The Babysitter

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“Ava, I need you to do me a favor,” Tom Monroe spoke into the open conservatory, knowing if his daughter wasn’t at the piano she’d be on the couch reading. She looked up form her hard back copy of Wicked and grinned wolfishly.

“Yeah, Daddy?” This week her long hair was bottle black. Her eyes were ringed with purple and she had a guitar pick on a chain around her neck.

“Can you baby-sit a couple of kids tonight? One of Jane’s clients has an emergency and is in a sort of a bind.”

Ava Monroe stared at her father in quiet amusement. His accent had the clipped tones of a Brit, but muted as though he’d been here a while. She’d only lived with him for six months and he still treated her as though he should ask for permission for the slightest thing. It was cute.

“He’d pay you, of curse, and if he didn’t I would. And-“

“Dad,” she sat up, putting the book at her feet and standing slowly. “It’s okay. I don’t have plans.”

“Oh,” he seemed relieved and she wondered if he thought there would have been a fight. “Well then, here’s the address. Jane says to be there by six, and I suppose that’s all. Thank you, darling.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked as if he would have done something else. Kissed her cheek maybe, before fishing the folded scrap of memo paper from his pocket and handing it to her.

She glanced at the scrawled directions. It was only a three minute drive and she had a few hours yet. Ava wondered what the kids would be like. Her father worked for Jane Foley, some music industry big wig who managed enough ‘names’ that she thought she was a minor deity. Tom Monroe was her PR rep and good at his job. When Ava’s mom decided to move to Japan, Ava jumped at the chance to move in with her dad. After six months in a new school, a new town, all of it, she was finally beginning to feel like she was fitting in.

He was lucky he’d caught her early though.

For the past few months her Friday nights were spent with this guy she’d met at the beach. Surfer boy right down to the puka shells. Horrible taste in music, but a tan the color of melted caramel, eyes like smoky topaz, a head of curly dirty blond hair that Ava secretly felt was absolutely wasted on anything with a penis, and white, white teeth. Overall, a great cat, she thought with a grin. Normally by now she’d be getting ready for a date, but she hadn’t heard from him for tonight so it looked like Matt’d be fending for himself for a night.

Maybe she should have fought him on the babysitting thing, but she had a special affection for her dad. He’d gone out of his way to make her feel at home. There was a cerulean blue ’53 Chevy Corvette sitting in the driveway with her name on it, a little rough around the edges but otherwise a great find, that he’d bought for her as soon as he’d found out she had a valid driver’s license. He’d given her three credit cards and carte blanche to redecorate the room that would be hers as well as a wardrobe more fitting to the climate of Southern California (her last address being Chicago) and so what if maybe a little more than half of his efforts had been not so obviously veiled attempts at a popularity plug? It hadn’t been her decision to live thousands of miles away from the man, and if Daddy wanted to stick it to Ma, who was she to argue?

She padded up the stairs to her room, two kids. Boys. Under the age of six. She grinned, time for superheroes. Ava’s closet in Chicago had been legend. Lovingly dubbed the Prop Closet by her group, it had everything from vintage to Underoos. She rooted through a random pile of clothes, emerging triumphant with a pair of plum colored fishnets she went to the closet, shedding the outfit she was wearing as she went.

Standing in front of her closet in a bra and a pair of panties she threw a pair of faded and ripped blue jeans over her shoulder and got down on her knees to fish out a pair of beaten up motorcycle boots. On the way to the bureau she flicked on the stereo and grinned when the tail end of Toxicity blared out of the speakers. This mix CD was Cara’s gift to her before she got on the plane. The next track was a Louis Armstrong/ Ella Fitzgerald duet called Paper Moon. Ava affected a smoky voice, bopping on the bed as she shook out the tee shirt.

She sat back, pleased with the look she decided to go ahead and hop in the shower. She turned the stereo up higher as she headed toward the bathroom. Forty five minutes later, she emerged from the shower pink skinned and shivering because the hot water had run out. The CD had started over and she belted out the lyrics to 18 and Life along with Sebastian Bach. Talk about the crush she’d had on that guy as a kid.

Her magenta colored hair dryer hummed as she blew it through her hair, rummaging in a drawer with her other hand she found her ¼ inch barrel curling iron and plugged it in.

Ava’s hair was a subject of hot debate among her friends. She changed it as often as she could without actually cutting it off. Tonight for example, the majority she’d keep straight. But the inch of so of cranberry in the front she’d braid in one long braid down the side of her face and she’d use the curling iron to put a dozen or so skinny, corkscrew curls in her hair. She eyed the effect in the mirror, blew a raspberry at her otherwise naked body and reached for her makeup bag.

She didn’t feel like anything too heavy, just eye liner and mascara, lip gloss for the hell of it, and a tiny green jewel for her nose. The nose ring had been an epic battle with Ma. She’d gotten it with Tom’s charge card and decided it was a great welcome to Cali present for herself. When she’d told Ma on the phone, Emma had been furious. No daughter of hers and all that. But dad had been great. Pointed out Em had a misspent youth too and at least Ava wasn’t spending her time dropping acid in Berkeley. In fact, just to make a point, he said she could get a tattoo as long as it wasn’t to grotesque.

Ava was seriously considering it.

Maybe the anarchy symbol just to see Emma’s face.

But the thought of the needle really wigged her out. Well, that and the thought of Emma Rasmussen tripping on acid somewhere in Berkeley.

She walked naked back into her bedroom, this time belting her own rendition of the aria in La Boheme. She was mangling the Italian, she knew, but she didn’t care. Ava pulled the thong over her hips and situated her boobs in the bra. She looked at herself in the full length mirror and jiggled her breasts in her hands. They cracked her up. How random is it that two fistfuls of skin and fat were enough to make guys pant for weeks just for a look?

The top was a tee shirt from a little boys Underoos package. Bright green, it was the Incredible Hulk breaking out of wall. She threw herself on the bed and grabbed the fishnets. They were the exact shade of plum as the Hulk’s shirt, and Ava shimmied into them expertly. Next came the jeans. She’d had them since before Chicago. A pair of low slung, softly kneaded Diesels, she’d worn them on many an outing and once she’d worn holes in them she’d never gotten rid of them. Last were the boots and then she stood to scrutinize herself in front of the mirror.

She looked good. The tee shirt showed an inch or so of her belly and the plum colored fishnets showed through the holes in the jeans well. The boots finished off the outfit as well as an assortment of rubber bracelets and a candy necklace that she attached to her left hand like a slave bracelet, around her middle finger, then around her wrist. She grinned and the nose ring caught the light. It was a good look.

She glanced at the clock. It was 5:40. Later than she thought. Fuck. Ava dove for her bag, throwing stuff in as she went. Gum. Lighter. Phone. Book. Nat’s (you could only go so long without a good cig). Keys.

“Dad-!” She bellowed for Tom as she switched off the stereo and hot footed down the stairs. “Da-ad?! Dad-Dad-Dad- Daaaaaaaaaaady, I’m leaving!”

Tom Monroe poked his head out of his office and arched an eye brow at his daughter’s outfit. He was a DC fan, himself. “Drive safe, love.”

“I will, dad.” She kissed his cheek and munched one of the candies next to her knuckle. “Dunno when I’ll be home, but it might be late.”

“I know. Don’t kill the man’s children, alright?”

Ava arched an eyebrow. “Are they demon seed?”

“No more than you were, darling. Now on your way.”

“Bye daddy,” she pounded out the door and to her baby. The ‘Vette was branded Ava’s as soon as her father gave her the keys. Zebra printed seat covers and an assortment of glittering beads and key chains hung from the rear view mirror. Her license plates read simply CLASSIC and she liked it that way. The engine gunned to life and she set off in the direction of the house.

The man her father worked for lived in a modern conglomeration of glass and steel and Ava rolled her eyes as she pulled into the drive. What was it with California and modern digs? She thought nostalgically of her mother’s redone bungalow in Chicago and sighed, slamming the car door behind her. The house was pretty, she acknowledged, you know if you liked that sort of thing.

She rang the bell and stepped back, mentally going through her “responsible babysitter” checklist. No answer. She sighed, just great. This time she leaned on the bell, hearing the continuous buzz on the other side of the door she counted down slowly from ten. Before she’d hit seven the door ripped open and Ava took her hand off the bell. After letting it buzz for another full second.

“Hi,” she stuck out her hand, “I’m Ava Monroe, Tom’s daughter.”

“Billie Joe,” he took her proffered hand and Ava tried not to wince at the nasal voice. No wonder Tom didn’t tell her who the guy was. She’d have turned him down flat. “So come on in.”

Ava shrugged, following her new employer with a decision to tell her dad she’d never gotten paid. She deserved double for this.