Funderstorm

So my mom mentions to the Chaturvedis that I’m sort of the babysitter in our building and that if they ever need me, I’m responsible and have reasonable rates (meaning I work cheap).

- John Samony

Three days later, I’m playing a matching game with Mr. and Mrs. Chaturvedi’s five-year-old son, Bala, while they enjoy dinner and a movie.

Things get interesting after a lightning bolt brightens the darkening sky like a camera f lash, followed by a loud crash of thunder. Bala f lies off the couch and runs to his room.

The Chaturvedis gave me emergency numbers and other instructions, but they didn’t tell me what to do if their kid decides to hide under his bed.

“What’s wrong, Bala?” I ask as if I don’t already know.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Then why are you acting like a dust bunny?”

Silence for a moment, then the truth. “I’m afraid of thunderstorms,” he says.

Part of being a great babysitter is being an expert in a lot of fields—a nurse for bandaging banged-up knees, a chef for concocting interesting snacks, and a writer for coming up with good bedtime stories. This time, I need to be a psychologist.

“Bala, a lot of people don’t like thunderstorms,” I say.

“I’m not a lot of people,” he points out.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I make a mental note to brush up on my psychology and I take a more basic approach. “You’ll miss my famous cheese and-pepper-flavored popcorn.”