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nicely.”
    “I’m going to work on it now!” I grabbed my book bag and headed for the stairs. Remembering something I’d left undone, I returned to the kitchen. “I forgot to tell you guys…hey, Toad?” I pulled an envelope from my bag and handed it to my mother. “Your grades came today!” I dashed to my room as the blood drained from my brother’s face.
    That’s how in the summer of 1983 I became known as Babysitter Über Alles. I was in demand, but not because of my tremendous prowess with children. I’ve never been great with kids—they are self-centered, attention-grabbing, illogical, sticky little beasts with terrible taste in TV shows. 24
    I was nice to my charges for the most part, but any maternal stirrings I might have had were squelched by their shrill voices and garbled English, which I found annoying, not endearing. Don’t get me started on their rambling stories and barrages of precocious questions. “Jen, why do the birds sing? Jen, why does the grass grow? Jen, how do sharks sleep? Jen, why is the sky blue?” The sky is blue because God hates you, OK? Worst of all, kids always seemed to think it was all about them.
    And everyone knows it’s really all about me.
    The sole reason I was popular was because I tackled housework without being asked. My clients knew that upon their return, they’d find gleaming appliances, empty sinks, and pristine carpets. I quickly learned that elbow grease equaled more penny loafers and oxford cloth shirts, and the more I had, the more Shelly would turn pink and green with envy. Heh.
    Much as children annoyed me, dealing with them was a necessary evil. Once one young insurgent, Daniel Bedlamski, wouldn’t get out of the pool, forcing me to enact Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #95: First Ask Nicely and Precisely. I crafted these rules of engagement to better deal with Danny, as arguing with him instead of scrubbing had cost me more than one tip.
    Prior to his refusal, I’d been perusing for the umpteenth time my new personal bible and style guide, The Official Preppy Handbook. I flipped through it while keeping one eye on Danny, as I figured his drowning might negatively affect my compensation. But then he wouldn’t get out of the pool, so I closed the book and headed toward the water.
    I swiftly removed my Bass Weejuns and argyle socks. I cuffed my khaki walking shorts, climbed down the first two steps in the shallow end, and met Danny’s gaze. I smiled and adjusted my strand of pearls. 25 He splashed a bit and grinned back at me, his white-blond hair slick with water, cheeks pink and freckled, and cerulean blue eyes dancing. Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #37: The More Angelic They Look, the More Evil They Are. With Danny’s cherubic features, he was the devil incarnate.
    Sweetly, I said, “Danny, honey, I asked you to please get out of the pool.” I’d taken to calling the kids endearing pet names instead of swearing since I’d been fired for calling Markie Everhart a “fucktard.” 26
    Danny shook his head wildly and droplets of water made patterns on my linen shorts. He squealed and shrieked while I smiled more widely through gritted teeth. (Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #421: Assume a Healthy Glow, Agitation Never Show. ) I flipped up the collars on my layered polo shirts and tilted my head in the trademark flirty manner Britney Spears would eventually steal from me.
    I said, “I bet you’re having so much fun right now that you don’t want to stop.” He laughed and splashed some more, this time speckling the natty tortoiseshell Ray•Bans that I’d swiped off Todd’s dresser earlier that day.
    I glanced at my cheap Timex fitted with a grosgrain watchband. I needed to get that brat out of the pool tout de suite if I was going to tackle the sink full of dishes. I was counting on Mrs. Bedlamski’s tip. The club pro at the local golf course was holding a particular Izod for me, but only until the end of the afternoon.
    And this was no ordinary polo. It was