Page 27 of The Billionaire's One-Night Stand Nanny
“Iknow, Flora! I’m notstupid!”
I blinked. “Of course not, Maddie. I didn’t say that you were.”
“Don’t forget to backstitch, Maddie,” she said in a whiney imitation of my voice. “Let’s do another practice seam, Maddie, and another one, andanother one!You said you were going to teach me to sew, but all I’m going to do all summer is make these stupid practice lines!” the girl yelled, knocking over her chair as she stood up. Her face was twisted into a snarl.
“Oh, Maddie–” I said, looking from her to the machine. “If you want to practice something else, we can–”
“I don’t want to practice some other stupid kind of line!” she snapped. “I want tomakesomething!”
I sighed. “All this practice is so that when youdostart making something, it will turn out how you want it to. I know it’s frustrating, but–”
“I’m notfrustrated,” Maddie cried, tears springing into her eyes. I had spent enough time with Maddie to know that despite her protestations… yeah. She was frustrated. It had been a long day, and I wondered if she maybe hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.
“All Imeanis,” I said delicately, opening my arms, hands facing up, “that I want your project to go well. You remember the skirt you picked, right?” She’d picked out a simple skirt pattern with an elasticated waist, and I’d helped her select an appropriate fabric–one that would be easy to sew. “The more we practice now, the better your skirt will be. That skirt needs a lot of straight lines, too, remember?” I smiled encouragingly. “I promise I’m not doing this just to make you mad.”
“Well, you are!” she said, and shoved past me. “Look, see–” One foot stomped down on the sewing machine pedal, one hand guiding the fabric–poorly–under the presser foot. It zipped through, uncontrolled and way too fast. It flopped off the back of the machine, and a grinding, clunking noise replaced the smooth whirring as the thread became knotted.
Ping.
The needle snapped.
“Ahh!” Maddie screamed, crossing her room in a few steps and flinging herself onto the bed.
I knew better than to say I told you so.
I followed, sitting down next to her on her purple bedspread.
“Do you want to take a break and walk to the park?” I asked. “Get ice cr–”
“Go. Away.” Her command was muffled by the ruffled pillow she’d buried her face in.
I nodded. “Okay, Maddie. I’ll be right downstairs when you’re ready–”
“Don’t bother,” she said, sitting up and scowling. “I’ll just wait up here until my mom comes to get me.”
I let out a frustrated huff. “Maddie, sweetie, that’s not for hours. You can’t–”
“I said goaway!I don’t want to talk to you right now!”
“Obviously!” I said, letting my own frustration get the better of me.
“And don’t call me sweetie, you’re not my mom!”
“I know that!” I snapped. “I’mnot stupid, either!” It came out high and sharp. I snapped my mouth shut, embarrassed and frustrated at my outburst. “Sorry,” I said when I thought I had regained control of my tone. “I’ll be downstairs.”
I stayed downstairs, and Maddie upstairs, for the last hour. My eyes stung as I tidied the little messes the two of us had made this morning, and the shrill words I’d uttered in frustration echoed in my head.I’m not stupid, either!
I was used to ten-year-olds, and I was used to spending all day with them in the classroom… but not in such close quarters. I wasn’t her mom–I knew that, I did, I was just her nanny–but what I was doing felt a lot closer to how I thought parenting must be than it was to teaching. I hadn’t expected that when I’d blithely given myself the job.
Ms. Talford came right on time, breezing through the entryway with a smile and a cheerful, “Happy Friday, Flora!” I hung a matching smile on my face as she went to the bottom of the stairs. “Sweetie? Are you ready?”
Sweetie.
OfcourseI wasn’t Maddie’s mom, I thought as mother and daughter swept out through the front door, Maddie giving me an uncomfortable half-smile that I expected would pass for a ten-year-old’s apology. I was just the nanny, I reminded myself as I put the dirty dishes from our lunch into the sink. Lara, the housekeeper, would do them, Ryan had assured me when he discovered me washing dishes the first week. I stared at the plates and glasses from our lunch and snacks, thinking about the long trek home across the city. Friday night. The subway would be packed. Edie was going out with a new friend, and although I’d told my sister to call me, I didn’t much feel like hanging out with her, not with the weight of her favor hanging over our time together.
Better to stay in, I thought, my heart heavy in my chest. I needed to save money anyway.
But the thought of returning to my sad little apartment was even more depressing than the stack of dishes in the sink. I grabbed the sponge–hidden away under the sink instead of on the counter or in the bottom of the sink like a normal, non-housekeepered household–and picked up a plate. I put it back down, wiping my hands on my jeans before digging my phone out of my tote bag. Music. That’s what I needed. I pulled up the irritatingly catchy pop song that had been stuck in my head all day, putting the volume on maximum, and turned on the water. Soon, I was humming along, letting the simple, mindless task unwind my tight shoulders and the silly lyrics wash the sound of my own frustrated voice from my head.
