Marge in Charge Read online

  Dedication

  For Olive, Elula, and Monty.

  My favorite small people on the planet

  and the best editors a writer could wish for.

  —I.F.

  The Button Family

  Contents

  Dedication

  The Button Family

  Marge Babysits

  Marge at the Birthday Party

  Marge at Large in School

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Marge Babysits

  My name is Jemima Button. I am seven years old, and I’m the tallest girl in my class. My little brother is Jakeypants, though grown-ups call him Jake, and he is four years old. He loves wrestling, dinosaurs, and ice cream.

  We live with our mommy and dad in an ordinary house, on an ordinary street. We used to be an ordinary family until the day our babysitter came.

  It was five o’clock on a Thursday, and our family was sitting around the table. Our parents were dressed up in their fancy clothes.

  “Why do we need a babysitter?” asks Jake.

  “Because we are going out for dinner,” explains Dad, patting Jakeypants on the head.

  Mommy smiles and says, “We need someone here to look after you.”

  I can see that my baby brother is not happy. He begins to cry—well, fake cry. He wails and flails his arms around like a baby penguin on slippery ice.

  “Do you want to read a story?” asks Dad, handing Jake his favorite book.

  “Stupid book!” says Jake, and throws it on the ground.

  Oh no. I bite my lip. When Jakeypants starts throwing things, it means he is headed for a tantrum. What will our new babysitter think? The last time we had a babysitter, Jake spent the whole time hiding in his room building a Lego weapon so that he could “destroy” her! He was mad at her because she scolded him for covering Dad’s desk with stickers. And then I had to peel them all off!

  I hope Jakey behaves himself tonight. He can be very stubborn and naughty when he wants to be.

  “There’s your favorite for dinner: macaroni and cheese,” says Mommy as she puts it into the fridge.

  Jake’s face lights up, but not for long. “. . . and broccoli,” he adds, scowling. “I don’t want broccoli, and I definitely do NOT want a babysitter!” Jake shouts.

  “Even if the broccoli is on your blue T. rex plate?” Mommy pleads.

  “Especially then!” Jakey yells.

  Mommy gives Dad a panicked look.

  Everyone knows that my little brother has two rules:

  1. He won’t wash his hair—he says it’s “boring.”

  2. He won’t eat broccoli. Ever.

  But then we meet someone extraordinary: our new babysitter.

  DING DONG—that’s the doorbell.

  Jakey stops crying and races to the door. He peeks through the window then takes off his shorts and pulls them over his head. Jake always does this when he wants to wrestle or stop someone from coming into the house, like Uncle Desmond.

  “Put your shorts back on,” Mommy says sternly. Dad is opening the door.

  “Meet Marge!” Dad says in the voice he saves for his boss at work.

  I peep out from behind Dad since I always feel shy around new grown-ups.

  There she is—

  Marge, the babysitter!

  Standing in our hallway is a person so small that she only comes up to Dad’s armpit! She is wearing a yellow woolly hat and glasses. Her face looks serious too, and I worry that she will be strict, like my teacher Mrs. Ratley, who made us eat all our bagged lunches even when the sandwiches were soggy.

  She has a big, round belly and skinny legs with knees as knobby as twigs.

  “Hi, Marge,” I say, then give her my bravest smile.

  But Jake has only noticed how small Marge is. She is definitely NOT tall enough to ride a roller coaster. She could even fit in Jake’s cardboard box that he uses as his superhero hideout.

  “Are you a kid or a grown-up?” he asks, peering closely at her. Marge thinks for a while.

  “Ahh, definitely a grown-up,” she answers finally.

  “Then why are you so small?” demands Jake.

  “Well, why are YOU so small?” asks Marge right back.

  “Because I’m only four years old!” Jake rolls his eyes. He is excellent at eye rolling even though Mommy told him that it’s rude to do it to grown-ups. “You look one hundred years old,” he snorts.

  Mommy and Dad look worried that Marge will be offended, but instead she throws her head back and laughs. This makes me feel a little bit less nervous, so I say, “I’m Jemima.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Marge says solemnly, shaking my hand like adults do. It makes me giggle.

  “Are you a Christmas elf?” asks Jake. “Let me see if your ears are pointy.” Jake is now peering at the sides of Marge’s head. Dad coughs nervously and steers Jake away from Marge. But I notice him glancing at Marge’s ears too.

  “The rules are on the fridge,” Mommy tells Marge. “If you have any questions, ask Jemima; she’s my big girl. We will be back by eight o’clock.” Then she turns to us. “Remember to be polite and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when Marge takes care of you.”

  “We will,” I promise.

  I hear Mommy telling Marge that it’s very important for Jake to eat all his dinner, especially the broccoli, and wondering if she could possibly try washing his hair? Then she gives Marge her cell-phone number for emergencies.

  Mommy and Dad both give me a big hug. The butterflies in my belly aren’t so fluttery now that we’ve met Marge. I am very curious about her but still nervous that my little brother might misbehave. To my surprise, though, he lets Mommy hug him good-bye, which he never normally does.

  We stand on the doorstep on either side of Marge and wave as my parents leave. The minute the car is gone, we head inside.

  “Are you a dwarf? From Snow White?” Jakey asks.

  “No, and I’m not an Oompa-Loompa either,” Marge says, laughing.

  “Oompa-Loompas only exist in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” I say.

  “Are you a jockey? Do you gallop horses in a race?” Jake asks.

  Marge shakes her head.

  “Did you drive here? How did your little feet reach the pedals?” asks Jake.

  “I am sure you can lower the steering wheel!” I offer helpfully.

  “I actually use a booster chair,” Marge says. Then she leans in secretively.

  “Being small means I can visit the museum for half price!” she brags as she takes off her glasses and pea-green coat. Then Marge pulls off her hat. Guess what’s underneath? Long, colorful hair that falls down her back! Green, blue, orange, red, and yellow hair like a waterfall of colors.

  I wonder if Mommy would let Marge look after us if she saw her crazy hair!

  “Wow!” I say.

  Marge crosses her feet at the ankles and exhales. “I was born Margery Beauregard Victoria Ponterfois, and I am a duchess.”

  “A duchess?” I ask, blinking. “Are you Dutch?”

  Marge laughs, and little creases form next to her blue eyes.

  “No. The king of England’s fourth son is my uncle Leonard.”

  “Do you have any children?” I ask.

  Marge shakes her head. “But I have ten pets: three white miniature ponies, three swans, two polka-dot Pomeranian puppies, a long-tooth ferret, and an albino water buffalo.”

  I can barely breathe with excitement.

  “I used to live at the palace, but the royal guards wouldn’t allow my pets to sleep in my bed. Did you know that there are 779 rooms in the royal palace? I was always getting lost. Sometimes I would fall asleep looking for my bedr
oom! So my pet friends and I set out on an adventure to find a new home.”

  Jakey is behaving really well, and I can tell that he’s enjoying Marge’s story.

  “Have you ever been on a bus?” Jakey is obsessed with buses.

  “Of course,” Marge sniffs. “I have ridden a red double-decker bus, an airport bus, and a minibus . . .”

  WOW! Jakey is really impressed now.

  “. . . but my favorite mode of transport is the royal coach pulled by eight palomino donkeys.”

  I want to ask Marge all sorts of questions about her animal friends and her life, but she jumps up and says, “Now, your mommy wants me to read the rules on the fridge. Hop to it!”

  We follow her to the kitchen, and Marge reads the list aloud:

  1. Dinner is at 5:30. There’s macaroni and cheese and broccoli in the fridge.

  2. Playtime next, but all toys must be put away afterward.

  3. Bath time is at 6:30, and please try to wash Jake’s hair.

  4. Bed by 7:30.

  I would much rather listen to more of Marge’s story, but Marge is looking very serious now that she has read Mommy’s list. “I think we might need to add a few new dinner rules,” she says.

  Jake groans, and my stomach sinks.

  “I won’t eat broccoli. Not now, not ever,” says my brother stubbornly.

  Marge just raises one eyebrow as she grabs a napkin and starts to fold it. “I have been to many exotic dinners all around the world. I have dined with princesses, knights, lords, and ladies, and I have my own royal dinner-making rules,” says Marge as she finishes crafting the napkin into a splendid chef’s hat and pops it onto her own head.

  Jake and I exchange an excited look. Our new babysitter is going to let us cook! I race to the bottom drawer and find our aprons.

  “Right, let’s see . . . ,” says Chef Marge.

  Rule One: prepare the food. “Jemima, you will be the chef’s helper.”

  I have no idea what that is, but I begin gathering all the ingredients that Marge tells me to, and Marge informs Jakey that he will be the waiter.

  “Do waiters get to wrestle?” Jake karate kicks the air.

  “Yes. But first they have to ask the dinner-party guests what they want for dinner and write it down on this little pad.” She hands a notebook and a silver pen to Jake.

  “But I can’t write any words yet—except for my name.” Jake sighs.

  “Don’t worry,” says Marge. “I read squiggles! I can even read the handwriting of all my pets—how else do you think we communicate?”

  WOW! I have always wondered whether chickens could handwrite, or rather claw-write.

  “It all started when my camel asked me to translate a love letter she had received from a dairy cow. Now that was tough, because cows don’t use their hooves for writing. . . .”

  “What do they use, then?” asks Jake.

  “Their tails, of course!” cries Marge, giving Jakey and me a bowl. “You know, Prince Leonard won the heart of my aunt with a red velvet birthday cake. Baron Dinkle-stitch wasn’t pleased, mind you. . . .” Marge takes three eggs and tries to juggle them. All three drop and smash onto the floor.

  Jake and I crack eight new eggs into a bowl. Jakey scoops up the shells and yolks from the floor and throws them into the bowl too, and we just cover it all in a pile of flour. Then we add a mountain of cereal and a tea bag for good measure. Marge tells us she thinks that we are very creative chefs, but I am not sure Mommy would agree with that.

  Once everything is cooking nicely, Marge gets the list out again and adds another new rule.

  Rule Two: set the table.

  Jake groans. But Marge tells us it’s the only way to decide on our guest list for the dinner party.

  “You mean we’re inviting guests to eat with us?” I ask.

  “Of course!” she replies. “Dinner should always be a party, and the perfect number for a dinner party is six.”

  So we decide to include Archie, our pug-nosed puppy dog. But we still only have four!

  “We will set the table for six anyway, and maybe some special guests will surprise us,” Marge says.

  We place three plates and three forks and knives for every guest. But because Archie can’t use cutlery, I give him a pair of chopsticks.

  “What’s next on Mommy’s list?” I ask Marge, hoping she’ll have some more extra rules.

  Marge toots a pretend trumpet.

  . . . Rule Three: decorate the dining room!

  Soon we are cutting out cardboard stars and making streamers, and Jake staples the stars onto the tablecloth. Then he gets carried away and staples his T-shirt to his shorts and staples one of his socks to a dish cloth, and he is about to staple Archie’s tail to his leg when Marge swoops in.

  “Can I borrow the stapler?” Marge asks, and hides it quickly.

  Jake tapes Pete, his toy stegosaurus, to the center of the table as a decoration, and we tie a ribbon on the back of everyone’s chair. I only just learned how to tie a bow, and I can do it quite quickly now.

  “A room fit for kings and queens!” Marge says, and high-fives us both. “And perfect for a duchess. It’s all ready for dinner now.”

  PHEW! My tummy is making funny grumbly sounds, and I can smell our cake baking in the kitchen, but then Marge checks the list again.

  “It’s time to get cleaned up so we can look fabulous for our dinner party,” Marge says. “Bath time!”

  Bath time before supper? This is very unusual, but Marge is in charge, so we follow her upstairs.

  In the bathroom Jake refuses to run the bath or get his towel. I am worried because I know how stubborn my little brother can be, but Marge has a fun idea. She fills the sink with water all the way to the top and empties in a whole bottle of lavender bubble bath. It’s incredible—bubbles are floating serenely onto the floor and covering our toes.

  Then she tips in a bottle of apple shampoo, Dad’s aftershave, and Mommy’s face cream, and she even sprays in some fancy perfume.

  Jakey holds his nose “Phew-eee,” he says, giggling.

  Then Marge somehow finds our swimming goggles, which have been lost for ages, and we put them on. She also pulls out a whistle. “It’s time to dunk!” she cries, blowing it hard. “One, two, three—

  DUNK!”

  Jakey and I plunge our heads in the sink and under the faucet, then up again. Soon we are surrounded by bubbles floating under our chins and around our ears! Jakey makes a Santa beard, and I make a white wig of foamy bubbles.

  “Shall we wash the dog too?” Marge asks, and I can hear her spraying more air freshener around the room. I can’t even see her anymore through all the bubbles.

  “No,” I say. Archie hates the water and will only go in the pond at the park if he’s chasing a ball.

  “But didn’t the list say we need to wash Archie’s fur?”

  “No,” I say, “Mommy wrote ‘Jake’s hair,’ not ‘Archie’s fur’!”

  I’m feeling nervous again—but this time it’s not about Jakey misbehaving. I’m worried that we might not get through the things on Mommy’s list on time, and also my eyes are full of soap.

  Suddenly Marge pops her head through the bubbles and grins at us. “Do you want a shampoo Mohawk?”

  Jake nods, although neither of us even knows what a Mohawk is! Marge lathers up Jake’s hair with shampoo until it stands in one point on top of his head. He looks like a white rooster. Then she lathers up mine too, like an ice-cream-cone head.

  As I wipe the soap out of my eyes, I can see that the bathroom is a bit of a mess, but Jake has clean hair and is happy, and Mommy will be so happy too!

  “What’s this shelf?” Marge asks. I can vaguely see through the white fluffy clouds of foam that she has found Mommy’s “out-of-our-reach” shelf.

  She unscrews a large jar of something sticky and brown and rubs it all over her face.

  “This must be a mud mask, to tighten the pores of the skin,” Marge assumes. But I can read the label,
and it clearly says BROWN HAIR DYE.

  Oh no! Marge has put hair dye all over her face. It’s turning orange. . . . She really does look like an Oompa-Loompa now!

  “Quick, Marge, wipe it off!” I shout. “That is not a face mask!”

  I don’t want Marge’s face to be the same color as Mommy’s hair!

  WHOOPEE! Marge plunges her face into the water in the sink and is scrubbing her cheeks! Now bubbles and water are all over the floor.

  Archie trots into the bathroom and starts barking at Marge.

  “I am Marge the Miniature Mermaid!” gurgles Marge as she pops back up.

  “I told you she wasn’t a real grown-up,” Jake whispers to me, looking around at the messy bathroom. I’m a little worried—we’ve still got lots to do, and we haven’t been following the list in order!

  “Come on, Marge,” I say. “It’s time to get back to Mommy’s list.”

  I have to say, it isn’t easy finding Marge in those bubbles. They’re everywhere, rising all the way up to the ceiling.

  “Gotcha!” I say, grabbing her foot, but when I lift it, it’s a bottle of shampoo!

  “I have her elbow!” Jakey shouts, and then holds up a bag of bath salts.

  We both crack up laughing!

  “Marge, is that you?” I say, pulling out a tub of body wash.

  Finally I feel something moving and grab at her. She feels very hairy and furry, and as I pull her out, I realize I have Archie in my arms! How did Archie get into the sink?

  “Boo!” shouts Marge through a curtain of foam, grinning from ear to ear.

  Once we are dry, Marge has a new idea. “What shall we wear to dinner?” she asks us—as if we are in charge, not her.

  “Anything but shorts!” shouts Jake, his hair now clean and dry. Jakey HATES shorts. Even in summer.

  “We can’t wear ordinary clothes,” says our babysitter. “Going to a dinner party is a regal affair, and we have to look our best.”