“There have been other changes, too. We hired satellite sitters for our babysitting organization,” Malia cut in.
“Three new employees who could take on some of our workload,” Dot added.
“They all just went through training—” Bree started to explain as Malia cut her off again.
“We thought it would help take some of the pressure off so we could focus on our other responsibilities. But it turns out being a boss actually isn’t that easy,” Malia said.
“Yes, and—” Bree started again, but Malia spoke over her again.
“Like, the other day one of the new hires texted me about one million times to ask me questions, and I was afraid she was messing everything up, so I ran there to check on her and then almost got fired from my internship.”
“I see,” said Dr. Puffin, nodding her head. “And how do you feel about these changes, Bree?”
Bree’s heart pounded in her chest. Finally, she had the floor, but for a reason she couldn’t quite figure out, she felt nervous to speak. She was overwhelmed—about Veronica, about her siblings, by confusion, by exhaustion.
“I’m not really sure how I’m feeling,” she said in a small voice.
“That’s okay,” said Dr. Puffin in the most understanding voice Bree had ever heard an adult use. “How about this week you take some time to do something you like. An activity that is just for you. It might help you figure out how you’re feeling if you have some space from all this other stuff.”
“Meow,” said Veronica. Without Bree realizing it, Veronica had made his way down from his bookshelf perch and started to paw gently at her leg, like a nice cat would. It was such a kind gesture, it almost made her want to cry. Veronica jumped into her lap, doing a convincing impression of a sane animal. Bree hugged him. This was how she had always pictured pet ownership. Dr. Puffin was a miracle worker!
“This reminds me: it’s important that we talk about how to handle him,” Dr. Puffin said. “Cats need their space, particularly Veronica. It’s probably best not to hug him so securely around the neck.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t like being squeezed or rocked from side to side,” Bree added. “He doesn’t like to dance. And he definitely finds clothes to be very aggravating.”
“That sounds about right.” Dr. Puffin nodded. “Holding on tightly isn’t the answer.” She paused for a minute to let her words sink in. “Sometimes, the same advice we give about the animals can be just as useful, if not more useful, for their humans. When you squeeze Veronica too tightly, it actually causes stress for both of you, just in different ways.”
“So, how does that help us?” Malia asked. She paused before adding, “You know, as people who do things not involving cats?”
“What I’m hearing is that you girls feel stressed over a situation you’re trying to control but can’t. The larger realization here is that no matter what, we can only ever have control over so much.”
Dr. Puffin was amazingly wise. Bree wished she could come live at her office and talk to her always.
“Changes are often challenging. Letting go can feel scary, but it can also be liberating. Don’t worry. Just breathe. Give things some space to let them play out.” Dr. Puffin smiled. “And whenever you’re feeling stressed, my advice would be not to hold on so tightly.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dot
I’m teaching him about selfie angles, read the text message. It was followed up with a photo of Pigeon and an uncharacteristically joyful-looking Aloysius, posing in front of his bookshelf. Dot stared at it for longer than felt necessary, searching for something, though she didn’t know what. She and Aloysius had never taken any photos together, and it felt a little strange to see him smiling with someone else.
The picture was the latest in a long line of happy dispatches Pigeon had shared from her day. Dot was surprised Aloysius would be into such documentation. He was way more interested in how mobile devices worked than in actually using them.
Dot remembered what Dr. Puffin had said, about the importance of letting go. Was this a chance to put that into practice? The last time she had worried about texting Pigeon about babysitting, her science project had blown up.
Complicated feelings aside, Aloysius seemed happy, and that is what mattered.
What was decidedly less happy was the miniature self-refrigerating hive coolant prototype. Dot had painstakingly constructed version 2.0, with a couple adjustments to prevent overheating. Nothing was out of place. It looked absolutely perfect. According to her calculations, it should have worked beautifully. And yet, when she tried to turn it on, nothing happened.
She had already made her invention work once, sort of. So why couldn’t she do it again?
“What is your problem?” Dot asked aloud, jabbing the contraption with her index finger.
“Did you say something, sweetie?” Dot’s mom poked her head in the bedroom door. Their bungalow was so small it often felt impossible to have any privacy.
“No, I was just talking to myself,” said Dot.
“Is everything okay?” Her mom squinted. “I’m sensing something is off with your solar plexus.”
“My solar plexus is fine,” said Dot. “I’m just having some issues getting this thing to work.”
“It sounds like you need to meditate,” said her mother, entering the room.
Dot made the conscious decision not to respond.
“What is it you’re working on again?”
“A thing for bees,” said Dot.
Her mom only meant well, but Dot had been very vague about her project for a number of reasons. The first was that, when it came to really important projects, Dot could be a little superstitious. She didn’t believe in talking about them until they were in a stable place.
The second reason was more practical. Dot’s mom was against any kind of air-conditioning, anywhere, ever. Throughout her whole life, no matter how hot it got, her mother’s solution to heat waves was to wear loose cotton clothing, turn on the ceiling fan, and “pay homage to the sun.” She loved to talk endlessly about how much she opposed anything that disrupted the cycles of nature. Even though Dot’s project was technically good for the environment, she had a feeling her mom would still have an issue with it.
“Bees have a really special role in the natural order,” said Dot’s mom, taking a look around the room. Dot knew she was snooping, one of her mom’s favorite activities. Luckily, all of Dot’s secret, contraband items—snacks full of preservatives, deodorant laden with chemicals—were safely hidden away.
“All right, well, I’ll let you get back to it,” said her mother, floating out of the room. A waft of patchouli lingered in the air.
Dot inhaled. Getting frustrated wasn’t going to help anything. She needed to breathe, stay positive, and keep trying.
“Please work,” she pleaded, making one tiny adjustment to the compressor.
And then, as if by magic, the prototype kicked into gear. Icy cold air blasted out of the machine. It buzzed beautifully, just like an air conditioner. Or a bee.
Dot stood back to admire her handiwork. It really was something.
She did a little celebratory dance, shaking her butt in a manner that was similar to the “waggle dance,” a figure-eight movement made by honeybees to give other bees directions to nearby pollen sources. Bees were super smart, and so was Dot. She was going to win the science fair! She was going to save the world!
Dot stopped dancing to behold the tiny AC, merrily cooling away. She shivered. It was working! It was working really well. Perhaps a little too well, actually.
“Is it just me, or is it freezing in here?” called Dot’s mom from the other side of the bungalow.
“Is it?” Dot said, playing dumb.
“Brrr!” Her mom appeared in the doorway, her entire body wrapped in a paisley print pashmina. She glanced around Dot’s bedroom, narrowing her eyes when she spotted the hive coolant device. “What on earth is going on in here? Did you make that? Is that a
n air conditioner?”
“Not exactly.”
“I thought you were doing something with bees! You know I don’t believe in futzing with the natural order of things!” Her mom looked profoundly dismayed. “Why are you giving your carbon footprint an even bigger shoe size?”
“Mom! I am doing the opposite of that.”
“Well, that certainly seems like an air conditioner to me!” Her mom crossed her arms, hugging the pashmina more tightly around her body.
“It is, sort of. Technically, it’s a cooling device for beehives. To help combat global warming.” Her mom still looked apprehensive, so Dot continued. “Ideally, the design will be updated so it could run on solar power. This experiment could very possibly save the world.”
“Okay,” said her mother reluctantly. “I don’t entirely follow, but your heart seems to be in the right place, so I’m proud of you.”
Dot smiled. She had won over the most difficult audience member, at least when it came to matters of technology. Still, she knew her mom would have her back no matter what.
Version 2.0 of the coolant device kept right on running, with no sign of stopping. It was perfect. Still, Dot couldn’t rest on her laurels. This was only step one. Now she would have to make it work in an actual hive.
Chapter Eighteen
Malia
Malia sniffed the air. It smelled like heavy perfume, which meant that Ramona couldn’t be far behind. Moments later, just as predicted, she appeared in the doorway.
“I need someone to run an errand.”
Whenever Ramona requested a task from “someone,” it meant that it was horrible—too horrible to assign directly to any one person—and would ultimately fall upon Malia. That’s how Malia wound up “researching” the best homemade tortellini recipe in the world and organizing Ramona’s extensive shoe collection by color.
“I need someone to procure crickets, dipped in chocolate.” Ramona paused, and then offered by way of explanation, “It’s a gift.”
“Crickets?” Malia repeated.
“Yes. Crickets. They’re very high in protein.”
“Covered in chocolate?” Malia still wasn’t sure she had heard this correctly.
“Yes. The higher the cacao content, the better, but I suppose any kind of chocolate-covered crickets will do.”
Malia stood there willing her mouth to make words, but it would not.
“Thank you!” said Ramona, and flounced away.
“Your job,” Chelsea said before Malia had a chance to speak.
“Where on earth am I supposed to find these?”
Chelsea sighed. “Malia, how many times do I have to tell you? Finding things is also your job.”
Malia let out a sigh and began typing. Predictably, her first course of action was to scour the Internet. She typed “chocolate-covered crickets” into the search bar, and—horror of horrors—a whole screen full of results came up. Yet nothing was an exact match. Malia scanned through listings for sriracha crickets, sour-cream-and-onion crickets, cocoa-dusted scorpions, chocolate-covered bugs, and cricket protein bars. She could find zero listings for chocolate-covered crickets.
“AUUUUGGGGGH!” She let her exasperation be known.
Malia grabbed her backpack and stood up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Chelsea asked.
“To find the crickets. Obvi,” spat Malia, marching out of the office. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, but she was going to make this nonsense happen. She was a CEO after all. Her job was to make stuff work, even when she had no idea how.
The weather outside was lovely. I could be anywhere, thought Malia. I could be at the park. I could be on the beach. I could be casually walking about Connor Kelly’s block. I could be not-so-casually taking on just a couple more jobs to earn the money to dance with Connor at the concert. Instead, I am searching for chocolate-covered insects that jump. At least she would get to spend some time outside while she figured out how to pull this off.
Her first stop was Monty’s, the local chocolate shop. It was a small family-run business where every single item—from chocolates to lollipops to gummies of all kinds—was made by hand. The prices were pretty high, but Malia’s mom would sometimes stop in for a box of mixed chocolates to put out on the table for holidays.
A jolly older woman stood behind the counter. Malia recognized her as one of the owners. Her name, Minniver, was embroidered across the pocket of her shirt.
“Good afternoon!” chimed Minniver.
Malia could only hope it was going to become one.
“Do you create custom orders?” she asked.
“Why, of course, dear, that’s one of our specialties.”
“So, hypothetical question: if I had a friend who was interested in a specific, uh, flavor of chocolate, you could create some custom, uh, truffles for her?”
“Righty-o,” said Minniver.
“Great! Great news. I’ll be back,” said Malia.
Her next stop was the local pet shop.
Once upon a time, before Connor Kelly became the king of her heart, Malia had a crush on a boy named Ricardo. She knew only a few details about Ricardo, who spoke rarely and moved away in the third grade. But she remembered one very important fact: he had a pet iguana, and the iguana ate crickets. Ricardo brought the iguana in for show-and-tell, and explained in detail how his mom would take him to the pet store each week for a new batch of crickets.
“Hi there, I need to purchase some crickets!” she announced immediately upon entering.
“Aisle seven,” called a guy in a blue apron.
Malia made her way to aisle seven. Sure enough, there were crickets. So many crickets. Hopping to and fro. Malia hadn’t expected the crickets to be so . . . alive.
She shivered. They were so gross. Part of her wanted to turn back, but imagining the triumph she would feel when she handed Ramona a box of chocolate bugs kept her focused on the task at hand.
“Are these, like, food-grade crickets?” she asked as an employee wrangled a dozen of them into a container.
“Yeah,” he said. “Your lizard will like them just fine.”
Malia reasoned that Ramona sometimes resembled a lizard, so that sounded good enough for her.
How is this my life? she thought as she marched back to the chocolate shop, crickets in hand.
“All right! I’m ready for my custom order.”
At the site of the crickets, Minniver’s face dropped.
“Oh no, no, no.” Minniver shook her head. “You want me to do what?”
“I need you to dip these crickets in chocolate.”
“Why do you want to do that to perfectly good chocolate?”
Malia rolled her eyes and made a face that meant, Oh, Minniver. I agree.
“Don’t ask,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea. But I really need you to do it. It’s a very important gift.”
Minniver just stared at Malia, wondering if she was for real.
“I have to touch them?”
“I can help!” said Malia. “I’m desperate.”
“Fine,” Minniver said. “Under one condition. You must never tell anyone I did this. I don’t need us getting a reputation that we have bugs jumping around our shop.”
“It’s a deal,” said Malia, breathing a sigh of relief.
* * *
The moment when Malia marched into Ramona Abernathy’s house wielding chocolate-covered crickets would go down as quite possibly the very best moment of her entire life. Her mom was right; the bad feeling didn’t last. It got replaced with a much, much better one.
“Where have you been?” asked Chelsea. “That took forever.”
Malia held up the golden box from Monty’s Chocolate Shop. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
“Oh my goodness,” said Chelsea. “You did it. You actually did it!”
“Of course I did it,” said Malia. She kept on walking, right into Ramona’s office.
Chelsea followed close beh
ind.
“Ramona, I have your chocolate-covered crickets,” Malia said. “There are a dozen of them. Made fresh, especially for you.”
“We hope you like them,” said Chelsea.
“Yes,” said Malia. “I really hope you like them.” She smiled directly at Chelsea as she added, “I tried my best. After all, finding things is my job. And I take great pride in it.”
Ramona smiled so widely even her eyes lit up. It reminded Malia of a department store Santa. Until this moment, she hadn’t known Ramona was capable of looking so jolly, yet Malia had just made it happen.
Meanwhile, Chelsea gave her a look of death. It was the same look Malia had seen a million times before—in the hallway before bed, in the rearview mirror, over the dinner table at pizza night. But this time, for the very first time, it was happening because Malia had won. It felt amazing. And for that, she would have fetched all the crickets in the universe.
Chapter Nineteen
Bree
For the first time in a long time, Bree felt hopeful. Today, Brody would be taking on his first babysitting job: helping out with Bailey after school. With Brody lending a hand, Bree would be able to offer Veronica her undivided attention and actually implement some of Dr. Puffin’s suggestions.
Brody arrived just after three, carrying his skateboard in hand.
“Sick house,” said Brody, stopping just inside the front door. “It feels, like, so modern in here.”
Bree wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, so she just said, “Thank you.”
Bailey came bounding into the vestibule, eating a tortilla chip.
“Brody, this is my brother, Bailey,” she said. “Bailey, this is my friend Brody. He’s my age and goes to Fratford Academy. Like I said, he’s a babysitter-in-training, and so he’s going to hang out with both of us after school sometimes.”
“Hey, bro,” said Brody, giving a little wave.
“Whoa! You have the KZ-7s!” said Bailey, pointing to Brody’s sneakers. “Those are crazy hard to find.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Bossy Page 10
