The Nanny Diaries (24 page)

sitbackdown.

"Nanny!" Mrs. X comes bustling in. "Nanny." She's about to speak when she sees Grayer and the lone

tortellini. "Didyouhave a gooddinner,Grayer?"

"Yes," hesaysintohis arm.

Butshe's alreadyfocusedher attentionbacktome. "Couldyou

come out here for a minute?" I follow her into the dining room where she turns and stops so abruptly I

accidentallysteponherfoot.

"I'm sorry,areyouokay?"

She grimaces. "I'm fine. I just finished with Jane and it's paramount that we have a family meeting, to

break the news to Grayer together about the r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n. So I'll need you to call Mr. X's office and

findoutwhenhecouldbescheduledtoattend. Thenumber's inthepantry?

"Mrs. X?" Janecalls asshecomes intothehall.

"Sure. No problem. Right away."I quickly slip back intothekitchen. Grayer is still making slowcircles

with his fork,thetortellini inorbit. 1 hoverover himfor a moment while listeningtoJaneandMrs. Xin

thehallway.

"Yes, I've just spoken with Nanny. I'm going to see how soon my husband can come home for this

meeting,"Mrs. Xsays, waxingprofessional.

"His presenceis reallyunnecessaryas longasGrayer perceives his primary caregiver tobepresent.You

should just go ahead andspeakwith him yourself." Jane's voice moves toward thefront door and I head

forthephone.

"Mr. X's office,Justinespeaking.HowmayI helpyou?"

"Justine? Hi,it's Nanny."

"Hi. Howareyou?" sheasksover thedinof a printer.

"Hanginginthere. Howaboutyou?"

"Busy," she sighs. "The merger is making things crazy around here. I haven't been home before

midnightintwoweeks." "Thatsucks."

"Well, hopefully Mr. X'll get a huge retention bonus and spread a little of it around." Don't count on it.

"So,is Mrs. Xlikingtheflowers?"

"What?"

"Theroses. thoughtitwasoverkill, but Mr. Xjusttoldmetoputin astandingorder."

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"Yeah,itkindof feelslike astandingorder," I confirm.

"I'll makesuretomorrow's bouquethas morevariety.What's herfavoriteflower?"

"She likespeonies,"I whisperasMrs. X breezespast Grayertostandinfrontofme,expectantly.

"Where am I goingtofindpeoniesinMarch?" Justinesighsagainastheprinter makes a clackingsound.

"Ugh,I can't believe thisthingis brokenagain.Sorry,never mind, I'll do it.Anythingelse?"

"Oh,right. Mrs. X wantstoschedule a family meeting about...". glanceover her shoulderatthepasta

pusher?thelittle one.Whencouldhebehere?"

"Let's see ... I couldpush a meetingup ..."I canhearher flippingpages. "Tuh,tah,tah . .. Yeah, I canget

himback toNewYork byWednesdayat four. I'll havehimthere."

"Great.Thanks,Justine."

"Anytime."

I hangupthephoneandturnto her. "Justine saidthathecanbe

hereWednesdayatfour."

"Well, if that's really the soonest he can make it... I guess that will have to do." She glances down to

adjusther sparklingengagement ring. "Janesaidit wascrucialthathebehere,so . . ."

Right.

"I mean,theWall StreetJournal!He's four!"

"Jesus," my dad exclaims just as Sophie pushes her nose between our legs. "Your mom still wants you

outofthere."

"I can handle it." I jog forward a few steps and Sophie circles, ready for her next run. "And there's no

wayI couldleaveGrayer

rightnow."

Dad runs to the bottom of the hill. "Sophie! Come on!" Sophie looks confused. "Over here!" he calls.

Sophieturns 180degreesfrom

my heels and takes offin his direction against a cold gust of wind that blows her ears even farther back.

As soon as she reaches him, running just below his gloved hands, I call to her and she gallops back up

toward me, and then the two of us run down the slope until we are beside him on the main promenade thatrunsalongtheuptownstretchofRiversidePark.

"Readyforyourinterviewtomorrow?" Sophierolls intohis shinsinanefforttocatchup.

"I'm kindof nervous, butProfessorClarkson's beenpracticingwith usinclass. I'd reallyliketohavemy jobfornextyearlinedupsoon."I hunchmyshouldersagainstanothergustofcoldwind.

"You'll knock 'em dead. Go long!" I run back up the hill toward the edge of the trees and look back downjustasthestreetlightturns on,makingitappeardarkeraroundus.

I lookup intotheyellow glow,composing awish alongthelines of "starlight,starbright." "Oh,electric gods of the tristate area, I'm just wishing for a real, honest-to-goodness job with set hours and an office where the boss's underwear isn't drying in the bathroom. Someday I'd like to be able to help more than one child at a time?children who don't come accessorized with their own consultants. Thank you. Amen."

The subway car is suddenly flooded with sunlight as we surface high over the streets of the South Bronx. I feel that twinge of excitement I always do when a train car moves aboveground, flying over thecityonits skinnyrailslikeanamusement-parkride.

I pull mylessonplanout of mybackpackandstareat it forthe millionth time. Theopportunity to join a conflict-resolution team for city schools is exactly the kind of job I've been training for. Plus, it would begoodtoworkwithteenagersandtake a breakfromthetinyfolk.

Thetrainpulls to astopandI stepoutintothecoldsunshine. I

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make my way down the steps of the platform to the street and discover that I am not four blocks away from my interview, but fourteen. I must have misunderstood the woman on the phone. I check my watch,pickingupthepace. I wastoonervous this morningtohavebreakfast, buttheninety-minute trek hasrevived myappetite. I walk/rundownthelongstreets,knowingI shouldeatorriskpassingoutmid!lesson.

Fully out of breath, I run into a tiny newspaper stand, grab a bag of peanuts, and stuff them in my backpack. One door down 1 ring the buzzer next to a taped piece of hand-colored paper that reads "CommunitiesAgainstConflict."

A voice blares unintelligibly out through the static and the door clicks, letting me into a stairwell, once painted green, and lined with posters of children in playgrounds looking gravely into the camera. I examine each print as I climb the stairs and, judging by the haircuts and bell-bottoms, guess these are promo posters circa the early seventies, around the time that this organization was founded. I buzz again at the top step and am greeted by loud barking, before a large hand pulls the door slightly ajar. "Snowflake,stay! STAY!"

"I'm here for the interview?" I say, looking around for another door, assuming I've mistakenly interrupted aresidentinthebuilding.A palewoman's faceappearsinthecrack.

"Yeah, Communities Against Conflict. You're in the right place, come on in, just be careful of Snowflake;he's always tryingtofree

himself."

I shimmy through the small opening she's made in the door and practically come face-to-face with a humongousblackshepherdandtherestof anequallylargewoman inoveralls andwaist-length, graying blond hair. I smile, bendingdowntopetSnowflake,whois tryingtogetpasther widelyplantedlegs.

"NO!" shescreams.

I joltup.

"He'snotreally apeopleperson.Areyou,Snowflake?" Shepats 1

the dog gruffly on his head with her free hand, as the other holds a stack of manila folders. Having adequatelywarnedme,shelets Snowflakecheckmeoutwhile I stayperfectlystill.

"I'm Reena, the executive director of Communities. You are?" She fixes me with an intense stare. I try toget areadonher,attempting tofigureoutwhoshewouldlikeme tobe.

"Nan.I thinkI wassupposedtomeetwithRichard."I aimforsolidandwarm, without a hintofcheerful.

"Nan? I thought your name was Naminia. Shit. RICHARD!" Reena bellows at me and I almost duck. Sheturnsbackto herfiles. "He'll behere in a minute. RICHARD!" shescreamsagain, thistime intothe filingcabinet.

"Okay! I'll just have a seat." I try to demonstrate that I am someone who can take care of herself, as I sense independenceis of value here. I turn around to discover that the two chairs designated to the few feet serving as a waiting area are both piled with overflowing boxes of yellowing brochures. I opt for standingbythewall andgettingoutofReena's way, asthisseems tobe aCommunities value, aswell.

A door flies open at the far side of the room and a man with a pasty complexion, who looks related to Reena and whom I presume to be Richard, emerges. He squints at me in his glasses, breathing heavily with the effort of getting around her and the dog to greet me. He is sweating profusely and has a wilted cigarette stuckbehindhis ear.

"Naminia!"

"Nan,"Reenagruntsover a file.

"Oh, Nan... I'm Richard, the artistic director. Well, I see you've met Reena and Snowflake. Why don't we get right to it! Let's go into the Feelings Room and get you set up." He shakes my hand and exchangesglanceswith Reena.

I followhimtotheFeelingsRoom,which isaboutthesamesizeastheoffice,butwithout all thedesks.

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"So have a seatthere,Nan."I do,readytotellmywhole,wonderful story. Readytoknock 'emdead.

"Now let me tell you about myself..." Richard begins. He leans back in the plastic folding chair and proceeds to explain abouthis decadesspentin social work, howhe met up with Reena at a rally against the superintendent, their years traveling the globe to gather methodologies for conflict resolution, and the host of "virtually thousands of kids" that he has personally trained to "make the world a better place." He also goes on extensively about his misguided childhood, the "illegitimate" son who doesn't

call him anymore, and his recent attempts to quit smoking. I zone in and out, keeping a beaming smile

onmyfaceanddeveloping a fixationonthepeanutsinmybag.

About an hour later he finally says, "So I see here that you are minoring in gender studies, what does

thatmean?"

He scans the resume 1 faxed in, squinting to read the blurred print. 1 follow his gaze to the top of the

pagetodiscover thatI am "Naminia of4ishEast90 somethingStreet."Ahh,Naminia.

"Well, I'm in the home stretch of a major in child development and I was very interested in

supplementingthis work?

"So you're not a feminist bitch, then?" He has a good, hearty laugh, taking a Kleenex out of his pocket

andwipingdownhis forehead.

I attempt a weak laugh. "As I was saying, I've been completing my thesis with Professor Clarkson and

havebeeninterningthis semesteratanafter-schoolprograminBrooklyn?

"Right. So let's get you up and running! Let me grab Reena and we'll get started with your session." He

stands. "REEENA!" Loudbarkingensuesintheother room.

I pull my lesson plan out of my backpack while Snowflake bursts in, followed by Reena. I walk to the

othersideoftheroomandwrite mynotes ontherollingblackboard.

I take a deepbreath. "I haveprepared a sessiononpeerpressureforfourteen-year-oldsingradenine.As

you'll seeontheboardhere

I havewritten thesekeyterms. I wouldbeginbyaskingthegrouptoworktogethertoconstruct?

"Teacher!Teacher!" Richardis wavingwildlyfromthebackof theroom.

"I'm sorry,areyounotreadyformetostart?" I ask,unsureof whatishappening.

Heballsup apieceofpaperandthrowsitatReena,whostartstomockcry.

"Teacher! Reena said a bad word!" Reena continues to boo-hoo, causing Snowflake to circle her,

barking.

"I'm sorry,Richard,itwas myunderstandingthatwe were justdoinganoverview."Buttheyare intheir

ownworld,throwingpaperateachother andfakecrying.

I clearmythroat. "Okay,thesessionyou askedme-to preparewasforteenagers,um, butI canmodifyit

for preschoolers." I glance at my notes and frantically try to downscale the plan for a different age

group.I turnbacktofacetwohugeadults andonehugedog,hidingbehindchairs andlaunchingpaper.

"Um, excuse me? Excuse me? OKAY, CLASS!" I say loudly, giving sway to my frustration. They turn

backtome.

Reenastandsup,breakingcharacter. "Howare youfeelingrightnow,Nan?"

"Sorry?" I ask.

Richard gets out his notebook. "How do you feel about us in this moment? What does your gut say?"

Theylookatme expectantly.

"Well, I thinkperhapsI misunderstoodthedirectives?

"Shit, Nan. Do you have rage in there?Do you hate us? We are just not feeling the love. 1 want to hear itfromyou.Howisyourrelationshipwith yourmother?"

"Reena,franklyI'm unclearhowthis relatestomyabilities to?

Reena puts her hands on her large hips and Snowflake circles her heels. "We're a family here. There are noboundariesintheFeelingsRoom.You've gottocome inherewith trustandloveandjust