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Charlie was only six years old at the time, but she already knew a lot of useful things.
She knew how to make respectable certificates.
She knew how to blackmail people.
She knew that her parents lead busy lives, the reason why they had little time for her.
And Charlie also knew how to tell a good babysitter from a bad one.
Jacob was the second babysitter. He came after Mrs. Lionel, who had broken her hip. Jacob was fourteen—born fifty-five years after Mrs. Lionel. And he had red hair and freckles and three younger siblings.
Charlie knew that Jacob was a good babysitter because he was funny and nice, but still responsible. He played Charlie’s favorite board game, let her watch the Honey Bear Show, and told her to get down after she climbed on top of the entertainment center.
“It’s dangerous. You could fall off and bump your noggin!” he said, helping her to the floor.
Charlie giggled. “You said noggin!”
Jacob rolled his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“This was a test, by the way,” Charlie told him. “Congratulations, Jacob. You’re a good babysitter.”
She handed him his certificate.
Jacob scratched his head in bewilderment.
“Uh...thanks.”
A year later, when he was fifteen, Jacob decided to stop babysitting.
When Charlie questioned his decision, he told her he was busy with high school stuff.
But the real reason was that he had given in to peer pressure. According to his friends, he shouldn't waste his time babysitting when he could be hanging out with them.
Charlie’s parents were still busy people with busy lives, so a new babysitter would need to be hired.
Ding dong!
Hark! The doorbell rings!
The parents go to answer the door. Mom’s wearing an elegant red dress and black high heels. They make clicking sounds on the floor when she walks.
Dad’s wearing his standard black suit and tie. Charlie sighs at her dad’s boringness.
The new babysitter is wearing jeans, a faded pink shirt, and a jacket over the shirt.
“Hi,” she says after the parents let her in. While the parents talk to the strange teenager, Charlie notices that the babysitter has short hair, about the same length as Jacob’s. But it isn’t red, like Jacob’s. It’s blond, like something new. And different. And strange.
Mom looks at Charlie.
“Charlotte,” she says. “This is your new babysitter,” she says. “Her name is Camille,” she says. “Be a good girl and do what she tells you.”
Then the parents leave.
Camille takes off her jacket and throws it on the couch. Some other things she throws on the couch are a pair of black earbuds, a phone, and herself.
Charlie flips open her black notepad. “How old are you?” she asks the babysitter.
“Fifteen,” Camille grunts, picking up the TV remote.
“That’s a good age,” says Charlie. “Jacob is fifteen too.”
“Whatever,” Camille grunts.
Charlie takes notes on Camille’s age, lack of red hair, and grunting. Then she asks to watch Honey Bear.
“No,” was the grunt. “I’m watching my show.”
“Hmm... aren’t you gonna feed me dinner?”
Grunt.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me to brush my teeth?”
Grunt.
“Aren’t you gonna play cards with me? Dominoes?”
“Oh yay! They have it,” Camille squeals. She’s referring to the new episode of her fave show, Granger High.
Charlie seethes with rage as she jots down some more notes in her notebook.
She heats up leftovers in the microwave and eats dinner. She brushes her teeth. Camille is still lounging on the couch.
“You sicken me,” Charlie whispers. “You are a disgrace to babysitters, especially Jacob. And I shall ruin your chances of any future career in that line. When someone looks up bad-babysitter in the dictionary, your name shall be there!”
Camille laughs at something on the TV. She hasn’t heard Charlie’s scathing reproach since it has been whispered.
Charlie goes to her parents’ room and finds her dad’s phone, which he has forgotten, as usual. She types in the four-digit pin he thinks she doesn’t know and pulls up the camera app. She also finds her mom’s little black voice recorder and pockets it.
Then she goes back to the living-room and takes a secret video of Camille, who is so absorbed in herself and her show and her other teenagery stuff that she doesn’t notice.
In the video, Charlie makes sure to include evidence of Camille watching a cheesy teenager show, grunting, and yakking about nonsense to her friends on her cell phone.
Her plan is to inform Camille of the video’s existence and threaten to show the parents unless Camille promises to never come back (also to never babysit for anyone ever again maybe, depending on how scared the babysitter gets).
“And if you tell anyone about this—anyone? Well, then the parents are gonna learn who you really are, capeesh?”
Camille stares at the kid with newfound fear. Her lips tremble.
Then she bursts out laughing.
“Ha ha hah! Oh gosh, you’re so funny!”
“This is no joke!” Charlie barks angrily. Here, let me show you!”
She pulls out the phone and types in the pin and goes to the video player and yelps as Camille snatches the phone from her unsuspecting hands.
“Now, you little brat! Let’s see who’s boss around here.” Camille quickly deletes the video, cackling like a diseased maniac.
“Stop! Please!” Charlie cries.
“It’s too late! laughs the evil babysitter.
“But I wanna bedtime story!”
Camille unpauses her show and grunts, “Get lost.”
Charlie does “get lost”. But soon she comes back.
“Before you deleted it, I copied the video to my flash drive,” Charlie says quietly. “In addition, I now have a recording of you calling me a brat with me crying in the background. That has also been copied to my flash drive. Since I have no use for rotten babysitters, and since you will never find the flash drive, I suggest you comply with my demands.”
One other thing Charlie knows, at the tender age of seven, is to always have a backup plan and to always make copies of her important files.