The Alpha Quarterback’s Babysitter

Calliope 

The floorboard in the hallway creaked like a warning bell. I knew it by heart. It meant my aunt was on the move, and silence should be my only armor.

I froze in my bed, a mattress on the floor, really holding my breath. My body ached with a dull familiarity from yesterday's "disciplinary action." 

A broken dish, a tone she didn't like. The reasons changed every day, the bruises did not. The footsteps paused outside my door. My heart was a frantic bird against my ribs. Then they moved on, towards the kitchen. The exhale I release was shaky, tasting of dust and stale air.

'Invisible' I chanted in my head. 'Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.' 

It was my mantra. My survival strategy. At home, it meant fading into the peeling wallpaper. Making sure my aunt didn't remember she was taking care of the niece she hated so much.

At school, it meant wearing clothes five years out of style, keeping my head down in the halls, and accepting that my existence was a minor irritant to the popular girls like Angel Reed and her minions and the annoying jocks that loved bullying as much as they loved playing football. 

The alarm on my cracked phone buzzes. 6:00 AM. Time to get ready for school.

I moved through the morning routine with silent precision. In this house, to avoid a beating, you must be silent. 

As silent as a ghost. 

The lukewarm shower ran for only two minutes. The careful application of expired concealer over the yellowish shadow on my jawline. The same jeans, the same faded sweater. Honestly I think I got it at a yard sale when I was thirteen. Thankfully it was large enough so it still fit. 

I tucked the envelope from under my mattress into my backpack, my "Freedom Fund." 

I had to carry it around me to risk my aunt ever seeing it. I kept it on me always or in books, the one place I knew no one would ever check for it.

Every babysitting gig, every secret cash tip from bagging groceries, every dollar saved from a lunch I didn't eat. It was not nearly enough for a rent deposit, but it was a promise. A future that wasn't this. 

A future that meant one day I could be free. Live alone and be free. 

"You're using too much electricity," Aunt Marla snaps as I try to toast a single piece of bread. Her eyes, the color of fallen leaves in autumn, scan me for faults. "And that hair. A brush wouldn't kill you."

I didn't answer. Arguing is a recipe for disaster. I just nodded, wrapped the bread in a napkin, and shouldered my bag.

"I expect the kitchen spotless when I get home," she called after me. "And no loitering. You come straight back."

The door closes behind me, and the first real breath of the day filled my lungs. It's cold and sharp with autumn. I walked the twelve blocks to school, not because I love the exercise, but because the bus fare is another dollar saved. I saved every penny I got. I couldn't afford to splurge on bus fare. 

Besides, it would help me lose the weight. Hopefully. 

Lincoln High was the only high school in town. With a small town like Fairview tucked in the hills just outside the bustling metropolis of Sun city. It was good enough for most. I navigated the crowded halls like a spy behind enemy lines, avoiding eye contact, hugging my threadbare school bag to my chest. Last thing I wanted was for someone to notice the worn out bag and make fun of me.

In first period, Angel Reed held court. They're discussing plans for the new semester. Her laughter was a sharp, tinkling sound that made my shoulders tense. She was beautiful in a way that seems manufactured, although I know it's all natural. Her mother was the popular Christina Reed, arguably the most popular woman in Fairvew and also the new mayor of the town. Angel Reed had perfect blonde waves, the perfect slim figure and even perfect baby blue eyes.

She could easily model, she could easily win Miss Universe. 

Yes, she was just that kind of beauty that turned heads. Her eyes slid over me as I took my seat in the back row. There's no recognition, even though we were once the best of friends in kindergarten and middle school. That was years ago though. 

She gave me the blank look you give to a piece of furniture. It's the look I relied on.

The morning dragged on. I took notes. I existed. At lunch, I bypassed the cafeteria as I couldn't afford anything there and head to the field. It's where I eat my dry bread and review scholarship applications on my phone. The Wi-Fi is patchy, but it's free. Aunt Marla never let me use her Wi-Fi. 

That was my life.

…………………..

My after-school shift at the grocery store was a special kind of purgatory. Mr. Henderson smelled of wet dog and misery, and he watched the clock more than the customers. But it was cash. When I clocked out, my fingers are cold from stocking the dairy fridge, but my envelope is a little heavier.

It's on the walk home, as I'm calculating how many more shifts I need for a bus ticket anywhere, that I see a notification pop up on the town job community group. 

HELP WANTED: LIVE-IN BABYSITTER.

Evenings & Weekends. Private Residence on Oak Crest.

Excellent Pay. Discretion Required.

A phone number was listed. Oak Crest. That was the hill overlooking the town, where the houses are so big they have names, not numbers. Where people like the Vanderbilts live. 

My aunt's voice hissed in my head: Aim lower. Know your place.

But the words Excellent Pay blazed like a beacon. Live-in meant nights away from the creaking floorboard. Discretion I had mastered.

Before fear could talk me out of it, I take note of the number. In the dim light of my room later, the door locked, I call the number. A woman answers, her voice soft but strained.

"Vanderbilts residence."

"I-I'm calling about the babysitting position," I whisper, my mouth dry.

There's a pause. "Can you come for an interview tomorrow? Around 3pm? It's... somewhat urgent."

"Yes," I say, too quickly. "I can be there."

She gave me the address. When I hung up, my hands were trembling. It was not from fear, for once. It was from something dangerously close to hope.

I stared at the envelope under my mattress. This job could be the key. It could be my way out.

All I had to do is be good enough to get it.