Too Old For A Babysitter
By Penny Colman
Copyright © 2012 by Penny Colman
www.pennycolman.com
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Dear Readers,
I’m a lucky writer who has a wonderful friend who is a terrific teacher who read Too Old for a Babysitter to the students in her third grade class. After each chapter, the students wrote their response, which the teacher sent to me. The students’ comments helped me as I revised the story. The teacher’s name is Marie Russell and the students are: Ryan Alwi, Diana Bocsha. Valerie Cardona, Rachael Cheung, Zachary Deng, Gloria Echevarria, Julia Fields, Christy Guan, Ally Guralnik, Benjamin Hammond, Erwin Laut, Pamela Li, Chrissie Mar, Brendan Ofori, Carolina Padilla, Akshay Raju, Samantha Rios, Daniel Sahr, Emily Salas, Amara Shein, Nicole Shirman, Tasnimul Taher, Ariel Tamayev, Mia Vogel, Walter Vogelmann, Jing-Mae Wang, Kathryn Wang. Thank you for being such thoughtful readers! I am so happy that Too Old for a Babysitter made you laugh!
Your friend,
Penny Colman
p.s. Remember I was using my imagination when I wrote this story, so have fun reading about the kids’ funny, foolish, scary antics in the book, but don’t do them! You can write to me at
[email protected] Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Dad Goes Away
Chapter 2 Toby and Cake on the Ceiling
Chapter 3 Cindy and Singing on the Roof
Chapter 4 Billy and Upside Out and Down
Chapter 5 Mrs. Rizzoli and Milk on the Grass
Chapter 6 The BIG Birthday Surprise
Chapter 7 A Washcloth, Heating Pad, and Warm Socks
Chapter 8 All of Us Under the Bed
About the Author
Chapter One
Dad Goes Away
“We’re too old for a babysitter!” I said and grabbed another piece of chicken - -the leg, my favorite. “Besides Toby Morrison is a jerk! He teases us. Eats all the good food. Tells us we’re brats.”
“He’s very nice and polite to me,” Mom snapped back in reply. “And, if you don’t like the word babysitter, we’ll call him a kidsitter.”
“That’s stupid!” I said with a snort and tore off a piece of chicken like a dog yanking meat off a bone.
“Don’t get smart with me,” Jane Imogene Gambol,” Mom said as she shook her finger in my direction. “Toby Morrison is babysitting you. He starts tomorrow. I’m not
leaving you kids alone all summer.”
I knew better than to talk back. When Mom calls me by my whole name - - Jane Imogene Gambol (usually she calls me Jig from my initials) - - I know I’m cruising for big trouble. Big trouble like going to my room without dessert. And there was no way I was going to miss getting my share of triple chocolate whipped cream cake that Mom had brought home from the bakery.
“I’m old enough to stay alone, too!” said my brother Tag (whose whole name is Timothy Anthony Gambol) with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.
“Tag, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mom said as she frowned and rubbed her fingers across her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut.
“But, I’m ten now and I don’t need a babysitter,” Tag replied in a voice that sounded like he was stamping his feet. He blinked his big round brown eyes and wrinkled his banana - shaped nose.
“And we’re going to be twelve on August 6th!” added Judith Ambrosia Gambol, better known as Jag, my twin sister with the same green eyes, curly brown hair, and nose sprinkled with freckles. I laughed as she bobbed her head like an exclamation point.
“No! And that’s final! Toby is coming. Now, let’s have dessert,” Mom said in her this – discussion – is – over - voice.
Every summer before this one, Dad had stayed home with us during school vacation. He could do that because he was a teacher who taught English at Mountainside High School. Mom couldn’t because she got only two weeks vacation from her job at the bank. But just before this summer vacation, Dad had told us, “I’ve been accepted at the summer writing institute for English teachers at the University of California.”
“California! Wow! Hollywood, Disneyland, the ocean!” Tag had shouted. “When do we leave?”
“I’m sorry to say that it’s not we; it’s just me,” Dad replied. “There is just enough money for me to go.”
“Then don’t go!” Tag exclaimed.
“I have to go,” Dad said. “I’ve been asked to teach a nonfiction writing class next year at Mountainside and this institute will help me be a better teacher.”
“But what about us?” Jag asked.
“Yes, what about us?” I added. “WHO is going to stay with us?”
“A babysitter,” Dad answered.
‘”NO,” I yelled. “We’re too old for a babysitter!”
“Jane Imogene Gambol,” Mom had said, “that’s enough! Dad and I have discussed this, and we think you all still need a babysitter. So we’ve hired Toby Morrison.”
“NOT him,” I said with a groan and slid down in my chair.
“NOT Toby Morrison,” Tag shouted and jumped up from the table.
“NOT . . .” Jag started to say.
“That’s enough! Enough! Toby Morrison is coming and that is final!” Dad said as he raised one bushy eyebrow, narrowed his gray eyes, and replaced his usually cheerful expression with a stern one. “Unless,” I said under my breath, “unless, I can get you and Mom to change your minds.”
Sad to say, I didn’t figure out a way to get Mom and Dad to change their minds before Dad left on a rainy day.
“Even the sky is crying because you’re leaving,” I had told him.
“Hey, Jig, that sounds like a line from a love story,” he replied with a laugh. “You’re a writer!”
“That’s not funny,” I responded, trying not to cry.
“I’m sorry. I love you all very much, and I’m going to miss you.”
“So, why are you going?” I asked for the millionth time.
Making his voice sound very patient, Dad tried to explain one more time: “I need to learn how to teach my students how to write.”
“Phooey, they already know how to write.”
“Yes, but I mean write nonfiction articles, profiles, and essays.”
“That’s easy,” I said in a whisper voice that Dad couldn’t hear.
“And spooky, scary true stories that will make you feel like there are spiders scurrying up your spine,” Dad had continued, as he wiggled his fingers like spider legs. Then he grabbed all of us in a bear hug. “And remember, I’ll be back in time for the twins’ birthday.”
Mom took a couple of vacation days to stay with us after Dad left. But tomorrow she had to go back to work. Maybe she thought that having triple chocolate whipped cream cake for dessert would make us forget about Toby Morrison. But it didn’t, not at all. That night I was awake for a long time, thinking - - what could I do to prove that we were all too old for a babysitter?
Chapter Two
Toby and Cake on the Ceiling
The next morning Mom left for work early. Toby was waiting in the kitchen when I came downstairs. The sight of him made me shiver.
“You again!” I said and glared at him.
“Yep, me again,” he answered with a creepy grin that made one side of his upper lip curl out. “Watching you brats is no picnic. But it sure beats bagging groceries at the supermarket all summer.”
“I thought you wouldn’t come back after the last time,” I said. Then feeling smug, I added, “You remember - - the time you got cake in your hair.”
“I remember,” he replied. “And, did it occur to you that maybe I’m here to get revenge?”
“Just try it,” Tag said as he walked into the kitchen with Jag right behind him.
“Just watch me,” Toby answered in a voice that gave me goose bumps.
Actually the cake in Toby’s hair was an accident. Sort of. It happened the last time he babysat a month ago, the day after Tag’s birthday.
Tag had saved one piece of his birthday cake. A beautiful piece of chocolate cake with mocha frosting and two blue frosting flowers with green leaves.
“This is mine,” Tag had told Toby. “You keep your hands off it.”
Tag had reason to worry. Toby ate all the time. And Mom and Dad didn’t discourage him either.
“The refrigerator is full, Toby,” they always said before they went out. “Help yourself.” And he did - - sliced turkey, leftover meatloaf, cold spaghetti, pickles, ice cream. Anything and everything.
Once I took a bite out of a leftover slice of pizza before I put it in the refrigerator. I thought that would stop Toby from eating it. But it didn’t.
“Hey, thanks for saving me a piece of pizza,” Toby had said when he spied it in the refrigerator.
“It’s mine. See my bite,” I said.
“That doesn’t bother me.”
“But I spit on it!”
“Mmmmmm. Spit and pepperoni sound good to me.”
Hearing that just as she walked into the kitchen,” Jag said, “You’re disgusting!”
Toby stuck out his tongue at her. His pointy tongue covered with tomato sauce, cheese, and pizza crust.
“Ugggh! I’m going to throw up,” Jag said.
“Don’t,” Tag shouted as he ran in from the other room where he had overheard the whole thing. “He’d probably eat that too.”
“Yeah, I probably would,” Toby said with a laugh. Than he ate the whole piece of pizza. My piece. In three bites.
After that scene, we pretty much gave up trying to stop Toby from eating anything he wanted. But a last piece of birthday cake was different. I knew that Tag was determined to save it for himself. After all it was his cake from his birthday. That’s why he had warned Toby. And why he put a sign on the cake: THIS IS MINE. TOUCH IT AND YOU DIE!!!!
Toby read the sign and laughed.
“Thanks for saving me a piece,” he had said and grabbed the plate.
“NO!” Tag screamed and snatched the cake off the plate.
“Give me that!” Toby yelled.
“No! It’s mine!”
“We’ll see about that,” Toby bellowed and lunged at Tag.
Tag was stuffing the cake in his mouth when Toby tackled him and pinned him up against the wall. Tag’s mouth and hands were covered with cake and frosting.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Toby warned him.
“Oh, no!” Tag replied. “Watch me!” And in a flash he stuck his cake-and- frosting-covered fingers into Toby’s hair and rubbed hard against Toby’s scalp.
“Ugggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Toby yowled.
Tag wiggled free and ran outside. He knew Toby wouldn’t dare fight him where other people might see him. Jag and I were right behind him, laughing so hard we tripped down the steps and rolled in the grass.
“You’ll pay for this,” we heard Toby shout before he slammed the bathroom door.
That was the last time Toby had babysat us, and one of the reasons I didn’t want him to babysit again. In addition to the fact that I thought we were too old for a babysitter. But since Mom and Dad didn’t think he was a jerk (of course, we never told them about the pizza and cake and other stuff) and since they didn’t think we were old enough to stay alone, here he was again. Threatening revenge.
“I’m not scared of you,” Tag said as he walked by Toby and opened the refrigerator.
“Hey, what’s that?” Toby asked looking over Tag’s shoulder.
“Nothing,” Tag replied as he moved his body to block Toby’s view.
Toby pushed him aside. “Well, look at this,” he said reaching into the refrigerator. “More cake!”
“That isn’t for you,” I said and grabbed for the leftover triple chocolate whipped cream cake. “Mom saved it for dinner tonight.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t eat the whole thing,” Toby said holding the plate out of reach above my head. “Just most of it,” he added. “But before I do, Tag needs to wash his hair.” And with that Toby lowered the plate just enough to scoop up a hunk of cake.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. For a second Jag and I stood frozen. Tag crouched down like a boxer.
“Out of the way, kiddies,” Toby said waving the glob of cake. “This is for Tag.”
Without thinking, I dove toward Toby and grabbed onto one of his legs. In a flash, Jag grabbed his other leg. Tag swung his arm around and smacked it up against Toby’s arm. Really hard. Whooooosh, the cake flew out of Toby’s hand. Straight up in the air. Right up to the kitchen ceiling. Splat! The cake hit the ceiling. And stayed there!
“The cake is on the ceiling,” Jag said looking up in amazement.
“On the ceiling!” I echoed, shaking my head.
“Your Mom will kill you,” Toby said.
“Us!” we all shouted. “You did it!”
“She’ll believe me. Not you.” Toby said. “Remember, I’m the babysitter. Oh, yes, sweet revenge! I get to watch your mother kill you.”
Just then the cake fell off the ceiling. Every bit of it came unstuck. In a hunk it fell straight down. Right on top of Toby’s head.
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! Not again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Toby shouted in a rage.
“Oh, yes, again!” we said jumping around like cheerleaders.
“That’s it! That’s it! I quit,” Toby shouted. Grabbing a towel he tried to wipe the cake out of his hair. “What a mess! What a mess!” he sputtered. “I’m going home to take a shower. Tell your mother I won’t be back.”
“Yes! We did it!” I cheered as Toby stormed off. “We got rid of Toby!”
“True,” Tag said. “But I bet Mom finds another babysitter.
“Not if we can convince her that we’re old enough to take care of ourselves,” I said.
Chapter Three
Cindy and Singing on the Roof
Mom couldn’t understand why Toby quit. She called him but all he said was, “I’m working at the grocery store starting tomorrow.” She kept asking us questions.
“Tag, did you have a fight with Toby?”
“Jag, how about you? Did you tease him?”
“And, you Jig, do you know why Toby quit?”
We just shook our heads and shrugged our shoulders. We were glad Toby was gone, but we weren’t glad about lying to Mom. Jag had wanted to tell her what had happened.
“No, we can’t tell Mom. She won’t understand. She thinks Toby is nice,” I said.
“But we’ve never told her what he is really like,” Jag replied.
“That’s true,” Tag said. But he’s gone so what difference would it make now?
“Yes, he’s gone,” I said. “Now’s our chance to convince Mom that we’re old enough to stay alone.”
During dinner, we tried. But Mom was still asking us questions about Toby. Questions we answered with a lot of shrugs and “I don’t know.” Finally Mom said, as she rubbed her fingers across her forehead, “Well, I guess all I can do is find another babysitter.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mom,” I quickly said and patted her shoulder. “We’re old enough to stay alone.”
“Definitely,” Jag chimed in. “Remember, we were fine alone today after Toby left.”
“Yes,” Tag added. “And I wasn’t even scared.”
“Well . . . “ Mom said with a pause as she looked at us.
I held my breath.
“Well . . .” she said again.
I squeezed my eyes and concentrated. Hard. Really hard trying to put my thoughts into Mom’s brain.
“Maybe you’re right,” Mom said.
I concentrated harder. Repeating the words over and over in my brain - - we’re too old for a babysitter . . . . we’re too old for a babysitter . . . . we’re too old for a babysitter.” Harder and harder I concentrated on zapping Mom with my thoughts.
“Perhaps we should talk about it,” Mom said. “But, first, Jig, go get the triple chocolate whipped cream cake for dessert.”
WHAT! My brain froze. I sucked in my breath.
“Jig, please go get the cake.”
‘Ah, hum, well,” I said quietly and slowly. “Hum, uh . . . .”
“Jig, I asked you to get the cake. Now, please . . . .“
“Uh, uh, uh . . . . ”
“Jane Imogene Gambol, what is your problem?” Mom asked.
“Well, ah, ah there isn’t any cake.”
“What do you mean there isn’t any cake. Half of it was leftover from yesterday. Remember, I told you to save it for tonight. What happened?”
Just as Tag kicked me under the table, I said, “I ate it.”
“All of it!”
“Oh, I had some,” Jag added.
“Ouch!” Tag said when I kicked him back. “Ah, so did I.”
“And you think that you’re old enough to stay alone when you can’t even stay out of the cake!” Mom said as she pushed her chair away from the table. “Clean up! I’m going to try to find another babysitter for tomorrow.”
“We’re sorry!” I cried out.
“It’s too late to be sorry,” Mom said as she picked up the phone, “much too late.”
The look in Mom’s eyes told me it was too late. All I could hope for was that she couldn’t find someone. But, no such luck.
“Cindy Singer is coming tomorrow,” Mom informed us before we went to sleep. “Please be nice to her. It’s hard to find good sitters.”
We tried. We really made an effort to be nice to Cindy. But it wasn’t easy. She was so annoying.