Leaving Fishers by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

formal couches, stylish lamps. But the effect was ruined by the layers of toys everywhere. Dorry moved a huge stuffed duck to the floor before sitting down.
    “I don’t clean,” Mrs. Garringer explained. “I figure it’s a waste of time, since my kids can demolish any room in under two minutes. So don’t worry about being expected to pick up after them. Basically I just want someone to play with them. And keep them from killing each other.”
    “I can do that,” Dorry said.
    “Good. That’s more than I feel capable of, some days.” The laugh that accompanied the joke put Dorry at ease. “Let me explain what I’m looking for. In my life before children, I taught art classes at Butler. I had the insane notion that if I quit to be with my kids full-time, I’d have time to work on my own sculpture. Wrong. So after listening to me gripe about it pretty much nonstop, my husband had the brilliant idea that if I got a regular baby-sitter a couple times a week, and used the time to sculpt, I’d be a lot happier. He thought I should advertise in the paper, put signs up in the library, that kind of thing. But I didn’t want to interview every crazy in the city. So whenthe Murrins recommended you, I was delighted.”
    “The Murrins?” Dorry said.
    “Yes. They go to your church, right?”
    “We’re all in Fishers of Men together,” Angela said smoothly. “The Murrins are fairly new, so I don’t think Dorry knows them well.”
    Dorry realized suddenly that she didn’t know any of the adult Fishers, except Pastor Jim.
    Mrs. Garringer was frowning. “I was under the impression that you’d baby-sat for them.”
    “No,” Dorry said. “I—”
    Angela interrupted. “I’m sorry if there was any confusion, but Dorry is still a great baby-sitter. She took a Red Cross baby-sitting course when she was twelve, and passed with the highest score in the class. She’s certified in infant CPR. And she’s taken care of lots of her nieces and nephews all her life.”
    “That does sound good,” Mrs. Garringer said. “But I’d still like some references before you leave today.”
    “Sure,” Dorry said. She was relieved that Angela had listed her qualifications for her—Angela had made them sound more impressive than Dorry would have. But Mrs. Garringer was looking at Dorry like there was something wrong that she couldn’t speak for herself.
    Zoe inched away from her mother’s side andgrabbed the stuffed duck at Dorry’s feet. Clutching it tightly, she leaned against Dorry’s leg. “Are you going to be our baby-sitter?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. It’s up to your mom,” Dorry said.
    Zoe tilted her head first one way, then the other, flipping her hair all the way over. “I hope so. I like you. You’ve got a big nose just like Grandpa Jack.”
    “Zoe!” Mrs. Garringer said. “I’m sorry—”
    “It’s okay,” Dorry said. She put her finger gently on Zoe’s nose. “And you’ve got a little nose just like my nephew Jason.”
    Zoe giggled and ran out of the room. The baby, Seth, gurgled at Dorry.
    “Well,” Mrs. Garringer said. “It’s a good sign if my kids like you. Let me explain the hours. It’d just be Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, from the time school’s out until six or six-thirty, depending on how things go. Could you do that?”
    Dorry nodded.
    “And if everything works out, maybe you could baby-sit a few Friday or Saturday nights, if my husband and I ever get a chance to get away. We’ve got some weekend baby-sitters we’ve used before, but lately it seems like they’re never available.”
    Dorry was about to say “I can work weekends, too,” but Angela was already talking for her. “Dorry can’t work weekends, because we have a lot of Fishers of Men functions then,” Angela said.
    Mrs. Garringer turned to Dorry, as if waiting for her to agree. Dorry was too confused to say anything. Why wouldn’t Angela let her speak for herself? What would be wrong with missing a Fishers