Four-year-olds have a lot of energy, especially around bedtime. Spencer is a great kid. But I can never get him to bed before nine. I lie and tell his parents he was asleep by seven thirty, otherwise they’d freak out.
He has wavy brown hair and big gray-blue eyes, pink cheeks I like to pinch, and a goofy smile that shows a lot of square little baby teeth. He’s tall for his age. At least, that’s what my aunt and uncle tell me. I mean, I can’t tell. Spencer is the only four-year-old I know.
I guess he’s tall. I know he’s strong. He likes to punch me in the stomach, and I really feel it. He likes to climb on me, too. It’s like he thinks I’m a mountain or something. We have a lot of wrestling matches that end up with me on my back on the floor, helpless beneath him.
Yes, I always let him win.
But at nine o’clock I’ve got homework to do. And I’ve got Delia texting me every five minutes. I told her I was babysitting. She knows I babysit for Spencer every Thursday night. So why doesn’t she give me a break?
I was sitting in the middle of the couch with a pile of picture books on the coffee table in front of me. Spencer was climbing me, messing up my hair, poking a finger in my nose. He thinks he’s a riot, and I kind of agree.
“Be a robot,” he said. “Winks, go ahead. Robot. Do the robot.”
He likes when I stagger around the living room stiff-legged and move like a robot. Then he imitates me, and we both do a robot dance until we fall down laughing.
“No robot. Too late for the robot,” I said. I patted the couch cushion beside me. “Sit down. It’s bedtime. Let’s read a bedtime book.”
“No books!” he cried. “No books.” He swung his arm and knocked the pile of books off the coffee table. “Do the robot.”
I ignored him and picked up a book from the floor. “Here’s a good one. Let’s read it,” I said. “Come on, Spencer. Time to read a book.”
He eyed it like it was a bowl of spinach. “I don’t like that book.” He crossed his skinny arms in front of him.
“Yes, you do. I read it to you last week. Frog and Toad, remember? You made me read it three times?”
“Well, I’m tired of it. What’s the difference between a frog and a toad anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I patted the cushion again. “Let’s read the book and find out.”
“No. No books,” Spencer growled. “Can I have a cookie?”
I brought my face close to his. “Will you go to bed if I give you a cookie?”
“Two cookies,” he said with a straight face.
“And you’ll go to bed?”
“And a juice box. And two books.”
Spencer could be a four-year-old lawyer. He’s a great negotiator.
I talked him down to a cookie, some juice, and Frog and Toad. And he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
I wished I could spend more time with Frog and Toad, but I had A Tale of Two Cities to read, and I was two chapters behind the rest of the class. That called for a lot of faking it during class discussions. Luckily, I’m seriously good at faking it.
I was fumbling through the book, trying to find my place, when my phone chimed. Of course, it was a text from Delia:
R u still there? Want to come over when u r done?
I started to reply—when the doorbell rang. The sound startled me. I’d never heard it before. I was always alone with Spencer on Thursday nights.
I closed my book and climbed to my feet. Zane, I realized. I told Zane not to come, but he showed up anyway.
I crossed to the front entryway and pulled open the front door. “Listen, Zane—” I started.
But then I stopped and let out a little cry of surprise. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
