Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
I knew it would be hard. My sister, Charity, warned me plenty. Endless warnings, in fact, about how I should’ve stayed in Iowa and gotten my master’s there. But how was I supposed to give up on a chance like this?
Today, though, my luck is turning around. I finally have a lead for a job that will pay enough to make this do-able. The lead is with a nanny agency that I signed up for months ago after a particularly depressing shift at the coffee shop. Was I inspired by nanny-in-New-York novels and movies? Maybe. Did I ignore how said novels and movies always placed the nanny with the most demanding family in Manhattan? Absolutely.
The way I see it, I’ll be able to study while the baby sleeps. I can take him or her for strolls in Central Park, find a nice bench and do some studying while the kid eats Cheerios. Maybe it won’t be easy-peasy, but I guarantee the pay is better and I’ll have more time to squeeze in studying than I do at the coffee shop.
Besides, anything would be better than spending four a.m. shifts battling with espresso machines and customers who think that the penny they’re leaving as a tip entitles them to demand you remake their shitty latte. I also doubt that any toddler I nanny for is going to passive-aggressively suggest that I “learn the foam-to-milk ratio or get a new job.” Nope. Nannying is my ticket to getting my New York dream back on track.
Thank God I answered when the agency called, or I would’ve missed out on the opportunity. They said they needed someone “stat” and that I’d need to clear my schedule to take the gig. This meant that I had to unceremoniously and possibly unprofessionally quit my coffee shop job, but I didn’t care. This was serendipity.
I stop and check my phone, confirming that I’m at the address the agency sent over. I have to admit, this is a part of New York that makes me feel like I’m on a movie set. Skyscrapers and hot dog stands, a chorus of honking cabs and sidewalks crowded with New Yorkers rushing from one meeting to the next. Since I have my phone out already, I pause to check that I’m still looking presentable after the subway and the walk over. My chapped lips could do with a refresh, so I reapply the soft pink balm that I keep on me at all times. I didn’t go super-heavy on my make-up, seeing as how I’ll be hanging out with a kid all day, but I’m pleased to see that my mascara hasn’t smudged at all. Ponytail is in place. I think I look pretty chic. My beloved NYU sweatshirt and leggings are comfortable and suitable for the job. It’s not quite the “athleisure chic” that I see some of the New York moms in, but it’s perfectly acceptable for a nanny.
I sigh a little, looking at the notes again. A single father, living in New York, doing his best. My heart goes out to him. I wonder if he’s widowed or divorced. Or maybe there’s some sort of tragic story about a girlfriend who left him alone to raise his child. I have no idea how young or old he is, only that my charge falls in the “under two” range. Which is perfect, kids that young still nap. I’ll have loads of study time between burping and diaper changes.
I take a breath and enter the lobby. I think it’s a little odd that I’m meeting this man at his office, but then again, maybe this is what he’s had to do in order to handle the whole working parent thing. Poor guy probably has a bouncy seat on his office floor. He must be desperate for the agency to send someone.
“Who’re you meeting with?” the receptionist asks, with a friendly smile. I feel so good about this.
“Mason Cooper,” I tell her, then straighten up and smile. “I’m the nanny.”
The woman blinks at me. “Sorry?”
I glance at the note in my phone again even though I’ve memorized the information. “Mason Cooper,” I repeat, then read the building’s address aloud as if that will confirm something. I know I’m in the right place. I triple-checked on the way in and the name of the building is proudly displayed on a wall behind the receptionist in letters at least two feet tall.
Yet…
Something feels off. Very, very off.
“Huh,” the receptionist replies, shaking her head. “Well, let me call upstairs. Just a minute.”
She makes the call as I stand back, rereading the assignment. She nods her head, listening to whomever she’s called. I’m in the right place, at the right time.
Yet…
“You can take the elevator to the seventy-second floor,” the receptionist informs me with a smile as she hangs up the phone. I don’t miss the tiny shrug she makes as she says it.