Miss Impossible

by Caroline Cala

  The next-best thing to having backup was having virtual backup. So Zelda had agreed to be on call to offer advice (and Jedi mind tricks) whenever it was helpful.

  Upon Dot’s arrival at the boys’ house, they decided to play a game called “zombies,” which involved wandering around the house chanting, “Zombie! Zombie! Zombie!” over and over and occasionally walking into things. All things considered, it was actually one of the better things they’d played, as it was (not yet) destructive and involved minimal, if any, babysitter participation.

  At some point, they tired of zombies and disappeared into Smith’s bedroom. Dot knew they should probably be supervised, but they were playing quietly, so she decided to just let them do their thing. It wasn’t often she got a moment of peace and quiet, and she was going to savor every moment.

  “It’s just a little poop!” said Clark, causing Dot to spring to attention.

  “YEAH, WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” hollered Smith.

  A very tearful Chase emerged from the bedroom. When Dot asked what was wrong, she was met with silence, as Chase was seemingly the victim of a situation that was simply too horrible to mention.

  Without meaning to, Dot found herself doing the deep pelvic breathing exercises her mother had taught her to combat stress. Once again, it was time to take this zoo to the playground, in the hopes of tiring them out.

  “All right! Time to go outside!” said Dot.

  “PARK! DARK! SHARK! LARK!” yelled Smith.

  Dot already had a headache. The troop filed outside, taking the now familiar route to the very same park where the boys had wreaked havoc on so many days prior.

  Dot placed an earbud in her ear and dialed Zelda as they approached. Out here in the open, she needed all the help she could get, and she wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Can you hear me okay?” asked Dot.

  “Loud and clear,” said Zelda.

  “How’s the background noise?”

  “Well, I just heard Chase say, ‘Your fart smells like cheddar cheese popcorn,’ to one of the other boys, so it looks like we’re pretty good,” Zelda reported.

  “Perfect!” said Dot.

  “WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?” yelled Smith.

  “Nobody,” Dot lied.

  Dot entered the park, feeling good about the plan. Of course, the au pairs were once again holding court on the grassy knoll in the center of the park. All three of them were present, and they were joyfully leading the neighborhood children—Aloysius Blatt, Ruby and Jemima Woo, all three Gregory kids, and the Larsson triplets—in some very civilized game. They all held hands and stood in a big circle, walking slowly around and around.

  “What are they doing?” asked Chase, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the sight of the other kids. Dot couldn’t have agreed more.

  “Tell them if they don’t hit one another or set anything on fire, they’ll get a treat later,” said Zelda.

  “Guys! If you don’t hit each other or light any fires, there’s a treat in your future!” Dot said.

  “WHAT? NO FIRE?!” Smith was dismayed.

  “What’s the treat?” asked Clark.

  “I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise,” said Dot. “But I promise you’ll like it.”

  “How do you know we’ll like it?” Chase was suspicious.

  “Tell them the witch read their minds and told you just what they’d like,” Zelda supplied.

  Dot did as she was told. The boys seemed satisfied. For that matter, so did Zelda.

  Any time they got even a tiny bit rowdy, Dot would share that the witch could hear them, or the witch could see them, and the witch would know just what to do.

  Miraculously, as the afternoon unfolded, the boys didn’t make too much of a scene. Sure, they climbed and romped around and tussled with one another. It was a far cry from the slow-moving circle of silence taking place in the middle of the park. Still, compared to their usual antics, they were remarkably well-behaved.

  “Are you ready for the treat?” Dot asked. The boys willingly climbed down off the playground and readied themselves for the walk home. The treat was that the witch—the real, live witch—was going to meet them back at Chase’s house with ice cream pops.

  The au pairs were talking to one another, and Dot had no idea what they were saying. As usual, their tone seemed mocking.

  “Ugh!” Zelda reacted to whatever she had heard. “I have a message for the au pairs. Are you ready? I’m using a virtual translator.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Dot.

  “Je comprends ce que vous dites,” said a robotic voice. Dot did her best to repeat whatever the robot lady had said. Dot hoped her accent was good enough.

  The au pairs looked up, shocked.

  “We just told them that you understand what they’re saying,” Zelda explained. Who knew Zelda spoke decent French? This girl was full of surprises.

  “Depuis quand tu parles français?” asked Genevieve.

  “Toujours,” Dot replied, following Zelda’s instructions.

  “Intéressant,” Sophie replied. “Alors pourquoi les familles ne vous embauchent pas?”

  The au pairs shared a hearty laugh about this.

  “They’re asking why, if you speak French, the families don’t hire you instead of them,” Zelda explained. And then added, “What a jerk.”

  “Because I don’t need a gimmick,” said Dot. “I’m just a good babysitter.”

  “Nice one!” said Zelda.

  “Very well,” said Claire. “Get back to your job, then.”

  And for once, Dot was happy to do so. She walked the little monsters out of the park, still on the phone with the big monster.

  “That was fun!” said Zelda, who apparently enjoyed manipulating people even from afar. “We should do that again sometime.”

  “Yes,” Dot agreed. “That was far less painful than I expected.”

  “It’s actually kind of fun to consult remotely,” Zelda said. “Like being a puppet master. Or master of the universe.”

  “WE DIDN’T SET ANY FIRES!” yelled Smith.

  “Yeah! What’s the treat!” yelled Clark.

  “Tell them to follow you,” said Zelda, in her final command for the day. “The treat is waiting for them, at their house. I’ll meet you guys there with the ice pops. But don’t tell them anything until they see me.”

  Dot did as she was told.

  Dot watched the boys take off running down the block. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all, she thought. They were like any other little boys. Just with a little more energy, more action, more trouble. And she could handle that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bree

  “Marvelous Ray’s said yes!” Malia yelled, at a volume so loud it rivaled even Smith Morris’s. “They’re up for donating a pizza booth, a prize display, and our choice of three of their most popular carnival games!”

  At the news, the girls paused for an impromptu dance break. This lasted approximately thirty seconds before they returned to their stations to keep drumming up more support for the fund-raiser.

  They were perched in various places around Bree’s room, which had become command central for all things related to the big event.

  “I think I’m closing in on a taco truck,” Dot reported. “I’m waiting on one more email to confirm, but I have a good feeling.”

  “Excellent!” Bree made a note of this on her master document.

  “Can we revisit why you’re the one securing every business and donor in town?” Malia asked. “What is Chelsea contributing?”

  “It’s our two-pronged approach,” Bree parroted what she had been told a million times before. “Chelsea is reaching out to the top-tier donors, and I am tackling the low-hanging fruit.”

  Malia made a face. “First of all, that sounds like something Ramona would say, and second of all, you are not tackling the low-hanging fruit. You are tackling all the fruit.”

  “Well, Chelsea is handling the press, including talking to some contact at t
he local TV station,” Bree said, hopefully. “And if that comes through, that’ll be a huge help.”

  “What’s the status on that?” Dot asked.

  “It’s not confirmed yet,” Bree reported.

  Malia narrowed her eyes. “As I thought.”

  “The point is, right now everyone has to reach out to as many people as possible,” Bree said.

  “Well, you know, I talked to Connor,” Malia said, trying—and failing—to hide her smile. “We’re manning the crosswalk on Friday.”

  “We’ve heard,” Dot said. “Once or twice. Or seventy times,” she added under her breath.

  “Do you think I can consider this a date?” Malia asked, with the face of a kid who really hopes her parents will let her keep the puppy.

  “I think you can consider it extra credit,” Dot said.

  Malia’s face fell. But then it brightened a moment later. “But he could have done extra credit with one of his friends, and he chose to do it with me. That means something.”

  “Definitely,” Bree said reassuringly, making another check mark in the document.

  Malia checked her phone and sighed. “I have to get home. It’s my night to help with dinner.”

  Dot swung her backpack over her shoulder. “I have to get back, too. English paper. But I’ll send a few more emails asking people to take shifts at the crosswalk.”

  “Amazing. Thank you!” Bree smiled. She was so glad to have her friends.

  After her friends left, Bree went through her checklist. An awful lot of people had signed on to help, and they had made some great progress, but still. Bree couldn’t stop thinking of the estimate from the eco-architects. That bridge was expensive—a number with a comma and that many zeros didn’t come easily. They would have to do even more.

  “Meow,” a tiny voice beckoned from somewhere under the bed.

  That was it, the answer to all her problems.

  Veronica!

  Not cat Veronica. Person Veronica.

  Maybe Bree could appeal to Veronica, a known animal lover, and tell her about the plight of the salamanders. All it would take was one teensy little performance and Bree knew they could easily raise enough money to build the salamanders the safest, prettiest bridge the world had ever seen.

  Bree knew that maybe the odds of Veronica performing at the fund-raiser were kind of, sort of a long shot. But she also knew that Veronica was a good person who cared a lot about good causes, and that Chelsea wasn’t the only person capable of appealing to really big donors.

  There was just one thing left to do. Bree would have to write to Veronica.

  She rifled around in her backpack and pulled out a piece of hot pink paper and a pen with ink that smelled like mango. For a moment, Bree felt a pang of sadness that she could no longer use glitter pens or glitter stationery or glitter stickers. But just as soon as the feeling came, it was gone.

  Bree began to write.

  Dear Veronica,

  My name is Bree Robinson and I am thirteen years old and I am definitely your biggest fan.

  I’m sure you remember me. We met recently in Playa del Mar when you gave a concert at the Arts Center. It was right near the porta potties and you were wearing amazing boots and I told you I named my cat after you. His name is Veronica and he is a big fan, too. Sometimes we listen to your music together and he howls, which sounds like it’s a bad thing, but I promise it’s good.

  Anyway, I’m writing to you with a request. I know you love animals, and right now the salamanders need your help. It’s their migratory season, and they’re all trying to cross this one road in Playa del Mar, and it isn’t going well. Salamanders like to travel at night, but they’re small and kind of slow sometimes, and nighttime is dark, so it’s very dangerous for them to cross the street. There are cars and bikes and trucks and scooters and sometimes even buses!

  I thought we could build a bridge for them, and I started doing things to try to raise the money. I became a salamander crossing guard to get donations, and dressed up like a salamander, and threw community meet-ups, and knocked on doors. But lizard bridges are really expensive. Like, REALLY expensive. I think if you could give a benefit concert here, even if it was for hardly any minutes, we could earn enough money to save the salamanders and make the world a better place.

  Veronica, you are my only hope.

  Please please please please please please please please please please please please help.

  Love, your friend,

  Bree

  P.S. Please.

  Bree looked down at the letter, pleased with herself. Her pride lasted for maybe forty-three seconds before she realized she had no idea where to send it. She didn’t know how to mail something—how much did a stamp even cost? She also realized there was a good chance that since Veronica was always on tour, she might not see her fan mail for a very long time, if ever. The salamanders needed this bridge NOW. So Bree took a photo of the letter with her phone and posted it to Instagram, tagging Veronica. And she didn’t stop there. She also sent it to her via direct message and emailed a copy to the official Veronica fan mail email address.

  Bree sighed, satisfied with herself. Veronica was going to come through. This was the answer to everything. She knew Veronica wouldn’t let her—and the salamanders, but mostly her—down.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Malia

  Malia vibrated through her day, unable to focus on a single thing. At lunch, she was so distracted that she accidentally mistook a cupcake-shaped rubber eraser that Shoko had put on the table for an actual cupcake, and attempted to take a giant bite out of it. She felt fully ridiculous, but forgave herself, because this level of nerves was to be expected. After all, this was the single most exciting day of her life thus far—the night of her date with Connor Kelly, to watch the salamanders cross the street.

  Technically, she knew it wasn’t a date. They just happened to be volunteering at the same time. But that was just logistics. What mattered was that this was a one-on-one hangout—in the evening hours—where Malia would get to experience more uninterrupted Connor Kelly time than ever before. It was reason for excitement.

  All week long, she had stayed up late thinking through potential outfits and conversation topics. What would she say? What would HE say?

  WOULD THEY KISS?

  Just kidding. She knew they would never kiss. Malia didn’t think she would be able to handle it, anyway. Her nerves might cause her to explode. Sometimes, though, when no one else was around, she would kiss her own hand and imagine it was Connor. For practice. Just in case.

  Also just in case, she put on some of her favorite vanilla lip balm.

  Then, with one final glance in the mirror, Malia was off.

  She alternated between super-brisk steps (her nerves wanted her to move quickly) and slower ones (she needed to calm down). She had walked the streets of Playa del Mar hundreds of times before, but tonight, everything seemed a little brighter, a little more magical.

  She walked past the grocery store and the library, where she had first had the idea to form a babysitting club–slash–business. She passed the playground and the weird green pond and the house that kept its Christmas decorations up all year long. Finally, she got to Waveland Avenue. Only three blocks stood between her and the rest of her life.

  As she walked the final stretch, Malia felt like a character from one of the Shakespeare plays her language arts teacher was always forcing them to read out loud. In class, Shakespeare’s prose never made any sense. Out here, under the moonlight, it still didn’t make any sense, but Malia found herself thinking about it anyway.

  And then, up ahead, she saw him.

  HARK! she thought. It felt appropriately dramatic and romantic.

  There he was. Sitting on a log, exactly where he was supposed to be. Malia sighed. He was so dependable. He looked upward, like he was gazing at the sky or thinking a deep thought or maybe just a little confused.

  Malia ambled up to him.

  “Oh
, hey, Malia,” Connor said.

  “Oh, hey!” Malia hoped it sounded casual. “What a lovely evening! I mean, because of the weather. Of course. It’s so nice outside, isn’t it?” She willed herself to stop speaking.

  “Yeah,” said Connor. He scratched his head. “Do you, like, know what we’re supposed to do?”

  “Yeah, I know all about it!” Malia said, then feared she sounded too enthusiastic and therefore dorky, so she turned it down a notch. “I mean, yeah. I only know because Bree told me.”

  “’Kay,” said Connor.

  “We basically just watch out for salamanders, and if we see any, we scan for traffic and then hold up a sign so they can cross safely.”

  “’Kay.” Connor nodded, and the hairs that made up his floppy bangs glistened under the starlight.

  “Yeah,” Malia said again.

  For a few long moments, neither of them said anything. The sound of literal crickets sang in the night. Finally, Malia spoke.

  “So. Lizards, huh?”

  It wasn’t her finest question, but at least someone was talking.

  “Lizards. When I was little, I really wanted a pet iguana, but my parents said no.”

  Malia nodded excitedly. He was telling her stories from his life! This was amazing! This was everything she’d ever wanted. “Do you think maybe you’ll still get an iguana one day?”

  “Nah,” said Connor, brushing his hair from his forehead. Two seconds later, it flopped right back to where it had been.

  “Cool,” said Malia.

  “Yeah,” said Connor.

  There was another uncomfortably long pause. An owl—at least, Malia thought it was an owl—hooted from a tree somewhere.

  A salamander appeared near the side of the road. It looked skittish and confused. Malia silently thanked it for existing.

  “Is that one of them?” Connor asked.

  “Yeah,” said Malia.

  They scanned the street for traffic. No one was coming, in either direction, so the amphibian meandered across without any complications. So far, this was pretty easy.

  “I really like animals,” Malia said. “That’s why I wanted to do this.” She thought it sounded like a nice, wholesome thing to say. Of course, her motivation for being there that particular night had very little to do with animals, salamanders or otherwise. But there was no reason Connor needed to know that.