Maybe if she repeated it enough times, it would be true. After all, if everything went well with the nanny interviews she scheduled for today, then that would be one load off . . . Burning sick leave at work was no longer an option. She couldn’t spare any more days off, so unless the Unabomber showed up for an interview, someone was getting a job.
Mel settled her notebook on her lap and waited for the doorbell to ring. She could hear the sounds of the television from her bedroom where the kids were watching a movie. Last she checked, the triplets were glued to the screen with a big bowl of popcorn. From fear or fascination, Mel couldn’t be sure. She had basically threatened their very existence if they so much as blinked for the next three hours while she ran interviews.
She had spent the better part of the morning cleaning up as much as she could. Half the kid’s toys were crammed into the hall closet or tucked under her bed. Dirty dishes still sat in the sink, but she did her best to get the kitchen in order. As she sat there, waiting in the rare reprieve from wrangling kids, her eyelids grew heavy. If only she could close them and drift off . . .
The doorbell rang, jolting her off the couch. Blinking away her fatigue, she headed to the door. Naps were a luxury she couldn’t afford. So were long baths. Dinners without someone fighting or whining or spilling their milk. Adult movies. She missed watching television that didn’t involve cartoons.
On an exhale, Mel braced her hand on the doorknob and readied herself for the first nanny candidate. She bet Linda from Queens would be so amazing she’d be able to call and cancel all the other interviewees after hiring her on the spot. After, she’d weep tears of joy and squeeze in that fifteen-minute cat nap she’d been dreaming about for the last four years. Then maybe she’d discover the kids had miraculously fallen asleep while watching their movie and she could take a nice, hot soak in the tub with extra bubbles. She’d pat herself dry, lotion her skin for the first time in forever, and squeeze into her pre-baby jeans.
How’s that for a positive attitude? She grinned as she swung open the door.
Her smile fell almost instantaneously.
MEL SWALLOWED. HARD.
She liked to think of herself as open-minded. She was not a judgmental person. She was a lover of all people and believed in waving your freak flag, whatever that may be. But . . .
Oh, who was she kidding? She hated most people. Other than her two best friends Caroline and Marti, she was the epitome of anti-social.
She’d blame her hermit tendencies on her kids, but really, her aversion to humans was more due to getting burned in the past and not necessarily individual people themselves. Black, white, yellow, green—she didn’t care what color you were. She didn’t care if you were Emo—or whatever the heck the kids called it these days (in her day it was goth)—a hipster, or into cross-dressing. Who was she to judge? She was a veritable mess on a good day. But don’t let Linda Brown’s plain jane conservative name fool ya. She tested the boundaries of every preconceived notion Mel may have ever had.
She was sure heavy-metal-loving-Linda, the part-time tattoo artist and piercing specialist, was a really nice woman. Probably super kind and sensitive beneath all the leather and the stainless-steel barbells decorating her face. But as Mel’s gaze flickered from one embellishment to the next, she couldn’t help her skepticism.
Mel narrowed her eyes as Linda continued filling her in on the difference between dermal and surface piercings, only half listening. Her eyes zeroed in on the little chain hanging from her eyebrow. Inside her right nostril was something small and dark. Was it a jewel? A booger? The suspense was killing her.
Linda shouldn’t freak her out. She shouldn’t. Judging her on her appearance was wrong. What mattered was who Linda was on the inside.
Right?
If Mel had to guess, she would say that her number one client was Linda herself. Between all the metal on her face, her pink mohawk, and Marilyn Manson t-shirt, Mel’s current mental state was flirting somewhere between petrified and intrigued.
“So you don’t know the difference?” Linda asked.
Mel shook her head.
Linda snorted, seeming to enjoy herself as she explained, “Dermals are single point surface piercings, which differ from the traditional surface bar piercing. See, a needle is used to create a small hole in the skin, and then the dermal anchor is inserted. . .”
Mel winced as Linda mimed her explanation. “Mm-hm,” she murmured as if she was fully listening, but her mind wandered. She imagined coming home after a long day’s work with Linda as the nanny. Brady, Peter, and Kinsley would all undoubtedly sport fresh eyebrow piercings. They’d be belting out Metallica at the top of their lungs and have matching sleeve tattoos. Little metalheads.
Mel shuddered. “Okay.” Mel clapped her hands, and Linda paused in her spiel.
Mustering as much enthusiasm as she could, she said, “We’ll be in touch.”
TWO MINUTES INTO THE interview with Barb, the retired grade school teacher, Mel was sure she struck gold. Metal-head Linda was water under the bridge, a blip in the radar.
Offering her a plate of cookies, Barb shook her head. “No, thank you, though I’m sure they’re delicious. I try to avoid sweets. Sugar is so bad for your health. I figure if I don’t want the kids I’m caring for eating it, then I shouldn’t either. Always lead by example,” she sing-songed.
Mel’s smile engulfed her face as she set the untouched plate of cookies back on the coffee table.
“Oh, did you see the list of my specialty handmade snacks I attached to my CV?” Barb asked.
“I did.” Mel nodded and read from the list, eyes wide. “Whole grain prune biscuits, beet pulp bowls, tofu fries, seaweed chips, and green smoothies. Sounds . . . er, healthy.”
Barb nodded vigorously.
“I have to be honest with you,” Mel said, kicking herself even as she said the words. Did she want to find a nanny? “My children can be a little . . . spirited at times. What methods of discipline do you typically use for the children you watch? And how do you plan on reigning them in when they’re getting rowdy?”
Barb smiled. “No need to worry, Ms. Clark. I am skilled in breaking even the unruliest of children. I use several methods of discipline, but the one I prefer the most is one my mother used on us kids years ago.”