, grab The Little Engine That Could, and race back to the family room. My brother plucks the book out of my hand and presents it to Halle, Cinderella-slipper style. “Wead,” he tells her.

“What do you say, Henry?” I remind him.

Pwease.”

Three read-alouds later, I’m able to peel Henry off Halle’s lap and drag him to his room. After he hops into bed, I flick on his night-light and hand him Bruno, his stuffed pig. I remember when Henry first got Bruno, a gift from my mom. He was bright blue then, with big black eyes and a cute piggy snout. Now Bruno is gray and ratty and smells like feet. “Good night, bud,” I say, kissing my brother’s nose. Henry grabs Bruno by a raggedy ear and rolls over. I tiptoe out of the room and close the door softly behind me.

Halle wasted no time getting comfy in the family room. She’s eating pizza and watching a TV cooking show. It’s the one where contestants race against the clock to make meals out of bizarre ingredients like ox tongue and animal crackers. This reminds me of Clean Sweep and the possibility that Mom could get picked. I decide to tell Halle after she passes me the pizza box. “You won’t believe this,” I say, “but—”

“You talked to Michael for me!” Halle jumps up and smothers me in a bone-crushing hug. “I knew you’d come through!”

“I said I’d think about it,” I say, untangling myself. “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh.” Halle wipes a blob of grease off her chin. “That’s okay,” she says, brightening. “There’s no need to rush it. These things take time.”

Finally my best friend may be coming to her senses. I get back to telling her about Clean Sweep—and my email to Olympia.

“I’m glad you emailed her,” Halle says, reaching for another slice, “but what did she tell you to do about your mom?”

“Do?”

Halle frowns. “You did tell her how bad it’s gotten, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” The lie tastes bitter in my mouth, worse than ox tongue and animal crackers combined. How can I admit to Halle that I didn’t tell Olympia the whole story? That I mentioned Clean Sweep and not much else? She’ll think I’m a big chicken. Maybe I am.

“Well, whatever Olympia said, I hope you’ll tell your dad,” Halle says. “He should know what’s going on, Kat.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But once he knows the truth, he’ll drag me uptown quicker than Mom can check my sheets for bedbugs.”

“Then we’d never walk to school together,” Halle says, “or hang out at each other’s apartments whenever we feel like it.”

“True,” I say. “But I guess living with Dad wouldn’t be the worst thing either. I mean, I like his place, and he and Barbara always make me feel at home.”

“Sure, but if you actually lived here, they’d start using you as a built-in babysitter.”

“I could order pizza all the time,” I remind her. “That’s a plus.”

“But what about the babysitting part?” Halle asks.

I smile. We both know that a little Henry goes a long way. We drop it and get back to the cooking show.

As the winning chef is being announced, I hear a key in the lock. It’s Barbara, carrying her high heels. She collapses onto the sofa and starts rubbing her feet.

“Where’s my dad?” I ask.

“At the piano. He and Mindy Morgenstern were in the middle of a duet when I left.”

“ ‘Summer Nights,’ from Grease?”

Barbara stops rubbing. “How’d you know?”

“Just a wild guess.” I grin at Halle. For a middle-aged tax accountant, my dad’s got a silly streak a mile wide. Combine “silly” with his “singing” and you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Barbara removes her earrings and tucks her feet underneath her. “Dennis insisted on taking the Sandy part, but after a while I couldn’t take it anymore. I made my excuses and came upstairs.” She motions toward Henry’s room. “Did you have any trouble with the little guy? He can be a real handful.”

“No, Mrs. Greene,” Halle says sweetly. “He was an angel.”

Barbara makes a face. “That’s nice of you to say, Halle, but I don’t believe you for a minute. The only time Henry is an angel is when he’s asleep! I’ll go check on him.” Barbara gets up from the couch and disappears down the hall.

At that moment Dad makes his big entrance. He’s taken off his blazer and draped it over his shoulders. He reminds me of a prep-school kid in a bad eighties movie. He sings, “Summer lovin’, had me a blast. / Summer lovin’ happened so fast. / Met a girl crazy for me. / Met a boy cute as can be…”

Despite the look of it, Dad has not been drinking. As he likes to say, he gets “high on life.” This is his way of embarrassing me without using alcohol as an excuse. He flings his blazer on the couch and takes a seat next to Halle. “So, what’s the four-one-one, girls?”

I roll my eyes. “No one says that, Dad.”

My father clutches his heart, stricken. “Is this true, Halle? Am I woefully behind on tween lingo?”

Halle offers an apologetic smile. “Yeah, Mr. Greene. Sorry.”

I try to ignore the fact that my father has taken off his tie and looped it around his head. “Barbara told us you were singing with Mrs. Morgenstern,” I say. “The Sandy part.”

Dad grins, his tie flopping against his ear. “Guilty as charged.” He puffs out his chest and pretends to fluff out his nonexistent hair. Dad is as bald as Mom’s hero, Mr. Clean, and he looks like him too—minus the brawny forearms and shiny gold earring.

“So,” he asks, “what did you girls do while I was impressing the Morgensterns with my musical stylings? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Halle giggles. “Nothing much, Mr. Greene. We read to Henry, watched TV, ate pizza. You know…”

“But it was fun, right?” Dad gives us a look I can’t quite decipher.

“What are you getting at, Dad?” I ask.

“Okay, busted.” Dad unloops the tie from his head and places it next to him on the couch. “I was hoping you girls could babysit again next weekend—or every weekend, actually. You could make it a regular gig. Like the Baby-Sitters Club.”

The Baby-Sitters Club? Is Dad for real?

“I don’t know, Dad,” I say, looking over at Halle. “It’s a big commitment.”

Dad shrugs. “What can I say? I like having you here.”

Or does he just like having someone here for Henry? Sometimes I’m not so sure.