The Babysitters Coven
(Sprache: Englisch)
Adventures in Babysitting meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer in this funny, action-packed novel about a coven of witchy babysitters who realize their calling to protect the innocent and save the world from an onslaught of evil.
Seventeen-year-old...
Seventeen-year-old...
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Adventures in Babysitting meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer in this funny, action-packed novel about a coven of witchy babysitters who realize their calling to protect the innocent and save the world from an onslaught of evil. Seventeen-year-old Esme Pearl has a babysitters club. She knows it's kinda lame, but what else is she supposed to do? Get a job? Gross. Besides, Esme likes babysitting, and she's good at it.
And lately Esme needs all the cash she can get, because it seems like destruction follows her wherever she goes. Let's just say she owes some people a new tree.
Enter Cassandra Heaven. She's Instagram-model hot, dresses like she found her clothes in a dumpster, and has a rebellious streak as gnarly as the cafeteria cooking. So why is Cassandra willing to do anything, even take on a potty-training two-year-old, to join Esme's babysitters club?
The answer lies in a mysterious note Cassandra's mother left her: "Find the babysitters. Love, Mom."
Turns out, Esme and Cassandra have more in common than they think, and they're about to discover what being a babysitter really means: a heroic lineage of superpowers, magic rituals, and saving the innocent from seriously terrifying evil. And all before the parents get home.
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The devil was an artist. Her medium varied, from crayons to Magic Markers to finger paints, and she had coloring books, construction paper, giant pads of newsprint on a tiny plastic easel. But today she d ignored it all, in favor of the hallway and a marker. Previously pristine white, the wall was now permanently adorned with black squiggles, dots, shapes, and lines, all drawn at eye level. Well, her eye level--a little less than three feet off the ground.How did I know this art was permanent and not the water-soluble kind? Because Baby Satan--known by some as Kaitlyn--was still holding the Sharpie in her hand. As I surveyed her work--which was impressive in its own way, because she d done all of this damage in only the time it had taken me to pee--she smiled sweetly up at me, topless underneath a pair of very dirty OshKosh overalls. She held the Sharpie up to her nose and inhaled deeply, a look of intense contentment on her face. Give me that, I said, grabbing it from her. Two years old, and already into graffiti and huffing.
She was on one tonight. It had started with dinner, which was dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and bunny-shaped mac-n-cheese. She wouldn t eat any of it, not even when I insisted that the nuggets were actually made from real triceratops. When I got up to go get a paper towel, she managed to transfer most of the mac-n-cheese to her seat and sit on it.
She thought this was hilarious and wiggled around, etching orange cheese stains that would probably never come out into the butt of her overalls. Squishy! she squealed with delight, and I was sorry that I d taught her that word last week. After dinner, we played with blocks, which mainly consisted of me building the tallest stack I could and then cheering as she ran at them, full speed, from across the room to knock them down. It was right after this that I made that fateful decision to use the bathroom. I should have known better.
Now I placed the cap
... mehr
back on the Sharpie and put it on the kitchen counter, far back against the wall and safely out of her reach. All right! I said. It s bedtime.
Bedtime started with a bath, complete with fizzy dye pods--two blue and one yellow--to make turquoise mermaid water. She drank some of it. Teeth were brushed, sorta, and pajamas were donned. I usually allotted the devil three bedtime stories, which was enough to have her nodding off, her chin coming down to her chest, but tonight her blue eyes were still wide open and alert. Each time I d finish a story, she d climb out of bed, run across the room, and come back with a new stack. More! she d scream, slamming them into my lap with a surprising, and almost impressive, violence.
In this moment, I saw my future stretching out before me.
Kaitlyn never goes to sleep.
Her mom never comes home.
I read bedtime stories until the world ends.
It was times like these that I wished I could tap out and have another babysitter come in and take over. Baby Satan had a million stuffed animals, and my eyes settled on a floppy dog that was nearly life-sized. Couldn t he read a story for once?
His ears twitched, as if he were responding to my mental plea.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes.
Babysitting was making me hallucinate.
I sighed. Kaitlyn was still wide-awake. Not a hint of sleepiness anywhere on her admittedly cute face.
I picked up another book. Okay, I said. This one s about a bunny who runs away. It s called The Runaway Bunny. She smiled, all cherub cheeks and dimples, and something in me softened. See what they did with the title there? I said. The people who wrote thi
Bedtime started with a bath, complete with fizzy dye pods--two blue and one yellow--to make turquoise mermaid water. She drank some of it. Teeth were brushed, sorta, and pajamas were donned. I usually allotted the devil three bedtime stories, which was enough to have her nodding off, her chin coming down to her chest, but tonight her blue eyes were still wide open and alert. Each time I d finish a story, she d climb out of bed, run across the room, and come back with a new stack. More! she d scream, slamming them into my lap with a surprising, and almost impressive, violence.
In this moment, I saw my future stretching out before me.
Kaitlyn never goes to sleep.
Her mom never comes home.
I read bedtime stories until the world ends.
It was times like these that I wished I could tap out and have another babysitter come in and take over. Baby Satan had a million stuffed animals, and my eyes settled on a floppy dog that was nearly life-sized. Couldn t he read a story for once?
His ears twitched, as if he were responding to my mental plea.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes.
Babysitting was making me hallucinate.
I sighed. Kaitlyn was still wide-awake. Not a hint of sleepiness anywhere on her admittedly cute face.
I picked up another book. Okay, I said. This one s about a bunny who runs away. It s called The Runaway Bunny. She smiled, all cherub cheeks and dimples, and something in me softened. See what they did with the title there? I said. The people who wrote thi
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Kate M. Williams
Kate Williams has written for Seventeen, NYLON, Cosmopolitan, Bustle, Vans, Calvin Klein, Urban Outfitters, and many other brands and magazines. She lives in California, but still calls Kansas home. She is the author of The Babysitters Coven and The Babysitters Coven: For Better or Cursed. To learn more about Kate and her books, go to heykatewilliams.com or follow @heykatewilliams on Twitter and Instagram.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Kate M. Williams
- Altersempfehlung: Ab 12 Jahre
- 2020, 368 Seiten, Masse: 13,9 x 20,8 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Ember
- ISBN-10: 0525707409
- ISBN-13: 9780525707400
- Erscheinungsdatum: 31.08.2020
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
A New York Public Library Best Book of the YearThe Baby-Sitters Club...but spooky and with an Instagram-model-hot character for good measure. Cosmopolitan
With winks at 90s cult horror films [this is] a high-energy series starter that's plenty of fun. Booklist
"Witty, sarcastic...[and] well pitched." Publishers Weekly
Buffy-meets-Babysitters Club, this frothy fantasy-horror will draw readers purely on its premise . Decidedly on-trend with its witchy focus and its nostalgic-for-the- 90s reboot vibe. Bulletin
"Candy for 90s girls and Gen-Z ers alike. Refinery29
"Baby-Sitters Club meets The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina in this delightful new young adult novel about two teenagers who discover that they're more than just babysitters." Bustle
A spectacular, exciting, gorgeously paced story. Boing Boing
"For chill fun and fun chills, there s no better place to start than here." Paste Magazine
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