Page 15 of The Good Girl Effect
“Um…yes. I think we need some music,” I say to change the subject. Going into my backpack, I pull out my portable speaker and place it on the counter. After connecting it to my phone, I pick an upbeat playlist, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” blasts through the kitchen.
Bea begins smiling and dancing in her seat as I continue cooking.Crisis averted.
“So what do you like to do?” I ask, turning toward her.
She shrugs.
“You like arts?”
“Sometimes we do art at school,” she replies.
“What about sports? Or music?”
“At school,” she repeats.
“Hm,” I mumble to myself.
“Tante Elizabeth is a ballerina,” she says, and I turn to her with interest.
“That’s nice,” I reply. “Does your papa ever take you to her shows?”
Bea slumps in her seat. “No. Papa doesn’t take me anywhere.”
“Nowhere?” I ask.
She shakes her head. I can see sadness creeping in on her face, so I decide to change the subject—again.
“Well, I love arts and crafts and sports and music. So we’ll have lots of fun.”
This makes her grin excitedly. The song changes, and the next one is an upbeat pop song that suddenly has us both dancing and singing along.
The next thing I know, Bea is hopping around on the floor, shaking her hips, and trying to sing along with the words. She twirls so fast in her pretty blue dress that her hair bow flies across the room. It makes me laugh, so I crank up the volume and take her hands, spinning her around the kitchen as we giggle with excitement.
I lose track of time as we dance. I lose track ofeverything. Warmth blossoms in my chest at the sight of her grinning from ear to ear. When was the last time she smiled like this? Hell, when was the last timeIsmiled like this? If this is what being a nanny is like, then I am certain I will love every second of it. All I must do is create a routine and keep her happy. That’s it. How hard could it be?
Lost in the moment, I’m singing along to the lyrics, incredibly off-key, when I spin around and let out a scream.
Slamming my hand over my mouth, I stare at Jack in the doorway, watching us both with a displeased grimace on his face.
“Turn it down,” he barks angrily.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of smoke billowing from the pan on the stove.
“Le riz!” I shriek as I run over and turn off the flame. I try to stir the contents, but it’s futile. They’re charred and stuck in a smelly black mass at the bottom of the pan.
“Papa said to turn it down!” Bea shouts at me.
Clapping a hand on my forehead, I dash over to the speaker, but Jack marches over and beats me to it. We reach for the device at the same time, our hands colliding as his clicks the button first.
Then the room is bathed in tense silence with the stench of burnt rice in the air.
Jack is wearing a tense scowl, the cleft in his chin more prominent as he frowns at me. This job is about to be over before it even started. Frazzled and caught off guard, I start rambling apologies in French.
“Je suis désolée. J’ai commencé à faire à manger, nous nous amusions beaucoup, et je n’ai pas fait attention. Je suis une très bonne cuisinière en principe, et…”
“English,” he bellows in frustration. “Miss Aubert, I thought I made it clear that we only speak English at home.”
My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in surprise. Does he not speak French?
