You knew Vicky, at least somewhat anyways. She went to your high-school and worked as a babysitter, always slacking off in class and didn’t seem to be much of a hard worker, but somehow managed to reel out fat wads of cash from her employers every single time.

You didn’t trust Vicky, personally. She was able to consistently keep up a sickeningly sweet facade whenever she was around adults, but constantly treated kids with cruelty. She was mean, vindictive, demanding and full of herself– and seemed to find twisted enjoyment out of making children miserable. One day, you had had enough and decided to approach Vicky upfront while she was “babysitting”. As in, ordering some poor buck-toothed 10 year old around the house while she relaxed in the sun.

You call Vicky’s attention, standing with your arms on your hips as she looked up at you inquisitively– looking rather annoyed. The teen scoffed, sitting up straight to glare at you more effectively.

“And what do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Vicky snipped angrily. She had no facade to put up when she was talking to someone her own age, and it showed through her brash demeanor. The red-head impatiently tapped her foot on the front lawn, wanting to get back to her “work” as soon as possible.