The Nannies (13 page)

27

Kiley slid her eyes to Cindy and Veronique; the three were in Platinum’s living room, seated in identical white-on-white chairs. They were the only
Platinum Nanny
candidates left, after Tamika’s departure.

They’d been told to meet at six p.m. sharp for a preview of the next day’s challenge. But that hour had come and gone. It was already 6:15, and they were the only ones in the white room. No producers. No film crew. No A.M. No Platinum. Not even Kiley’s mother, who’d been taken away by a production assistant to a Topanga Canyon herbalist who specialized in panic disorders.

“I guess they’re running behind,” Kiley said tentatively.

“Gee, you think?” Cindy asked, her tone withering. She drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “You should feel good that you got this far, Kiley.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you are, how do you say in English, a gimmick,” said Veronique. She pronounced the word
gee-meek.

“You don’t know that,” Kiley replied, holding her ground.

“Please,” Cindy scoffed. “They’re never going to give this gig to a seventeen-year-old kid. The liability issues alone stagger the mind.”

Kiley searched for a stinging comeback, but couldn’t fashion one.

But she’s wrong, I can still win. And I’d have friends here, too.
I had such a fantastic time at the pier with Lydia and Esme. I’d
have a whole new life. I’d be a California resident and I’d get into
Scripps and—

Suddenly, A.M. strode into the room. But to Kiley’s surprise, no camera crew trailed her.

“Ladies,” she began, her brow furrowed so deeply that the creases looked like irrigation ditches. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“Define ‘a bit,’ ” Cindy said warily.

A.M. cleared her throat. “The network has decided to go in another direction.”

“Shit.” Veronique cussed in English for once, pulled a cigarette out of her purse, and fired it up.

Kiley didn’t understand. “What does that mean, exactly?” “It means the show is cancelled, you ignorant cheesehead,” Cindy snapped. She glared at the producer. “Game over, right?”

“Something along those lines,” A.M. agreed. “Thank you all for participating.”

“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Cindy seethed.

“Wait. How can it be over? It hasn’t even started!” Kiley was stunned. She’d been close. So close.

“The network did the usual,” A.M. explained. “Put together some segments, brought in focus groups, had them watch what we were going to put on the air. Bottom line: The test audiences in Burbank didn’t respond to it. The network says they might burn off a few episodes in the summer and then do an interview with Platinum or something, one of those ‘shows that never made it’ thingies. I’m sorry, guys. This is bad news for me, too, but it’s on to the next. It was fun while it lasted and all that. We’ll pay your airfare home, of course.”

“There is no next for me,” Kiley said. She dug the nails of her right hand into the flesh of her left hand to keep from sobbing.

“Come on, Kiley,” A.M. began, her voice more exasperated than kind. “You had an all-expenses-paid, kick-ass adventure. Didn’t you?”

Kiley couldn’t bring herself to nod.

“You didn’t actually think you were going to win, did you?” A.M. asked.

Veronique stood. “I need a limo to the airport.”

“Limo? Gimme a break,” A.M. scoffed. “No budget for limos. Share a cab.”

“Fine,” Cindy told her. “Eat me very much.”

She and Veronique stomped out a moment before Platinum stumbled into the room from the other direction. Her hair was a mess. There were dark smudges of mascara under her eyes. She held an open bottle of champagne.

“Hey, no hard feelings, okay?” she asked Kiley, slurring her words slightly. “Want some?”

Kiley shook her head. “No. Thanks.”

“Whatever.” Platinum took a swig from the bottle.

Kiley knew she should do what Cindy and Veronique had just done: leave. She should pack, meet up with her mom, and go to the airport. She’d be back in La Crosse in time for the eleven o’clock news. But depression made her legs feel leaden. “I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Cheer up. You weren’t going to win. Cindy was.”

So, Cindy had been right; everyone knew but her. And Veronique had been right; she had just been a gimmick all along. She’d been the small-town, underage cheesehead chick there for comic relief.

“It’s so—so unethical,” she told Platinum.

The rock star shrugged. “I’m suffering too. Because
someone
in this room couldn’t
shit
a decent reality show.”

A.M. bristled. “That is crap and you know it, Platinum.”

“Oh yeah?” Platinum challenged. “Who said: ‘Change your image, Platinum. Go for classy, Platinum’?” the singer mocked. “This is all your fault, you tight-ass bitch.”

“Well, screw you and the bottle you rode in on, you sorry over-the-hill sack of shit,” A.M. shot back.

“Get the hell out of my house!” Platinum flung the champagne bottle at A.M.’s head. A.M. ducked; the bottle crashed in a lethal confetti against the wall, champagne spewing everywhere.

A.M. fled. Platinum watched her hasty departure, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I can’t stand that bitch,” she told Kiley. “She hasn’t gotten laid since Woodstock.”

Whatever.
Kiley cleared her throat. “Umm . . . do you know if my mom is back from Topanga?”

“I’m not really drunk, you know.”

“I asked you—”

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m nuts, not deaf.” She gazed at the remains of the champagne bottle. “I need another one. We can share. What the hell, you got screwed today, too.”

Before Kiley could respond, Serenity stepped into the living room. “Mom, where did the stupid maid put my pink shirt?”

“Shit,” Platinum mumbled, and buried her head in her hands.

Kiley watched Serenity stare at her mother; for the briefest instant, the girl looked her age—lost and scared. Kiley knew how it felt to have a drunken parent; she’d seen her father that way enough times. It was terrible.

“Come on, Serenity,” Kiley told the girl. “I’ll help you find it.”

Serenity didn’t budge, just eyed her mother. “Is she stoned, drunk, or both?”

“She’s just not feeling good,” Kiley said.

“Gimme a break, don’t lie to me,” Serenity spat. “I want my pink shirt.
I want my pink shirt!
” Her voice rose to a pitch that would injure canine eardrums.

Mrs. Cleveland came running into the room. “I found it in the kitchen, sweetie,” she told Serenity. “Come on with me.” The little girl allowed herself to be ushered out of the room.

Platinum peeked out from behind her hands. “There’s no pink shirt in the kitchen. Mrs. Cleveland saves my ass all the time.”

“I figured.” Kiley licked her dry lips. “Well, I’ll just be going, then.”

“Yeah.” Platinum raked a hand through her messy hair. “Sorry you missed your fifteen minutes of fame, Kelly.”

“Kiley. I never
wanted
my fifteen minutes. I
wanted
the job.”

“Why the hell would anyone
want
to be my nanny?”

Kiley sighed. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Bye.”

Kiley was halfway to the door when Platinum called to her. “Hey, I still need a nanny.”

Kiley stopped. “What?”

“You were great with my kid just now—don’t think I didn’t notice.”

The tiniest bubble of hope began to percolate in Kiley’s stomach. “I can have the job? Really?”

“Yeah, you can have the freaking job. But the first thing you have to do is get me some more champagne. Pick up the house phone. Tell Mrs. Cleveland I want the Taittingers. If she doesn’t answer, go to the kitchen and find it in the fridge. Is that so tough?”

“No.”

Platinum smiled. “Good girl. Welcome to my world.”

Kiley couldn’t help it. She actually grabbed Platinum and hugged her. “Oh my God, this is so fantastic!”

“Off me,” Platinum mumbled into Kiley’s shoulder.

Kiley backed away. “Sorry. I’m just so . . . this is great.”

“There’s still some stuff to work out. Your mother is even more whacked-out than I am. You really think she’s ready to make me your guardian?”

“Maybe if you talk to her.”

Platinum gave a brittle laugh. “I have my own loony mother to deal with. Plus, I’m about to get hammered. You’re on your own.”

Kiley squared her shoulders with resolve. “Okay, I can do that. What do I have to lose? I’ll talk to her. The worst thing she can say is”—Kiley and Platinum said it at the same time—“No.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Mrs. McCann strode past her daughter to retrieve her suitcase from the guesthouse bedroom.

“But, Mom. You can’t say no,” Kiley implored as she followed her mother. “What did we do all of this for, if you were going to say no anyway?”

Kiley’s mother found the suitcase and hoisted it onto one of the twin beds. “I wanted to meet her. Now that I have, I will never make that . . .
woman
your guardian, Kiley. I don’t trust her.”

“Then why did you tell me to win, Mom? Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

Kiley shook her head. “I’m totally confused.”

Mrs. McCann pressed a hand to her slender chest. “I know I have some . . . issues, Kiley. I get nervous. Anxious. But that doesn’t make me stupid.”

“I never said—”

Her mother raised a palm to stop Kiley midsentence. “Listen to me, honey. You know Mr. Bartlett, right?”

Kiley sighed with impatience. “He owns the Derby, where you waitress. But what does that have to do with—”

Her mother raised her hand again. “Mr. Bartlett always brags on his son, Sam, how Sam started at the U when he was only seventeen. So before we came out here, I asked Mr. Bartlett about who was in charge of Sam when he was at school, you know, before he turned eighteen. And Mr. Bartlett said: Sam. I didn’t understand. But it’s something called . . . it starts with an
e
. What the heck was it, a something minor—”

“You mean an emancipated minor?” Kiley asked, incredulous.

“That’s it.”

“You’d let me do that? Be a legal adult, even though I’m still seventeen?”

Mrs. McCann put her hand over her daughter’s. “Kiley. When we were seniors at La Crosse High School, my best friend Arletta and I said we would go to Florida when we graduated. I don’t know why we picked there—because it’s warm, I guess. We were gonna get an apartment on the beach. Meet rich boys with yachts. Live the high life. You betcha.”

“I never knew you wanted to live in Florida.”

“It was a dream.” Her mother got up, went to the bedroom window, and stared outside for a moment. “Anyhow, Arletta went. I still get Christmas cards from her.”

“And you didn’t.”

Mrs. McCann turned back to her daughter and crossed her arms. “I can’t help who I am, Kiley. Little things turn into big things and make me nervous. I know that. I hate it about myself, but . . .” Her hands fluttered in the air. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“You’ll let me stay? Really?”

Her mother nodded. “I can’t give you your ocean, Kiley, but it’s right out there.” She gestured toward the window. “Get it for yourself.”

The love welled up inside Kiley; she gave her mother a fierce hug. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome so much.” Mrs. McCann pulled far enough away to look into her daughter’s eyes. “Don’t let fear hold you back, Kiley. Hear me?”

Kiley’s voice caught in her throat. “What about . . . Dad?” Kiley watched her mother’s mouth settle into a grim line of determination. “I’ll take care of him.”

Suddenly, the impossibility of what she wanted hit Kiley in the gut. Who was she kidding? This was her mother she was talking to, a woman who, no matter how well intentioned, couldn’t make it inside the Scripps Institution for a tour without hyperventilating.

Kiley shook her head. “No. You can’t.
I
can’t. You’d have to fly back to Wisconsin by yourself. Face Dad. I wouldn’t be there to help you. Forget it. What was I thinking? I must be the most selfish person on the—”

“Kiley, listen to me.” Mrs. McCann took her daughter by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You are not letting my problems hold you back.”

“But—”

“I can do this, Kiley. I
am
doing it. Not just for you. For both of us.”

28

DAILY SCHEDULE FOR MARTINA AND JIMMY
(Lydia—talk to me with questions.—Anya)
6:30—Wake children. Shower, dress. Apply SPF 30
sunblock to all exposed skin.
6:45—Fast walk around property. Make sure children wear
proper shoes.
7:00—Breakfast. Hot flax cereal, bananas, soy milk.
7:30—Read front section of Los Angeles Times. Quiz
children on current events.
8:30—Chess on computer. Please supervise.
10:30—Russian tutor. Address is on bulletin board in
study. Make sure children tape session for later review.
12:00—Lunch. No sweets, fried food, or milk products.
12:30—Educational video game, children’s choice.
1:00—Tennis lesson. If Jimmy says he has stomachache,
do not believe him.

Lydia sagged against the stucco wall in the family room. There was a lot more on the list, but she just couldn’t face it right now. Anya
had
to be joking. Any kid would go nuts with this kind of schedule. Plus, she’d go insane if she had to enforce it. Where was the fun?

Anya rushed past Lydia. “You didn’t hear door?”

No, she hadn’t. Evidently her aunt Kat was home with her cousins. She stuffed the list into the back pocket of Kat’s purloined Seven jeans.

Lydia followed Anya; Anya opened the heavy front door to Kat and the kids. The two women embraced; then Kat smiled and held her arms out to Lydia. “Lydia. I can’t get over it. You look just like your mom did when she was a teenager.”

Kat held Lydia in a warm hug, startled again to see how much her aunt looked like her big sister, Lydia’s mom. It made Lydia miss her mother—whom, saint complex aside, she actually liked.

“It’s great to see you, too, Aunt Kat,” Lydia said.

“Now that I’m really back, we’ll have to sit down and you’ll fill me in on my insane sister,” Kat said. “She’s not the best correspondent. But now . . .” She stepped to the side and gestured to her children. “You guys were too young to remember the last time you saw her, but this is your cousin, Lydia. Lydia, this is Jimmy and Martina.”

Lydia stared at her cousins, trying not to let her surprise— not in a good way—show on her face. She vaguely recalled meeting them, right before she’d left for the Amazon. They’d been toddlers then, and eight-and-a-half-year-old Lydia hadn’t paid much attention.

Jimmy was the elder of the two, having just finished sixth grade. Martina was supposed to be two grades behind him. But she was one of those girls who’d reached puberty probably not just first in her class, but first in her school. She was already five feet tall, and the brassiere that she wore under her very oversized Hello Kitty sweatshirt definitely was not for training. The rest of her ensemble was equally baggy—jeans and a floppy hat. A curtain of lank brown hair nearly hid her face. But there wasn’t much face to see in any event, since Martina’s gaze was focused on the Moorish-tile floor.

Neither cousin acknowledged Lydia’s presence.

“Well, nice to see y’all again!” Lydia said, in an effort to break the ice. “We’re going to have a blast together. Did y’all have fun at camp?”

Lydia waited. Nothing. Were they deaf and no one had warned her? If not, their manners were appalling. Hadn’t they learned how to greet someone from their own tribe? She plunged on. “I helped the cook make those cookies you like.”

“I hope you didn’t put in any milk.” Martina broke her silence in a small voice, but it was still directed at the floor. “I’m lactose intolerant. So is my brother. Right, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shrugged his agreement.

“So, how nice for the cousins to be together again!” Aunt Kat exclaimed, with what was obviously false enthusiasm.

Anya frowned, as if she knew what a poor showing her children were making. “Stand up straight, Martina,” she scolded. The girl barely adjusted her hunched posture.

“When can we eat?” Jimmy asked.

“Now,” Anya said. “Cook made your favorite, grilled soy cheese on sprouted wheat toast.”

“That’s not my favorite,” Jimmy said.

“Well, Lydia will find you something else,” Kat said. She put her arms around her kids. “I missed you guys so much. Let’s go to the kitchen. You can tell us everything that happened at camp.”

“You are too indulgent with them, Kat,” Anya chastised.

Lydia brought up the rear of the procession to the kitchen. It was abundantly clear who wore the loincloth in this family, who was the nice mom and who was the strict mom. Or maybe Russians just had a different theory of how to bring up children.

Dinner was already on the table, the plates covered by restaurant-style metal crowns to maintain their heat. A silver platter of home-baked cookies sat on the sideboard. Lydia found a chair as Jimmy zeroed in on the cookies.

“Hurray!” he cried, ignoring the covered main dishes.

“After dinner,” Anya insisted.

“Oh, come on, sweetie,” Kat wheedled. “Just this once. It’s a celebration.”

Jimmy took this as permission and stuffed a cookie into his mouth. Martina grabbed one in each hand. Anya scowled again and retreated to a far corner of the kitchen, arms crossed.

“You want one?” Jimmy asked Lydia.

“Sure.” Lydia took one and bit into it. It tasted like roasted, dried sand. She choked out a “Not bad.”

“Come on, children. At least drink soy milk,” Anya implored from her corner.

“Lydia?” Aunt Kat asked. “Would you please get the kids some soy milk?”

Lydia stared at her blankly. Didn’t the kids have legs and feet? “You’re the nanny,” Kat reminded her.

“Right!” Lydia stood, red-faced. She’d forgotten completely that she was supposed to be on the job. “I’m the nanny. Sorry.”

She found glasses in a cupboard and a half-gallon of soy milk in the fridge. As she poured two glasses of milk, she asked her cousins how they’d gotten their names.

“Tennis, duh,” Jimmy explained. “Martina for Martina Navratilova, Jimmy for Jimmy Connors. If you haven’t heard of them, it’s because they’re really old now.”

“So do y’all like tennis?” Lydia asked, determined to find something that would result in a discussion that lasted more than three sentences.

“No, I hate it,” Jimmy declared. “I suck.”

Anya frowned. “Not to use that language. The problem is you do not practice. You think all things should come easy to you.”

“Just because you play doesn’t mean I should have to,” Jimmy shot back sullenly. “I don’t even want a tennis coach.”

“You are lazy boy,” Anya scolded. “How did Anya Kuriakova have lazy boy?”

Jeez,
Lydia thought,
isn’t this the happy bunch.
She made another stab at connecting with her cousins. “How about you, Martina? Do you like tennis?”

She shook her head.

“Another sport?”

Martina shook her head again.

“Then what do you like to do?”

Martina shrugged.

“Tell Lydia how you like to draw, sweetie,” Kat coaxed.

Martina shot a panicked look at her brother.

“My sister is kinda shy,” Jimmy explained. “Until you get to know her, but she’s really nice.”

Well, at least the kids liked each other. That was a start, anyway.

“Tell your cousin about art, Martina,” Anya prompted. “It was your one high mark in school.”

“Anya . . . why don’t you and I go upstairs and unpack?” Kat asked. “We can leave the kids with Lydia to get reacquainted.”

“Good idea,” Anya agreed.

“Um, Anya, about your list?” Lydia began. “It seems a little . . . rigid.”

“Parent says, children do,” Anya declared.

Kat took her partner’s hand. “We’ll talk about it later,” she promised Lydia. Then the moms beat a hasty retreat. Lydia knew very well that it wasn’t necessary for Kat to unpack her own things—there’d be plenty of household help in the morning.
“Why don’t you and I go upstairs”
had to be code for “Let’s go get naked and funky.” Fine. Whatever floated their outrigger canoe.

As soon as the moms were gone, the kids descended on the cookies again.

“Hey, let’s go outside,” Lydia suggested; listening to them chew was not her idea of a good time.

“I know,” Jimmy groaned, “we have to take a brisk walk around the property.”

So. Jimmy had been treated to Mean Mom’s summer list already. “No, we’ll find something more fun to do,” Lydia promised.

Jimmy’s eyes slid to her. “Did Momma Anya give you the list?”

“Yep.”

“We had a list last summer, too,” Jimmy said. “I
hate
that list.”

Martina nodded her agreement.

Well,
Lydia thought,
at least it was signs of life.

“We can take a few little liberties with it,” Lydia decided.

“What if you get fired?” Jimmy asked.

What if she did? No way was she going back to the Amazon. But no, Aunt Kat wouldn’t fire her. But just in case . . . “We don’t necessarily have to tell the moms exactly what you do every day. Do we?”

Wide-eyed, both kids shook their heads.

“Great!” Lydia jumped up. “Let’s go.”

“If we go out we need sunblock,” Martina whispered.

“The sun’s going down. You’ll be fine,” Lydia said, leading the way.

“But I’m still hungry,” Jimmy complained.

How annoying. “Fine.” Lydia opened the large cupboard door where Kat and Anya stowed their junk food out of harm’s way. She stood on tiptoes and peered inside. “Ding Dongs? Doritos? Hostess Ho Hos? Caramel corn? What’s your pleasure?”

“Caramel corn?” Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “I
love
caramel corn.”

“Caramel corn is made with milk,” Martina reminded him.

“A little milk never hurt anyone, sweetie,” Lydia assured her. She snagged the bag and used it to lure the kids out the door. There, they stood around for a while. Lydia suggested tennis. No. Paddle tennis. Nope. Shuffleboard. Forget it. Bike riding on the driveway. Neither kid knew how to ride.

In desperation, she suggested that they go swimming. “We can’t.” Martina shook her head vehemently. “We just ate.”

“Um, can I have the caramel corn?” Jimmy asked. Lydia tossed it to him. He tore into the bag and took a huge mouthful.

“Oh well, Martina,” Lydia said. “Clearly no one told you about the cookie exception to the no-swim rule. See, cookies don’t count as actual food. Same thing with caramel corn.”

The kids stared at her, unsure how to respond.

“That was a joke,” Lydia told them. “Anyway, that no-swimming-after-you-eat thing only applies to, like, Olympic athletes. Back in the Amazon where I used to live, people eat and then swim all the time. No one dies.”

Jimmy chewed another fistful of caramel corn, leaving sticky crumbs all over his face. “That’s right. Momma Kat said you lived in the Amazon. That’s so cool.”

“More like hot,” Lydia quipped. “Anyway, let’s get in the water and I’ll tell you all about it. There are suits in the cabanas, right?”

“I don’t want to swim.” Martina hung back.

Her brother went to her. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “There’s no one here.”

Martina’s eyes cut to Lydia. “
She’s
here.”

“Well, yeah. Anyway, I want to swim. When’s the next time you’ll get to go after you ate? If Momma Anya knew, she’d kill us.” He took another handful of caramel corn and trudged toward one cabana.

Reluctantly, Martina went into the other one. Lydia decided to wait until her cousin was in her suit before she went in, since Martina was obviously so self-conscious about her body.

So. Her cousins were weird. Shy, scared, and as low-energy as children could be while still registering a pulse. Lydia was going to have to do something about that.

“Wait. Are you saying that where you used to live, girls walked around
naked
?”

Lydia smiled at Martina. “Definitely. Totally naked. All the time.”

She’d been paddling around the deep end with her cousin, talking about everyday life in the rain forest, and exaggerating wildly for dramatic effect. But nothing seemed to interest Martina until she started in on the dressing, dating, and mating habits of the natives. As for Jimmy, he was in the shallow end, alternately chasing a floating action toy and stopping to chomp on the caramel corn.

“I’d rather die than go naked,” Martina confided. Her body was covered by an exceptionally unflattering two-piece swim-suit with a purple blouson top that fell loosely over her chest and stomach.

“If you grew up that way, it would seem normal,” Lydia said. “Of course, in Amazonia, girls start getting their breasts at, like, nine.”

Martina’s eyes grew huge. “Really? That’s even younger than me.”

“Really. Sometimes even at
eight,
” Lydia went on. It was a total whopper, but it wasn’t like the kid would research the truth. “Not only that, girls there don’t really have to be afraid of anyone dissing them, either. They’re the queens of every village. And they know all the secrets of the rain forest, too.”

Martina paddled to the edge of the pool and held on to the overhang. For the first time, her voice was animated. “Like what?”

“Well, like potions that can make people do what you want them to do. Or stop them from doing what you don’t want them to do.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ll show you sometime. If you want.”

Martina shook her head. “Nah. I might get hurt.”

Fine. Swell. Martina was a wuss, and Jimmy wasn’t much better. Irritated at the prospect of another hour with them, Lydia climbed out of the pool and went for her towel. On the way, she passed a wooden planter full of potted wildflowers. A slug crawled along the base of the stems.

“Hey Martina, check this out!” Lydia called.

The girl looked up. When she did, Lydia grabbed the slug, flipped it eight feet into the air, and let it drop . . . directly into her mouth.

“Mmm, tender!” Lydia pronounced as she chewed.

“Eww!” Martina shrieked with a lung capacity Lydia hadn’t known she possessed. “She just ate a worm! Jimmy! She ate a worm!”

This got Jimmy’s attention in a hurry, as Lydia had hoped it would. The boy hustled over to his sister. “She did?”

“Alive!” Martina squealed. “She ate it!”

“They’re a lot better roasted,” Lydia confided.