I Try Not to Kill the Babysitter

The next day my mother hires Amy to “keep me company,” which is really just another way to say “babysit.” I overheard my parents talking in their room last night when I was supposed to be asleep. You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to string the words impulse control and discipline into a story no kid wants to read. When they’re done, my father tapes Ms. Williams’s summer reading list onto the refrigerator. They tell me Learning Camp is all set, but I tell them the best place for me to spend the rest of the summer is leaning against the large palm tree in our backyard with a stack of comic books and Bodi. It’s a discussion I don’t have a chance of winning. I feel like I’m trapped in Prison in July, a horror movie I just made up.

When Amy first started babysitting, she used to make my lunches; now she twirls her hair and points to the cupboard for me to make my own peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can, of course. I just preferred it when I looked for funny videos online and she made lunch. I cut the sandwich on the diagonal and put the pieces on a plate to prove I don’t need her help to make a nice meal.

“I killed one of my first babysitters,” I say. “So I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”

“I’m really scared,” she says, then tears off a corner of my sandwich without asking.

“Seriously. Babysitting for me can be lethal. I feel I should warn you.”

“For ten dollars an hour, I’ll take my chances,” Amy says.

I think about offering her twelve dollars an hour to go home, but I’m pretty cheap when it comes to spending my own money on boring stuff like babysitters.

“Your mom told me about that girl who drowned. Don’t expect that kind of service from me.”

For once I can’t think of a snappy comeback, choosing instead to concentrate on my lunch.

Amy leans back in her chair. “I don’t know anyone who died. My second-grade teacher’s husband got killed in a car accident, but I never met him.”

“I didn’t really know Susan either,” I say. I don’t tell her that last night in bed, I imagined that I drowned with Susan. The thought kept me awake until Bodi made his dreaming noises and stopped me from doing any more thinking.

I give Amy the rest of my sandwich and start making another. Just then, Matt bursts into the kitchen.

“They’re delivering bricks for our new patio,” he says. “There’s a huge eighteen-wheeler in the driveway. Let’s take my old action figures and put them in front of the tires so when the guy drives away, he’ll squash them like grapes.”

Matt doesn’t have to ask twice. I tell Amy I’ll be at Matt’s, but she barely hears me because she’s back on her phone.

As Matt and I line up his old toys in front of the giant tires, I find a small plastic raccoon. I used to have this same action figure, a present in some meal package from a fast-food restaurant. Although he’s made of plastic, his kind eyes remind me of Bodi’s, and I don’t have the heart to squish him. I put the raccoon back in Matt’s toy bin and take out some happy elves instead.

Matt and I are ecstatic when the driver pulls away; he even blasts his horn several times. But the toys are not as flattened as we’d hoped, so we head to the garage to see what else we can use. We find a bag of stones and Tanya’s old rock polisher that looks like a cement mixer. We lock the elves inside, then make noises like they’re screaming to get out.

Surprisingly, it’s not as much fun as I thought. I realize Matt is having a blast, and I’m the problem. Learning Camp starts Monday, and it weighs on me. Suppose I’m the worst student there? I have to work so hard to keep up during the school year—do I have to fake my way through all summer too? The thought of one more person cracking the whip about LEARNING makes me want to jump into the cement mixer with these crazy elves.

I tell Matt I have to go and spend the rest of the afternoon lying in my backyard staring up at the clouds, Bodi by my side.