The Babysitter - A Short Story
by Marti York
In the early 1980s, my older brother and I were still in elementary school together. He was in the fifth grade while I was in the second. We were latch-key kids and usually came home from school to an empty house because my parents both worked. My dad worked because we needed money. My mom worked because, as she told my dad, “I’m bored being stuck at home with the kids.”
I was a good kid. I did well in school, had nice friends, and went to bed when I was told. My brother was the opposite. Moreover, since I was his little sister, he thought it was his job to tease me. His teasing wouldn’t stop until I screamed bloody murder. On the off chance that my parents were home when this happened, my mom would yell at me for screaming while my dad calmly asked my brother, “Would you please stop teasing your sister?” Since neither of us ever got grounded, this pattern repeated for years.
Between work and the exhaustion of taking care of two kids who were always at war, my parents never really went out at night. One night, though, they got the teenaged boy who lived next door to babysit us. I don’t know where my parents were going because, when I asked, my mom said, “None of your business, Ms. Nosy.” The insult hurt my feelings, but I knew better than to cry. If I cried, my mom would say something even more nasty about me.
When the babysitter arrived and my parents left, I immediately felt weird. In my mind, boys and men were not to be trusted. I can’t name the reason why I felt that way. It was just a feeling, and no male was exempt. The only males I felt comfortable around were the ones who ignored me. The more attention I got from males, the creepier they seemed. I guess that’s why the babysitter weirded me out; his attention was focused on me from the start. A few minutes after my parents left, he suggested we play hide-and-go-seek… with the lights off. The weird feeling turned to anxiety. Unfortunately, I knew that, if I didn’t obey the babysitter, my mom would be angry.
“You and me,” the babysitter told me. “We’ll go hide.” He turned to my brother. “Count to 100 before coming to find us, and you can’t turn on any lights.”
“Can I at least use a flashlight?” my brother asked.
“Sure, use a flashlight,” the babysitter said then moved me forward with his hands on my shoulders.
I was afraid of the dark and wanted to protest the lights being off. However, my mom’s warning to listen to the babysitter kept echoing through my head. Fear of my mom’s wrath kept my protest locked silently inside me.
Reluctantly, I went with the babysitter while my brother covered his eyes with his forearm and started counting. The babysitter led me to the closet in the spare bedroom. The closet wasn’t huge, but it was mostly empty with plenty of room for us to spread out. Nevertheless, he pulled my back to his front, holding me against him. Then he shut the bi-fold doors.
He didn’t miss a beat. As soon as the doors had closed us in together, he said, “Take off your pants.”
Even as my heart raced and my stomach sank, I was confused. Maybe I hadn’t heard him right. “What?”
“Take off your pants,” he repeated, his hot breath searing the top of my head.
My mind swam through the confusion. Why would he want me to take off my pants? The man-fearing part of my brain knew why, though. He wanted to see my private parts. I didn’t want to do it, though. I didn’t want him to see me naked. How embarrassing. But my mom’s voice was in my head demanding that I do what the babysitter said. No matter how much I didn’t want to do it, I had to. I had to take my pants off, or my mom would be angry.
When I put my hands on the buckle of my belt, though, nausea overwhelmed me. Even though my mom’s almost-certain rage scared me, I couldn’t get myself to do it. If I did, I would vomit. So, instead, I let go of my belt buckle and shoved my hands against the bi-fold doors. A split second later, I stumbled out of the closet, and as the babysitter called my name, I walked out of the bedroom on wobbly legs. When I made it to the hallway, the beam of my brother’s flashlight stung my eyes.
My brother flipped on the hall light. “What are you doing?” He looked as confused as I had felt just moments before.
“I don’t feel good,” I told him. Then I went into my room and locked the door.
I never saw the babysitter or my brother again that night. I stayed in my room with the door locked until my parents got home.
I knew they were home when my mom banged on my door and yelled, “Why is this door locked? I told you never to lock the door.”
I never told my mom what the babysitter had asked me to do. I knew she wouldn’t believe me.
Copyright 2025
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