“I don't want you to baby-sit for me. You're fat.”
“I'm not fat. I'm a substantial woman. And you better watch what you say on account of you say things like that in first grade and they'll kick your ass out of school. I bet they don't put up with that kind of talk in first grade.”
“I'm going to tell my mother you said ass. She won't pay you after she finds out you said ass. And she won't ever have you baby-sit again.”
“And what's the bad news?” Lula asked.
“This is Lula. And I'm Stephanie,” I said to the little girl. “What's your name?”
“My name is Amanda, and I'm seven years old. And I don't like you, either.”
“Bet she's gonna be a treat when she's old enough for PMS,” Lula said.
“Your mom shouldn't be long,” I said to Amanda. “How about we put the television on?”
“Oliver won't like that,” Amanda said.
“Oliver,” I said, “do you want to watch television?”
Oliver shook his head. “No,” he yelled. “No, no, no!” And he started crying. Loud.
“Now you did it,” Lula said. “Why's he crying? Man, I can't hear myself think. Somebody get him to stop.”
I bent down to Oliver's level. “Hey, big guy,” I said. “What's the matter?”
“No, no, no!” he yelled. His face was brick red, scrinched up in anger.
“He keep frowning like that and he's gonna need Botox,” Lula said.
I felt around in the diaper area. He didn't seem wet. He didn't have a spoon stuck up his nose. No limbs seemed to be severed. “I don't know what's wrong,” I said. “I mostly know about hamsters.”
“Well, don't look at me,” Lula said. “I don't know nothing about kids. I never even was one. I was born in a crack house. Being a kid wasn't an option in my neighborhood.”
“He's hungry,” Amanda said. “He's going to cry like that until you feed him.”
I found a box of cookies in the cupboard and held one out to Oliver.
“No,” he yelled, and he knocked the cookie out of my hand.
A scruffy-looking dog rushed in from the bedroom area and ate the cookie before it hit the floor.
“Oliver doesn't want to eat a cookie,” Amanda said.
Lula had her hands over her ears. “I'm gonna go deaf if he don't stop this howling. I'm getting a headache.”
I got a bottle of juice out of the refrigerator. “Do you want this?” I asked.
“No!”
I tried ice cream.
“No!”
“How about a leg of lamb?” Lula asked. “I wouldn't mind having some leg of lamb.”
He was on the floor now, on his back, kicking his heels against the tile. “No, no, no!”
“This here's a full-blown tantrum,” Lula said. “This kid needs a timeout.”