#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (15 page)

Chapter 41

My singular job, peanuts compared to Penny with three jobs,
and
she occasionally babysits on the side, starts Monday morning. I drag myself through the motions of getting ready, as irritable as if I'm going to school or facing a prison sentence.

After I shuffle with nary a hello past my mother and out to car, I beeline to the coffee shop. I pass three dogs leading Penny down the sidewalk before her shift. After getting my dirty chai with a double shot of espresso from the hipster, I head toward the McMansion.

I ring the doorbell and knock, the shouts from inside telling me someone is home, but they don't answer, giving me time to consider leaving. No, I'm definitely a loser, compared Penny with three jobs. I hold the doorbell down for a sustained chime that's sure to annoy the inhabitants, but get their attention.

A woman with blond highlights and a tan not provided by the November sun answers. "You must be the new nanny." She turns on her heels, leaving the door open. She moves swiftly with clipped commentary. "I'm Mrs. Costa. Mr. Costa is out of town. Typically, I am gone from eight to six. That won't be a problem for you."

She doesn't wait for me to answer, but maybe it wasn’t a question. "We've gone through several nannies so all the information you'll need is printed in the binder on the kitchen counter. Allergies, medications, contact numbers, playdate preferences, meal plans, it's all there. Our first nanny was a genius. Too bad she had to go back to Sweden. The children didn't care for Esmerelda. I think you met her. I do hope you can keep them entertained. They're in the family room. I'll be off now. Nice meeting you."

The door slams. She's gone. She may have just left her three kids with a psycho. Then again, maybe she did a background check, isn't bothered by my antics, or is desperate.

I flip through the binder. Each child has a page behind a plastic sheet protector with their birthdate, allergies, pertinent information, preferences, etcetera. Apparently, Mrs. Costa works for a pharmaceutical company and Mr. Costa is in finance. Phone numbers in case of emergency line an entire page along with nearby relatives and friends. She's thorough and efficient. I can deal with that. But can I deal with the children?

Just as with my first visit, they're parked in front of the television. I march in front of it and put my hands on my hips. "Good morning, kids. I'm Josie."

Three brown-haired heads crane around me and don't break eye contact with the commercial advertising a toy puppy that barks, pees, and rolls over.

"Ok." I go to the kitchen, get the binder, and try again. "Good morning, Mackenzie, Madison, and Mason." Ten, seven, and four. I read off their stats, but they're far more interested in the pony cartoon that's back on. "Alright. I tried," I say to no one in particular and plop down on the couch beside them. Two hours and four cartoons later, my butt hurts from sitting. "Who's hungry?"

A weak chorus of
me's
comes from one child who sucks his thumb, another who twists her hair, and the third stares at me in question as though realizing I'm neither her mother nor Esmerelda.

"Who are you?" she asks, looking me up and down.

Under her gaze I have the strange regret that I didn't wear something nice or do anything with my hair other than piling it on top of my head in a bun—plus my roots are getting bad. And how do I answer that question
who am I
?

I go through introductions again with little to no response, give up, and make everyone grilled cheese. I use a variety of different breads and cheeses because of intolerances and allergies, praying I keep it straight so I don't have to use the epi-pen stored in the kitchen drawer.

Later, in the afternoon, one of the kids naps, one plays on her tablet, and the other listens to music on her iPhone.

In the evening, I make another meal, Mrs. Costa returns, and I repeat for the rest of the week.

Chapter 42

On Friday, I'm tired, but not because I worked hard. Because I zonked out in front of screens all day every day.

First, I arrange to meet up with Penny who has the night off. There's another party at Braden and Jaden's, which Penny will hardly admit she wants to go to, but I recognize the flittering energy that practically lifts her off her feet and carries her four blocks over to the apartment on Highland.

Like the other party, I swallow the shame at being back in Cranville with an ample amount of beer. Unlike last week, Lizzy isn't there, but there is an abundance of males, noticeably disproportionate to the ratio of females.

I lean into Penny. "What's with all the dudes?"

"Seriously?" Her expression suggests that my IQ isn't quite as high as it once was. "They're here for you. #Kissing."

"Oh."

When the tequila shots come out, we begin filming.

Later, when guys are coming back for seconds I say, "Let's do something outrageous. Anyone have fireworks? Bottle rockets? Maltovs?"

I pretend not to notice the exasperation Penny struggles with as she bites her fingernails. My mother tried to rid me of self-awareness but failed. It's both a blessing and a curse. There aren't any aspiring pyro technicians in the bunch and the rest of the night passes in a #Kissing blur.

Monday through Friday, I live for the weekend. However, I didn't return to Cranville with whatever magic the Halos possessed to make it so the party the night before doesn’t cast long shadows under my eyes and cause my stomach to churn. I've lost my moxie and regret it the morning-after.

My mother and I carry an argument from Saturday into the following morning. She thinks I'm squandering my potential.

I accuse her of squandering my childhood. "This, what you see here, is a result of your type-A, perfectionist bullshit. You never let me be a kid."

"Well, you're doing a great job of being irresponsible and immature now."

"You have yourself to thank."

My bellow makes the windows rattle. If the Quaid's heard me, they'd think the Nor'easter the weather forecasters are promising came early.

Chapter 43

By Sunday afternoon, bored and sober, I decide to sweat out the remaining alcohol in my system so I'll be alert enough to nanny the next day. Also, I need to get out of the house.

I lace up my sneakers, tug a hat over my ears, and step outside. My mother pulls into the driveway, rolls down her window, and calls to me—something about a get together later.

I break into a run, the cold air burning my lungs as her voice vanishes at my back.

Halfway down the street, with a stitch in my side, and my chest on fire, I sputter to a jog, and then walk. My sprint lasted about a minute. I used to run every day. JQ and I would meet up, race each other, talk about life, school, the future, and our dorkdom. He and I weren't overly popular, just smart and not disliked, which in the social strata of high school was a blessing. We were spared the insulting awkwardness of mega-dorkdom—a few degrees dorkier for those not versed in the dork hierarchy—for four years, well 3.41 for me. When I stopped giving a shit, people didn't know what to make of me. The popular crowd eyed me with a mixture of wariness and interest—
is she going to take us down or join our crew?
The stoners and rebels saw an ally, a fellow troublemaker. All my old friends saw a traitor to the United States of Nerds.

I pass an old, cobbled bridge. JQ and I would sometimes catch the sunset over the cranberry bog, delaying our return to pedestrian, walking life.

I stop, gazing down into the frozen creek. Wisps of last summer's grass curve like white whiskers, laden with frost. The unmistakable pattering of feet approaches. A group of women, outfitted in neon and designer running gear, cross the bridge single file.

The directions JQ and my lives could have gone nearly knocks me to the ground: the two of us in Manhattan, meeting for runs in Central Park, dinner and theater or movies or the millions of other things the city has to offer, all the things we dreamed about over the years.

Spring very well may have arrived while I stand there thinking, but three pairs of sneakers pitter-pat on the pavement. The lady runners returning the way they came pull me from my thoughts.

"Hey," one of them says in greeting. "Chilly afternoon for a run."

I nod in acknowledgement. "Yeah. It's been a while for me." Running in sneakers at least, but I'm well practiced at running away from disappointment and disapproval.

"We're training for the Winter Wonderland Half Marathon in January," says the woman wearing bright green sneakers.

"Intense," I answer. "Why aren't you running a full marathon?"

The three of them exchange the unmistakable look of discomfort.

I put my hand over my face. "Sorry. Ignore me if I'm being a bitch. Sometimes I forget I'm not talking to my mother."

The three women laugh. "We're heading to Maria's house for hot chocolate? Want to come?" says the one wearing pink.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "I only made it this far, I should at least finish my route even if I have to walk."

"The invitation stands. We're out here Saturday and Sunday afternoons and we meet at the high school track at six on weekdays. Except Fridays: cocktail hour. You should run with us," Maria—the one with the green sneakers says. "This is Mary and Meg," she says, introducing the others.

"I'm Josie," I say.

Meg squints her eyes. "Wait, you look familiar. Are you Josie from Niksie—I've seen you online and now #Kissing, right?"

I step back, my sneakers crunching on loose gravel. "Yeah. The one and only," I say, surprised.

"I wouldn't expect you to be doing something as wholesome as running," she says, joking.

We all laugh, chat some more, and then exchange numbers.

By the time they turn to leave, dusk pillows the tops of the trees. I turn, forcing my legs into a trot, back the way I came, bracing myself for my mother's lecture, accusations, and general disquiet.

As I pass the Quaid's house, a tall figure walks down the front path with a backpack slung over his shoulder. At that exact moment, my lungs decide to protest and I hack out a cough. Embarrassed, I falter, unsure whether I should spare myself and sprint home or stop and say hi and thank you, like a normal person, along with the other million things I should have said years ago.

Instead, with one sharp glance in my direction, JQ makes the decision for me and gets into his mother's ancient minivan with a slam of the door.

Chapter 44

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday brings the kind of monotony that begets the abuse of ADD meds or necessitates a revolution. Since I can't prescribe drugs, I opt for the latter; plus my eyes burn and my brain strobes from so much screen time while nannying.

I announce, "Kids, we're going outside to play. When I was little, I would have loved that play structure you have in the backyard."

Nothing.

"How about a board game? When I was younger, I played a lot of chess. Anyone know how to play?"

Nada.

I start pulling toys out of neatly organized bins. "Legos? Dolls? This one looks like the Bride of Frankenstein." I grimace. "That's not creepy at all. Moving on. Hmm. How about—" I look around. "I know, we can draw."

No takers.

Their eyes don't leave the television screen, not even when a commercial for hearing aids come on. I check to make sure they're breathing. The cartoon is half over so I'll let them finish it and then I'm turning the TV off.

I sneak their devices out of the family room and stash them in the kitchen. We could bake cookies or play with playdough. I kind of hate my mom, but at least I wasn't glued to the TV; sure, I watched my share of shows, but these kids need to get up, move, and use their imaginations—Bubbie made sure of that for me.

On my way back to the family room, I stroll through the dining room with its long modern, black veneer table. There's a formal sitting room with a baby grand piano.

I don't hesitate before pulling out the bench and setting my fingers on the keys. A wave-like sigh washes through me. This is home. I warm up with a scale. My fingers seamlessly move into an arpeggio. I begin with a selection by Bach, but a wide-open space inside me hungers for more. I start Schumann's third fantasy piece.

The music moves through me like light, like fire, burning away the dust of neglect. By the end, my smile is so big I can practically see it reflected in the polished wood. I place my fingers back on the keys and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata pours out of me, a moody contrast to the more lively work by Schumann.

And at last, I take a deep breath.

Chapter 45

From somewhere in the McMansion a clock chimes. The cartoon must be over. I wander back to the family room, catch the kids during a commercial, and click off the TV. I clap my hands together. Renewed energy springs through me. "Ok, guys, we can do anything you want. You name it." Then quietly I add, "Just no screens."

"Disney World!" Mason shouts around the thumb in his mouth. He's probably ready for a nap, but hardly moved today as it is.

"How about somewhere closer to home or, uh, actually, here at home."

"I want to go swimming." Madison whines.

I pull back the curtain to the window. "The pool is covered. Not to mention it's, like, thirty degrees out. But there's supposed to be a snowstorm soon. We can build a snowman." I have a flash of inspiration. "We'll call him Olaf."

I win a smile from Madison and fragments of their attention.

"Let's keep thinking. You have all these fun toys. We can do a project or…"

Madison interrupts. "I want to go swimming."

"Let's go in the hot tub," Mackenzie says.

Before I protest or ask where the hot tub is, the three scatter from the room, deceptively fast considering they rarely move.

I follow their chatter upstairs where they pull out bathing suits, the girls debating which bikini to wear. Mason wiggles into a hard, red configuration that's as big as he is.

"You probably shouldn't wear your Iron Man costume in the hot tub, buddy. It might get rusty."

His face falls, but he roots back through his closet coming up with a pair of red swim trunks.

I follow the girls' chatter to their parents' bedroom, or rather, suite.

I've never seen Mr. and Mrs. Costa together. Actually, I've never seen Mr. Costa period. Mrs. Costa is a perfumed ghost, mostly, but they must appreciate the time they spend together considering their giant bedroom.

I pull the cover off the tub.

"Do you guys know how to swim?" I ask.

Mackenzie cocks her head. "We're on the spring swim team. Duh."

Maybe I caught them during their downtime months.

"Cool."

"But you're coming in with us so we won't drown," Madison says.

"I don't have a bathing suit with me."

"You can wear Mommy's." She disappears into a closet the size of my bedroom. If I'd stuck with Niko long enough, I imagine we'd have a mansion somewhere in the world and a closet this size would be mine. Madison flings me a blue bikini with gold metal loops on top. Mrs. Costa is slightly taller, but no one will see me if it isn't a perfect fit. I call to the kids, "Wait for me before you get in."

I toss off my jeans, granny panties—I desperately need to do laundry—and dash out of the closet where I find the kids, miraculously, waiting for me. "Wait one more sec. Do you guys have bath toys? Swimmies? Pool gear?" They scatter to gather some toys.

We spend the next hour playing games of Marco Polo and mermaids in the small space. But mostly we laugh and bubble up in the water, splashing and making silly faces. It's the liveliest and happy I've seen these children and part of my heart softens a tad.

"We're turning into prunes, and I have to get dinner started," I tell the kids. "Everyone out." They protest until say, "We'll order pizza. Gluten free for you, Mason."