Girls Only! (31 page)

Mom was obviously proud for the chance to crow about Manda. “You should’ve seen her when she was a little thing . . . skiing down the easy green slopes in no time at all. I taught her almost as soon as she could
walk and, well, you know the rest.” Mom beamed as she related Manda’s past athletic history.

When the “stop” button was pressed, both women pleaded for Manda to rewind and show it again. So she did. Her mom kept going on about how she’d used her ski edges in dealing with the icy surface. “You’re looking good, Miranda!”

“Thanks.” She smiled at her mother. “Since you couldn’t go to the mountain, I had to bring it to you.”

“And it was wonderful,” Mom said, her eyes shining. “I loved every one hundredth of a second of it.”

Manda thought about the precision of speed. One hundredth of a second could mean the difference between first and second place. She fully intended to cut off another full second from her present time. She must do it before competition!

She began to rewind the short video and was getting ready to eject when the nurses came back. They wanted to see it, too. So she showed the video once more, insisting on the “full treatment”—the harmonica tunes played live and in person.

Ethel was the first to mention it. “All of us should go and cheer Manda on at the Downhill Classic. What do you say?”

The nurses glanced at the woman, nodding their heads kindly. Ethel Norton was in no shape to travel even the short distance to Dressel Hills. She’d had her share
of physical ailments, the most recent being her knee-replacement surgery.

“If nothing else, you’ll get the play-by-play from me,” Mom spoke up. “I’ll come visit you whenever I can.”

“You’ll tell me all about Manda’s win?” Ethel asked, her watery eyes pleading.

“I promise,” Mom said.

When all the talk of skiing and competition died down, Manda brought up the subject of the sitter interview. The one with Tarin’s father. “Ever hear of a formal interview for a baby-sitting job?” she asked her mom.

Mom glanced at the ceiling. “Let me think,” she said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did conduct an interview . . . several different times.” She glanced at Manda. “You were just a toddler when I had to go back to work. I never would’ve considered leaving you with a sitter I didn’t know inside and out.”

Auntie Ethel was getting a kick out of the story. She’d folded her arms low at her waist, like an awkward Girl Scout, hanging on to every word.

“Well, if you interviewed formally, I guess it’s okay,” Manda remarked. She couldn’t help but notice the similarities between her mom’s gentle, almost soft-spoken approach and Mr. Greenberg’s. Of course, she didn’t
really
know the man. But what she’d seen so far, she admired. A lot.

She decided on the spot that the interview should be
as much about herself—and her mom—as it was about Tarin the Terrible. And his wonderful father.

How to pull off such an interview, she had no clue.

I’ll play it by ear
, she thought.
Like my harmonica
.

First thing tomorrow afternoon, she would call for her appointment. Secretly, she was counting the hours.

No, the seconds . . .

Reach for the Stars

Chapter Nine

Manda met Suzy Buchanan at Livvy’s locker. Suzy was a short, perky girl with stick-straight brunette hair. Shiny clean, her hair framed her face, falling past her shoulders.

“You remember Miranda Garcia, don’t you?” Livvy said to Suzy, glancing at Manda.

Suzy nodded, wearing a smile. “Hi,” she said. “We were in second grade together. Remember?”

Now that Suzy said it, Manda did remember. Fuzzy memories were clearing up fast. “We sat together in reading group sometimes, right?”

Suzy’s big brown eyes widened. “Weren’t we the Blue Jays, or something feathery?”

“Hey, you’re right!” Manda was aware again of Suzy’s winning smile. Here was the girl who’d graced the
art room walls with smiley faces cut from construction paper. A birthday surprise for their second-grade teacher.

Livvy closed her locker door. “Manda’s thinking of interviewing for a baby-sitting job. It seems Tarin Greenberg has run out of sitters. Again,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “Any advice?” Livvy spoke directly to Suzy but ended by looking at Manda with big eyes.

Suzy frowned. “Better think twice about sitting for him.”

“I’m not thinking,” Manda replied. “I’ve already decided.”

Suzy’s smile flickered and died. “Well, I think you might be sorry.”

“Really?” Manda was all ears. “Tell me more.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Suzy continued, “the kid’s a sitter’s worst nightmare.”

“He seems harmless.” She thought of her interaction with the boy at ski classes. Sure, he was a clown . . . even a show-off. But a nightmare?

Suzy scanned the row of lockers—up one side and down the other. Like she was about to tell an enormous secret. “Tarin’s smarter than all of us put together. No lie!”

Manda laughed. “You’re not telling me anything new!”

Suzy was shaking her head. “His IQ is over 140.”

Manda gulped, looking at Livvy for some moral
support. “Is
this
what you were talking about on the phone? You actually knew all this heavy IQ stuff about Tarin?” she asked.

“Nothing too specific.” Livvy twitched her nose. “But now you know something
solid
.”

The bell rang.

“Consider yourself warned,” Suzy said, shifting her books. “You’d have to tie me up and drag me over there. I’d
never
willingly sit for that boy again. He reads dictionaries for entertainment and talks in riddles. And that’s not all!”

“What else?” she asked.

“He knows three languages . . . at least!” Suzy said.

Three?

Manda was impressed. “Wow, maybe he’ll teach me one.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Livvy said, eyes flashing.

“It’s true. Tarin can read three languages . . . that I know of,” added Suzy.

Manda tossed her hair and shrugged. “Are we talking counting in a foreign language and easy stuff like that? Because I was saying the Greek alphabet when I was four years old.”

“Way
more
than that,” Suzy said. “I’m telling you, the kid’s an undersized egghead.”

Students around them slammed their lockers and hurried down the hall in response to the bell. Manda, Livvy,
and Suzy parted ways, shuffling in different directions. No formal good-byes were said.

But Manda wasn’t discouraged. She was looking forward to the interview. In fact, she could hardly wait.

After school, Jenna Song made herself a human blockade at Manda’s locker. The Korean-American gymnast, petite but strong, held out her sturdy arms and stared Manda down with her dark eyes.

“What’re you doing?” Manda asked. She reached around her friend to get to her locker combination.

“I’m here to talk some sense into you, girl.”

“Let me guess. You don’t think I should waste my time sitting for Tarin Greenberg—”

“Since you have an important skiing competition coming up,” interrupted Jenna, finishing the sentence.

Jenna had no business interfering like this. “I’ll handle my skiing, you do your thing in gymnastics,” Manda protested.

Lowering her arms, Jenna gave in. “Fine. Do what you want, but don’t come crying to me when you don’t place at Dressel Hills.”

Manda shut her friend out. “I know what I can and can’t do.” It was a statement—cold and probably a little
abrupt. But nobody was going to call the shots for her. Not even the president of the
Girls Only
Club!

Jenna flounced off without saying more. But Suzy Buchanan had overheard. “That’s two,” she said, offering a sweet smile. “My dad always says there’s safety in numbers—which means you might wanna skip out on that interview. Whenever it is.” Suzy waved to her and turned to dash down the jammed hallway.

Manda reached for the combination lock on her locker door.
Everyone’s trying to run my life
, she thought.
What’s the big deal?

But she knew.

Deep down, she understood the reason for Jenna’s warning. It
would
be tough trying to cram everything into her already tight schedule.

In spite of herself—and her skiing goals—she honestly wanted to pass the interview and baby-sit for Tarin the Terrible. If for only one reason. . . .

Reach for the Stars

Chapter Ten

Mr. Greenberg’s house was a short five-minute walk from the hospital, on Wood Avenue. At first Manda thought the door was slightly ajar. Taking a second look, she spied a note—evidently from the paper carrier—shoved into the crack between the storm door and the doorjamb.

She stood on the front porch, curiously spying out the place. There were Swiss-style window boxes adorning each of the four windows at the porch level. A few dried-up flowers and leaves remained. An iron-footed plant stand posed in the corner of the porch, empty. Probably, it had been home to geraniums or other colorful flowering plants during the summer. She wondered, too, if Mr. Greenberg had a green thumb. The notion made her snicker.

Of course, a man with a name like Greenberg surely
could grow most anything. Easy! Plenty of flowers . . . vegetables, too. Probably in the backyard, which she hadn’t seen just yet.

About the time she felt the urge to tiptoe around the side of the house to see if there might be a cozy little garden plot, the front door opened. All by itself!

She stood there, staring at it. “Anybody there?” she said softly.

The main door continued to open, leaving the storm door undisturbed. “Enter at your own risk,” a voice boomed overhead.

Quickly, Manda looked up, trying to locate the origin of the deep voice. Was this some kind of trick?

Confidence rose in her. “I’m coming in!” she announced to the unseen voice and reached for the storm door.

“Beware! The inhabitants of this dwelling tolerate nothing less than total compliance” came the strange voice.

Manda listened, her gloved hand resting on the storm door handle. She’d heard this sort of voice before. It sounded like a computerized telephone message.

Ignoring it, she pressed the doorbell and heard it ring.

Then, without warning, the front door slammed shut. In her face. Not willing to give up, she remained standing. Waiting for exactly what, she didn’t know.

Still, she waited.

After a time, she rang the doorbell again. Once more,
she waited. This time the voice did not continue, and finally—about the time she’d thought of leaving—Mr. Greenberg appeared at the door. “Ah, wonderful.” He sported a grin. “You’re right on time.”

She decided not to inquire about the peculiar, warbled voice. Or the fact that the front door had mysteriously opened and closed at will. Instead, she paid close attention to Mr. Greenberg’s directions, assuming that he might be testing her—taking mental notes on how well she followed his instruction.

“Please have a seat, Miss Garcia.” He motioned to a chair near the fireplace.

She almost corrected him, wanting to remind him that she preferred Manda. But she was cautious, a bit worried about sounding rude. She really wanted this job!

Across the room, leaning against one long wall of the parlorlike living room, were four tall bookcases. Two exceptionally wide ones reached high to the ceiling.

Everywhere she looked—at the swept hearth, dusted curio cabinets, and polished upright piano—everything seemed to be neat and orderly.

Interesting
, she thought, recalling that Tarin and his father lived alone in the house. No maid that she knew of. And no wife or mother.

Her eyes roamed the bookshelves, coming to rest on the middle shelf—precisely eye level to a five-year-old.
Standing on end was a portly dictionary, tattered on its top edge. Probably where small hands had pulled it away from the shelf. Over and over again.

She remembered both Suzy’s and Jenna’s words of caution.
“The boy reads dictionaries for entertainment.”

“Let’s start by talking about you,” Mr. Greenberg began, taking her by surprise.

“Well, let’s see. I like kids . . . a lot.” She didn’t hesitate to remind him of her instructional skills—at the ski lodge. “And I’ve been baby-sitting since I was about nine.” She thought about that, wanting to be accurate. “Yes, that’s right. Nine probably seems young to be taking care of children, but I really do like kids. I think I’m good with them. People have told me that.”

“I see.” He leaned back in his chair and nodded. “And who might those people be?”

Ready for anything, she pulled out her list of references—parents of the babies, toddlers, and preschool-age children she’d baby-sat for over the past three years. “You may keep the list,” she said, hoping she seemed businesslike.

Silently, his eyes ran down the list. “Very well,” he said, smiling his wonderful smile. “Tell me more.”

Yes! A chance to pour it on. She took a deep breath. “I’m very responsible, Mr. Greenberg,” she bragged, going on to detail an incident that happened while baby-sitting a four-month-old baby boy. “He had a high fever, and I
handled things perfectly. The mother said so—even called my own mother to tell her.”

“That’s very good to know. Now . . . what about your vocabulary skills?” Mr. Greenberg said unexpectedly.

She chuckled, almost without thinking. “I, uh, have a good understanding of the English language, if that’s what you mean.”

“Precisely. Now, if I might ask you about your ability to carry on several tasks at once,” he said. “In other words, are you able to receive input and respond to it simultaneously?”

She was beginning to wonder if Suzy and Jenna were right. Was this going to turn into a nightmare, after all? Was she going to be asked to demonstrate her ability to speak French and Chinese, and who knows what else?

“I’m fast on my feet,” she spoke up, thinking about skiing.

Mr. Greenberg grinned at that. “Yes, I expect you are.”

“Is Tarin home?” she asked, eager to get on with it.

“Of course.” He got up and went to the long staircase. He called for his son to join them. “Miss Garcia, your ski instructor, is here.”