The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright

babysitter wished she could cry, then realized that it wouldn't help, that it couldn't erase what had happened, that even ten years from now her memory of what Joanne Vanderburg had done today would be as vivid as it was at this moment.
    She stared blankly at the TV. She had turned the volume down and the TV was silent, which was what she wanted. Silence. To plan her counterattack. The idea that it would be a counterattack pleased her: It made this thing between her and Joanne Vanderburg a small war—so, whatever the bitch got, she deserved.
    Joanne Vanderburg ! After today, the slimy little bitch deserved whatever she got. The "zit" thing three weeks ago had merely been a stupid joke, easily forgotten. But today . . .
    Maybe she could turn her in to the police. It was possible. After all, the bitch had—what was the word?— assaulted her. No, that wouldn't work: The bitch's father wouldn't let her be put in any "special school." And it probably wouldn't get that far, anyway.
    Maybe she could do to Joanne Vanderburg what Joanne Vanderburg had done to her. She rejected the idea immediately: It would be asking for a lot more trouble than it was worth. The bitch was a year older and twenty pounds heavier and had a whole flock of sleazy friends.
    The babysitter lifted her sweater to just below her neck, lifted her bra, and gently probed the dark, silver dollar-size bruise at the side of her right breast. ("My, but aren't they popping up nicely! Look at that, girls. Aren't they popping up nicely?") Jesus! It hadn't been so much the pain, she thought—although there had been plenty of that and still was—as the embarrassment, the agony of knowing that her classmates had been watching, some giggling, others—especially the boys—transfixed, while she clutched the breast with one hand and tried in vain to push Joanne Vanderburg away with the other.
    The bitch's timing had been perfect. First, at the end of the study hall, when people were crowding toward the door, there had been the "knock-the-books-to-the-floor routine—casually, of course, and with a great deal of innocence. Then, at precisely the right moment, when everyone's back was turned, a quick sideways motion, elbow extended. The babysitter remembered screaming abruptly. But the real agony began the moment those who hadn't yet left the room turned to watch. To be amused.
    She put the bra back in place, and the sweater. Joanne Vanderburg would pay, and pay dearly. Joanne Vanderburg was—
    The babysitter became aware, suddenly, that the child was crying, had been crying, in fact, for many minutes.
    She stood, muttered a recently learned obscenity, went to the child's room, and pushed the door open hard. She switched the light on.
    The child was standing up in the crib. Her pink cotton blanket was once again on the floor.
    "For Christ's sake!" said the babysitter. Each Friday night for the past three weeks she had had to retrieve the blanket a half-dozen times. It was like a stupid game, the babysitter thought. "Once more," she said, "and that's it! Understand?" The child smiled tentatively. " Understand? " the babysitter repeated, harsher, louder. The child's smile vanished.
    The babysitter checked the child's diaper. It was only damp; a change could wait. She laid the child down, stooped over to pick up the blanket. The Raggedy Ann doll was beneath it. She cursed again, through her teeth, and kicked the doll. It landed against the wall beneath the back end of the crib.
    "Dolly!" the child pleaded. "Dolly!"
    "You don't care about it," the babysitter said through clenched teeth, "so we're just going to leave it where it is."
    "Dolly!" the child said again.
    The babysitter threw the blanket over the child, turned, went to the door, and put her finger on the light switch. "One more time!" She flicked the light off, then on. "One more time!" She flicked it off again, then on, then off. And left the room.

Chapter 16
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    G reg Courtney heard