He gave a little laugh. We stopped at a light, and he turned and looked me up and down. I knew that he was examining my clothes, not me, but still. I couldn’t meet his eyes, so I stared straight ahead with my hands folded in my lap like a nun.
“I can see that,” he said. “You always look good. Or at least, you have the two times I’ve seen you.” I looked down at my feet and flexed my toes, grateful for the night camouflage that was helping me keep my cool.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s my way of making the days less boring.” I looked up at him, feeling like I owed him a compliment in return. Where did I start? The dark hair that wouldn’t stay off his forehead no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it? The eyes that contained galaxies? The stubble on his chin, bisected by a thin scar that ran up into his bottom lip, this sole imperfection only serving to make a perfect face more perfect?
Instead, I settled on his tattoo. It was on the inside of his left forearm, the part where the skin is usually smooth and pale. I’d noticed it the first time we’d met, but had been too overwhelmed by other stuff to give it a good look. Now, as we idled under a streetlamp waiting for the light to change, I could see it as plain as day, right below the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt. It was big, and went almost from his wrist to his elbow. It was a cactus. Sitting on the cactus was an eagle with a snake in its mouth, and the eagle was wearing a flower crown, like it was on its way to Coachella.
As soon as I mentioned it, though, Dion clamped a hand over it and groaned. “I hate it,” he said. “I got it when I was sixteen, and I designed it myself.”
“What does it mean?” I asked. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re the kind of person who hates getting asked what their tattoos mean.”
“It’s the eagle from the Mexican flag, wearing a crown of laurels. It’s supposed to represent my mom. She was Mexican but loved Greek myths—people even called her Circe. Hence my name and Cassandra’s name and this.” He gestured at the hippie-child eagle. “But it doesn’t look victorious. It looks, I dunno, kinda dumb.”
“It’s not the worst tattoo. I mean, you could have Mickey Mouse making the ‘suck it’ sign or something.”
He laughed. “You’re right. Everything could always be worse.” The glowing green light of a Starbucks had come into view, and Dion glanced up at it. “I could really use a coffee,” he said. “You?”
I nodded, thrilled that a ride home was turning into something that could, in some cultures, be considered hanging out. “Always.”
“Do you like living in Spring River?” I asked as he nosed the minivan into the drive-thru lane.
“I like having a house,” he said. “I’m learning how to fix it up. I can use things I learn on the job at home, and use things I learn at home on the job. I’m hoping I can sell it. Maybe make some money and have something for once.”
We had inched up to the menu, and the crackling speaker announced that it was our time to order. Dion got a Grande black coffee, and I got an iced Venti with milk but no sugar.
“What do you mean?” I asked once the speaker had gone silent. “ ‘Have something’?”
“It’s tough growing up like Cass and I did. Just being bounced around all the time, always staying in someone else’s house, some other kid’s room, never being the first person to wear your clothes.”
Huh. I’d always loved vintage clothing because it meant I wasn’t the first person to wear something, and that my clothes had stories, but maybe I’d feel differently if I’d never owned anything new.
“When we had to move, which was often, they’d pack up our stuff in trash bags,” he went on. “Like it was a way to remind us of who we were or something. I’m sick of being at the bottom. I want to make something of myself, make people pay attention.” We pulled forward to the window. “Sorry,” he said, running his hand through his hair again in a way that made me wilt. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“No, not at all. I get it.”
I tried to stop him, but Dion had pulled out his wallet and insisted on paying for my coffee. He faked a shiver when he handed it over to me.
“Iced in October?”
I stabbed the lid with a straw and took a sip. “Iced all year round.”
I directed Dion to my house, and the rest of the drive went by way too fast. “So, what are you up to for the rest of the weekend?” he asked as he pulled up and shifted the van into park.
“I’ll probably just go visit my mom and hang with Janis, my best friend.” I didn’t add that Janis was also my only friend. “And if a job comes up, I’ll babysit.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “the mythical babysitting. You know, the way Cassandra talks about babysitting, you’d think it was saving the world.”
“She kind of sucked at it,” I said.
Dion smiled. “I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine my sister with kids, but she seems pretty determined, ever since she found that stupid note.”
Now I felt bad for having outed her as a sucky babysitter, especially if it was so important to her. “You think the note is stupid?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t really mean that. I mean, I think it’s just a note about, like, making friends or something, but Cassandra treats it like it’s our mother’s dictum from beyond the grave.”
Somewhere, a few houses down, a dog howled, and Dion looked out the window.
“But isn’t that what it is?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess, but…Can I say something, Es?” he asked.
My heart thumped at the promise of something important. “Of course.”
He took a sip of his coffee and looked over at me. “I don’t mean to downplay Cass’s powers, or yours. It’s crazy, that’s for sure. I just know my sister, and after a lifetime of dealing with her BS, I…” He trailed off, like he was considering what he was going to say next. “It’s just that she’s dramatic, and causes a lot of problems without even noticing how they affect other people. Like, with babysitting. It’s obviously really important to you, and Cass didn’t think twice before she jumped in there. So just be careful, okay?”
Of course he hadn’t wanted to tell me anything that had to do with me. I nodded, half relieved, half disappointed. “Like, don’t get burned?” I said.
He smiled. “Exactly. Take everything she says with a grain of salt. Or start carrying a fire extinguisher.”
I thanked Dion for the ride, climbed out of the van, and walked up to the house. Just like last time, he waited until I had the door open before he waved and drove away. Part of me wanted to be elated and proud of myself. I’d just spent several minutes with my crush and had managed not to say or do anything dumb. But instead I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Why was Dion trying to warn me away from his own sister? Why would he care? I hardly knew him. But then, I guess I hardly knew Cassandra either.
I slept late on Saturday morning, per usual, and woke up around ten-thirty to Dad knocking on my door and a muffled “Esme, you got a package.” Those words were sweet, sweet music to my ears, and I was up and out of bed in no time, practically pushing Dad out of the way to get to the kitchen.
A padded envelope addressed to me lay on the table, and I ripped it open. A fluorescent orange mesh vest fell out, and I yelped out loud when I saw it. Dad had caught up with me. “Construction-worker chic?” he asked.
“It’s not for me. It’s for Pig!” She started to wag her tail when she heard her name, and ambled over to lick my knees. I bent down and wrangled her into the vest. “Hmm,” I said, taking a step back to admire her. “It’s a little small, girl, but it’s not your fault you’re so busty.”
“Certified therapy dog?” Dad said, reading the side of the vest. “What’s she going to do, listen to all your problems?”
“No. This means she can go visit Mom now.”
“Oh,�
�� Dad said, his voice softening. “I didn’t know you were doing that. What a good idea.”
It was hard for Dad to talk about Mom. I’d realized that when I was about six, and so had stopped asking about her shortly after that. There was so much about her that I didn’t know—like, what music had made her dance? When she went to a restaurant, would she try something new, or always order her favorite? Had she cried at movies? The list went on and on.
But I knew that she loved animals almost as much as she loved kids. One of my only memories of her was of her catching a spider in the kitchen and carefully carrying it outside. “It has eight legs, Esme,” she’d said. “And we don’t want to hurt a single one.”
When I’d read about how easy it was to get your pet certified as a therapy dog, I instantly thought of Pig. If people couldn’t get through to Mom, maybe a dog could. I’d actually applied for the certification months before, but Pig’s application kept getting rejected because they said they didn’t certify farm animals. Finally I resubmitted, saying her name was Susan, and she was approved the same day.
“Come on, girl,” I said, tugging the vest back off her. “A big day like this calls for a bath.”
* * *
—
Pig knew she was going someplace special. Even though it was chilly out, Dad rolled the window down for her, and she sat in the back seat with her head hanging out the window like she was a beauty queen in a parade. Having Pig along made the whole situation seem less grim, and for the first time in years, I was actually looking forward to our visit.
Dad parked, and she jumped out of the car the second I opened the back door. She held her head high as I led her across the parking lot on her leash. Pit bulls may have a gnarly reputation, but Pig was a love dumpling, and she straight-up pranced as soon as we were inside the door.
Everyone oohed and aahed over her, and she certainly acted like a therapy dog. She discreetly passed anyone who seemed scared or nervous around her, but stopped to give kisses to anyone who even smiled in her direction. When she stopped at Harold, an older man who’d been there as long as Mom, I sucked in my breath. Harold was afraid of everything, and who knew how he’d react to a big dog, but when Pig started to lick his hand, he moved it so that she could get a better angle.
Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Good job, Esme,” he said. “It looks like you’ve found her true calling.”
“Come on, girl,” I said, happily steering her down the hall to the whole reason she was there in the first place. He went into Mom’s room first, and I was starting to follow, when Pig’s leash jerked me to a halt.
“Come on,” I said, and gave the leash a tug. “Move.” I turned around, and she was planted on the ground, her legs stiff and a ridge of fur standing up along her back. It was a sight I’d only ever seen once before, when a family of raccoons had traipsed across the backyard and Pig had felt the need to defend her territory. I yanked the leash again, but she didn’t budge.
From inside the room, I could hear Dad talking to Mom. “Theresa, we brought you a special visitor.” I walked around behind Pig and tried to give her a shove, but she’d become a fire hydrant. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Dad appeared in the doorway, a confused look on his face. He was holding Mom’s hand, and as soon as Pig saw her, she started to emit a low, guttural growl.
“Esme, what’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know! You saw her. She was fine just a minute ago.” I grabbed Pig by the collar and tried to pull her into the room, her nails scraping on the tile floor. I looked up at Mom, just as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Then Pig pulled away from me and took off, barking as she tore down the hall.
I caught up to her in the waiting room. She was huddled under a chair, shivering. I got down on my knees and tried to coax her out. “Come on, girl,” I said, grabbing her collar and trying to pull her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mom is going to love you. I’ve told her all about you.”
“Esme, you’d better take her out to the car,” Dad said behind me, slightly out of breath from running to catch up with us. I nodded and got up. Pig came willingly when she saw that I was headed to the car and wasn’t trying to get her to go back to Mom’s room. I opened the car door for her so she could climb into the back seat, then cracked the windows. Before I turned to head back in, I gave her a pat on the head. “You’re such a good girl, Piggy. What happened?” Her eyes met mine, and I swear I could see terror in there.
Everyone looked at me as I walked back to Mom’s room. Inside, things were proceeding as they normally did. Dad trying to maintain a cheerful attitude while Mom stared off into space. Except this time, there was one big difference: Mom was crying. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and it made me feel horrible.
“This is my fault,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Dad said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You just never know about these kinds of things. But I think maybe this was enough of a visit for today, and we should go.” I went over and gave Mom a kiss, which got no response, then followed Dad numbly back out of the room.
We didn’t talk much on the drive, and when we got home, Pig headed straight to my room and didn’t come out for the rest of the day, not even for her dinner.
* * *
—
Saturday had been a true bummer, and I woke up on Sunday determined to salvage the weekend. Janis and I belonged to the Church of CDT. It was our Sunday morning ritual, and what we looked forward to all week: coffee, donuts, thrifting. Janis and I did not go vintage shopping. We went thrifting. Vintage shopping was just shopping. Thrifting was a treasure hunt. A race that required focus, strategy and lots of hand sanitizer. The risks were great—no one expected that piece of chicken hidden in the sleeve of that rabbit-fur coat, or cat poop in a box of scarves—but the rewards were priceless: a bootleg Madonna concert tee where her name was spelled “Madomna,” an adult-sized Brownie uniform, red velvet bell-bottoms, Betsey Johnson, Marc Jacobs, once even Miu Miu (who knew how that skirt made its way there, but Janis was still bitter that I saw it first).
We had a strategy, and we did the same thing every time. We walked up and down each aisle. Janis took one side, and I took the other, each of us with an eye out for anything that either one of us might like. We looked first for colors, patterns, and textures that caught our eye. If there was a burst of blue mohair or the glint of silver sequins, it would be pulled out for closer inspection. If there was a section of all black, whoever had that section looked at each item individually, because there could be some truly avant pieces hiding in there, like my turtleneck shoulder-pad dress with one sleeve and an asymmetrical hem. I hadn’t worn it yet, because I was saving it for prom.
Anything that looked remotely cool got thrown into our shopping cart, and after we’d made the rounds, we would hold each find up for inspection. If we had to, we’d try things on over our clothes—that was why leggings and a tank top were ideal thrifting wear. And the final rule of thrifting: when in doubt, just freaking buy it! You didn’t want to spend all summer thinking about that parrot muumuu you let slip through your fingers because you didn’t want to spend the seventy-five cents. True story. I finally had to tell Janis that if you loved something, you had to let it go, and she’s been looking for it to come back to her ever since.
Today the thrift store was extra packed with people looking for Halloween costumes, like dudes who planned to just wear a dress because they thought nothing could be funnier than a man dressed as a woman (and also because they secretly wanted to wear dresses every day). Such a crowd normally warranted extra strategizing, but today I couldn’t concentrate, and Janis could tell. “Earth to Esme,” she said, holding up a zippered A-line dress with a Scandinavian pattern that could pass for Marimekko. “You just passed this up. Are you okay?”
I reached out and touched the fabric. It was even better up close—no rips or stains, and
it was priced at a mere four dollars. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m a little distracted.”
“Seems like a lot distracted to me,” she said. “And you’ve been like this for a while. What’s going on?”
Where did I start? With Cassandra? Pig? Mom? Dion? I hadn’t even told Janis that I’d met Cassandra’s brother, much less that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or maybe the fact that I could move things with my mind and was kinda, sorta scared of myself now?
Instead I just shrugged and told her I was tired.
Normally, Janis and I could hang for weeks on end and never get tired of each other, but when she dropped me off, I felt relieved and ready for some alone time. In my room, I sat down on my bed and stared at the photo of Mom babysitting. It was my favorite, and I kept it in a frame on my bedside table, next to my collection of half-finished lip balms and half-read paperbacks. I had so many questions, and I knew that if I could only talk to her, I’d probably get some answers. Now no matter what I learned, I just ended up with more questions.
I decided to do what I always did when I was depressed: watch horror movies and try to scare the sadness out of myself. Not because it was October either. Like iced coffee, horror movies are in season all year round. I’d take a scream queen over a manic pixie dream girl any day. I had even made an entire queue of horror movies where the babysitter gets killed, and then a second—and much better—list where the babysitter fights back. That was the kind of movie I needed right then—maybe Halloween so that I could cheer on Laurie Strode, who was about the most badass babysitter to ever read a bedtime story and go blow for blow with a psycho killer.
But of course my laptop was dead.
I dug through my backpack and groaned when I realized my charger was MIA. I hadn’t used it all weekend, which meant that it was probably still in my locker at school. I stuck my hand into the back pocket to double check, but all that was in there was a stack of papers. I pulled them out—the photocopies of Cassandra’s notebook. By now they were kind of wrinkled, and I stared at the top one as I tried to smooth them out on my bed. Cassandra’s mother, or whoever had written them, had had beautiful handwriting. The letters were perfectly slanted and delicate and all connected together in textbook cursive. The top of the page said “Fytó,” and the list underneath read “green jelly beans, a round river rock, rainwater, garden gnome.”
The Babysitters Coven Page 11
