Patreon Exclusive - "Scents" - Part 1

January 12

Historic Roser Park, St Petersburg FL

Sally wears her red Azalea Ridge High (Go Panthers!) hoodie to her first babysitting job.

“You’ll want to look sharp,” her mother advised. “Responsible.”

Sally is responsible. Sixteen years old, old enough to register for the Bambino app, with her mother’s permission. She padded her profile with her GPA and college plans, both to make up for her lack of babysitting experience and also the fact that her selfies always make her look like a tween.

Sure enough, for two long weeks, no one as much as messaged her on the platform. And then, when Sally was ready to give up and find a different line of work, the Johnsons had requested her for tonight.

It’s January, but it’s warm. It’s Florida, after all. Her mother’s Honda Accord parked neatly in the driveway, Sally presses the Ring bell and looks up and down the tree-lined brick street. Roser Park is an affluent neighborhood, managing to be simultaneously secluded and right next to the ocean but at the same time. This is the kind of community that Sally will live in when she’s a doctor, when she’s a success. She imagines her mother coming to visit, and she will be proud of her. As for her father? Sally doesn’t give him a second thought.

She can hear the doorbell ringing inside the home, but no one has answered. Should she try again? She pulls on the drawstrings of her red top, and she is well aware that she looks younger than her years. Four feet, ten inches tall, a barely noticeable chest. At ninety pounds, she can pass for 12 years old. With her hair in pigtails and face free from make-up, she can look even younger. With that in mind, she has let her blond hair fall around her face tonight and applied the faintest pink tint to her lips.

How many children do the Johnson’s have? The request didn’t say – just a time and an amount of money that Sally couldn’t imagine turning down.

What if there’s an older child, a precocious tween?

You’re not the boss of me!

Sally will have to be assertive, especially with children who can smell weakness and indecision a mile away.

How does Sally smell? Of sweet vanilla, thanks to the perfume she received from her mother for Christmas. Rachel Zoe, Empowered. Talk about sending a message!

Still no answer to the doorbell. She’s tempted to check her Instagram, but she won’t pull out her phone and start tapping and scrolling. She won’t be caught on camera as a distracted, frivolous teen. She stands up straight, hands at her sides, ready for action.

Sally takes an empowering breath. It’s just babysitting, how hard could it be? She touches the log on her sweatshirt. Go Panthers! She pushes her shoulders back and reaches for the bell.

“Hi!” the Ring announces, catching her by surprise.

“Oh! H-hi!,” stammers Sally. She steps back and waves at the camera, feels an obvious blush rise in her cheeks, and then adds, “I’m Sally, from Bambino.” She clears her throat. “I’m your sitter?” she adds, and blushes more deeply at her doubtful tone.

“Of course.” A woman’s voice, presumably Mrs. Johnson. “Be right there!” She sounds confident, she sounds like she knows what she’s doing. And why shouldn’t she?

There’s the sound of footsteps, heels clicking on a wooden floor, and then the front door opens. “Welcome!” Mrs. Johnson is tall, over six feet in her heels, wearing a camel-colored ribbed sweater dress and matching brown suede booties.

In her tennis shoes, Sally feels even smaller than usual, and when Mrs. Johnson declares, “I’m a hugger!” all Sally can do is accept the squeeze, the woman wrapping Sally up in her arms. For a moment, for several, Sally is enclosed in the embrace, the soft warmth of Mrs. Johnson’s dress, and she can well imagine how the kids must feel, getting cuddles from their mother.

“Look at you,” says Mrs. Johnson, taking her by the hand and bringing her inside. “Aren’t you just pretty as a picture.”

Sally manages a faint smile. “Thank you.” And then, because it’s what Sally knows people always say, she says, “You have a beautiful home.” In this case, it’s true; the Johnsons have a modern, elegant house.

Mrs. Johnson smiles and pats Sally’s arm. The gesture seems a little dismissive, and then she calls out “Honey! She’s here!”

Sally looks around for signs of the husband. From the living room, perhaps, or down the hall where the kitchen might be.

Instead, a door Sally hadn’t noticed opens and a man wearing a facemask and surgical gloves appears. He closes the door behind him and pulls off the mask. “Hey there!” He grins at Sally and holds up his mask. “Got a little damp problem in the basement I’m working on.”

He walks briskly over to join them. He’s a couple inches taller than the wife, and broad, showing his shoulders and muscles in a blue polo shirt. Is he a hugger as well? Sally takes a step back. He could lift her up, carry her like a small child.

Mr. Johnson peels off the rubber gloves, stuffs them into his back pocket, and looks Sally up and down. “So you’re the girl,” he says finally. “I remember your picture.”

Sally nods. “Yes, sir.” She waits for either parent to tell her about their kids.

Mr. Johnson keeps looking at her. “Let me guess…you must be in…hmmm, sixth or seventh grade?”

Sally blushes. “I’m a ju…junior.” She points at the front of her hoodie. “At Azalea.”

The man blinks. “Right. Yes, your profile said sixteen, but…”

Sally wrinkles her nose. Is he going to want to see her ID? “I drove here,” she says.  “My car’s in your driveway.”

“Adam,” Mrs. Johnson says to husband, “it’s all on her profile, remember? She’s busy preparing for SATs, building up extracurriculars for her college applications.”

The man nods. “Right, right.”

Sally watches as the couple exchange a knowing look. What, do they think she’s arrogant? Oh God, Sally blushes anew as she remembers; she even posted her GPA!

She looks down at her tennis shoes. Still, they must have liked what she wrote, otherwise they wouldn’t have chosen her, right?

She clears her throat. “I just wanted to say, I know I don’t have a lot of reviews or anything-“

“Zero, in actual fact,” Mr. Johnson interjects, but not unkindly.

Sally exhales. “Yes. Well, this is my first time, and it’s hard to get a good rating without getting work, but I can’t get work without a good rating, you know?”

“Chicken and egg,” says Mrs. Johnson with sympathy in her voice.

“Catch-22,” Mr. Johnson says.

“Yes. So, um, so thank you for booking me. I won’t let you down.”

Mr. Johnson nods with confidence. “Absolutely.” He grins. “You’re kind of perfect.”

His wife nods as well. “Perfect.” She reaches out and strokes Sally’s hair, an intimate act that lasts just a couple of seconds but makes Sally want to protest. Is the woman always so touchy-feely?

“I can’t wait for you to settle in.” She looks to her husband and then back at Sally. “We just want you to feel comfortable.”

Sally coughs. “Thank you. I mean, I do. So, how many children…”

“Down to business!” Mr. Johnson produces a booming laugh. “Just one, a little girl. She’s sweet as can be.” He winks at Sally. “Want to see her room? She has some adorable outfits, and some lovely dolls.”

“Sure.” What she really wants to see is the girl herself. Just one child is probably good news, and ‘sweet’ is good as well. Although sometimes parents tell the biggest lies about their own kids.

“Let’s go,” says Mr. Johnson. He gestures for Sally to follow him upstairs.

Sally watches as Mrs. Johnson heads in the other direction. “You go upstairs, honey,” says Mrs. Johnson, “I’m just cleaning up the kitchen.”

“Okay,” replies Sally.

On the staircase, Mr. Johnson says, “It’s great that you’re ambitious. I was a chemical engineering major at MIT, now making good money with therapeutic gases.”

“Therapeutic?”

“Oh sure,” he says. “We’re working on gases that can relieve anxiety, improve concentration. Beta-testing one that can open up neural pathways and basically increase intelligence.” He points to the top of the stairs, as if there might be confusion about where they’re heading. “Got one that lowers it too,” he says off-handedly, “but that’s still in beta-testing.”

Sally frowns. “Why would anyone want to –“

“Of course,” Mr. Johnson cuts her off, “getting what you want is more than about a high GPA.”

This sounds like the conversation Sally had with her counselor. Back on firmer ground, she replies, “Yes, sir. I’ll need good SATs.”

Mr. Johnson chuckle as they reach the top of the staircase. “It’s = more than grades and test scores, honey.”

“I know.” She tries to keep the impatience from her tone. “I’m working on my extracurriculars, volunteering at the Pet Pal shelter, on the debate team.” She starts to count on her fingers. “I’ll have essays, recommendations. And the babysitting as well.”

Mr. Johnson doesn’t respond to any of that. He leads her down the hall and stops outside a door decorated with a wooden sign surrounded by painted balloons and the word, ‘Addison.’

At least now Sally knows the child’s name.

He stands by the door but doesn’t open it.

Sally looks up at the man and can’t help noticing his hesitant expression. As if he’s having second thoughts about her.

But what is there to doubt? She has a 3.8 GPA, she is a girl with her sights on one of the top universities and the scholarships to go with it. Because she will be a successful doctor, not a single parent like her mother, struggling to pay the bills with a series of low-paying jobs.

“Truth is, honey,” says Mr. Johnson finally, and he must have made up his mind because now he’s smiling again. “Looking the way you do? All you need to get by is a sweet disposition.”

Sally’s mouth drops open “Excuse me?”

He sighs happily. “As soon as I saw your profile pic, I thought to myself, ‘Cute as a button, she’ll do just fine’.” He winks down at her. “My advice, sweetheart? Don’t worry about your test scores, just be your adorable little self.”

Seriously, what kind of parents choose a babysitter based on her looks? And what if all the parents are just as frivolous?

The Johnsons are just one more pair of adults who see Sally and treat her like a child. Just like her father, before he left. She resists the urge to bunch her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. Instead, she puts her hands on her hips.

She says slowly, “You booked me because of my picture? That’s all it was?”

Mr. Johnson beams at her. “Right hair, right eye color. And so petite! We’ve been looking for ages, and here you are, out of the blue like that.” He nods. “Really, dressed in the right outfit, you could pass for eleven, maybe even ten.”

Sally feels her jaw harden. She isn’t here to be humiliated. She should go to the app and cancel the booking, she can rate the parents, warn other sitters. She’s about to reach for her phone when she considers what this means for her own Bambino rating. Zero stars after one booking? She might as well just give up now!

She’s not the type to give up on anything. The Johnsons might be eccentric, verging on the offensive, but she can handle them. Just like her mother says; Sally’s got a lifetime ahead of her of managing other people. Let’s start now.

She manages to keep the frustration out of her voice. “I’d like to see Addison’s room. Please.”

Mr. Johnson smiles back. “Good girl.” He pushes open Addison’s door and then he puts a hand on Sally’s shoulder. “Hey, you look kinda fierce. Take a deep breath.” And then he waves her inside.

Sally walks in to find the bedroom of a very young girl, a preschooler or even a toddler. She doesn’t take a deep breath, but she does notice a faint scent. Cherries? Sally wonders if the little girl has a fruit-scented bubble bath or shampoo. Will Addison need a bath tonight? She has so many questions to ask the parents before they leave for the evening, and all they’ve talked about is Sally.

She walks over to the bed while Mr. Johnson stands in the doorway. “Cute room, right?” he says. “We really want you to be comfortable, and we didn’t know if you were a girly-girl or what, so it’s really a mix of the pink and sparkly and some gender-neutral things as well.”

Sally shakes her head. Isn’t that what the wife said earlier. Comfortable?

Why do they care if she likes the décor? What about what Addison likes?

More to the point, where is Addison? Why isn’t she here, playing with the plastic tea set with the chunky handles, or the See ‘n Say with farm animals placed on the bookcase alongside a set of board books?

The bed is a twin, the comforter festooned with fairies waving magic wands.  Propped against the pillow is a doll in a floral print dress with a matching scrunchie in her hair. So much for gender neutral. All the same, Sally easily imagines Addison looking forward to being with her doll again. To take care of her, to give her the sweetest cuddles.

All of this looks appropriate for a toddler or preschooler, but when she comes across a set of fleecy pink pajamas folded at the foot of the bed, Sally can’t help noticing that they’re sized for a much older child.

She picks up the pajamas and asks, “How old is Addison? I was guessing two or three, but…” She looks back at Mr. Johnson and sees that he has put a facemask over his nose and mouth. She opens her mouth to ask another, more pressing question.

“Addy’s your age,” he replies, his voice muffled by the mask. “Addy’s your everything.”

Sally takes a step towards him. “What are you talking-“

He points towards the bed. “Put on your jammies, honey, and then it’s story-time, okay?”

Sally should run, but she doesn’t. She just watches as Mr. Johnson steps back into the hallway and closes the door behind him.

The door shuts, followed by a clicking sound. 

To be continued...