"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 usincla.s.s. 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 G.o.ds 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 skinnyrailslikeanamus.e.m.e.nt-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 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, b.u.t.theninety-minute trek hasrevived myappet.i.te. I walk/rundownthelongstreets,knowingI shouldeatorriskpa.s.singoutmid!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, a.s.suming 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 wa.s.supposedtomeetwithRichard."I aimforsolidandwarm, without a hintofcheerful.
"Nan? I thought your name was Naminia. s.h.i.t. 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 gla.s.ses, 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.
"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 b.i.t.c.h, 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.
Heb.a.l.l.sup 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."b.u.t.theyare 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, CLa.s.s!" 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?
"s.h.i.t, 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 n.o.boundariesintheFeelingsRoom.You"ve gottocome inherewith trustandloveandjust gofor it. Here"s thething,Nan.We"re reallynotlookingtohire whitewomen rightnow."
She is so comfortable with this statement that I"m tempted to ask how many openings they have for white, feminist b.i.t.c.hes. Even more bizarre, why a person of color might have a better time discussing theirmaternalissueswith complete strangers.Whitestrangers,nonetheless.
Richard stands, soaked with sweat and coughing a smoker"s cough. "We have just gotten way too many resumesfrom whitegirls.You don"t speakKorean,doyou?" I shakemyhead,speechless.
"Nan, we"re trying to model diversity here, to represent an ideal community. SNOWFLAKE, HEEL!" Snowflake wanders back from where he has been sniffing around my bag. He pa.s.ses me with his head down,swallowing thelastof mypeanuts.
I look at both of their very white faces against the backdrop of bright rainbows painted on the peeling wall behindthem. "Well,thankyoufortheopportunity,youhave avery interestingorganizationhere."I quicklygathermythings.
They walk me to the door. "Yeah, maybe next semester, we"ll be doing some fund-raising work on the EastSide.Wouldyoubeinterestedinthat?" I pictureintroducingReenatoMrs. X attheMetsoshecan askher abouther rage.
"I"m really looking for fieldwork right now. Thanks, though." I get out the door and go directly to Burger King for an extra large fries and a c.o.ke. Folded into an immobile red seat I sigh deeply, comparing Reenaand Richard with Janeand Mrs. X. Somewhereout there must be peoplewho believe in a middle ground between demanding children to "feel their rage" and overprogramming children so everyone can pretend they don"t have any. I take a long sip of my soda.Apparently, I"m not going to be findingitanytime soon.
"See, if I have two jellybeans and you have one jellybean, together we have three jellybeans!" I hold outthejellybeans tomakemypoint.
"I like the white ones and the ones that taste like banana. How do they do that, Nanny? How do they makeittastelikebanana?" Grayerlinesup thecoloredcandylikerailroadtracksonhis bedroomcarpet.
"I dunno, G. Maybe they mush up a banana and they mush up the jelly and then they mush it all togetherandcookitin a beanshape?"
"Yeah! A bean shape!" So much for math. "Nanny, try this one!" Yesterday"s peony arrangement came with aGrayer-sizetinofjellybeans.
"How about the green ones? How do they make those? We both hear the door slam. Only three hours late,notbad.?
"DADDY!!" HerunsoutoftheroomandI followintothehall.
"Hey,sport.Where"s yourmother?" HepatsGrayer ontheheadwhile looseninghistie.
"Here I am," she says and we all turn. She is wearing a powder-blue pencil skirt, kitten heels, a cashmere V-neck sweater, eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Va-voom. If this were the first time my husband had been home in three weeks, I"d get dolled up, too. She smiles shakily beneath her rose lipstick.
"Well, let"s get this started," he says, barely glancing at her before heading to the living room where Jane left her charts and diagrams. Grayer and his mother scamper in behind Mr. X and I am left behind inthefronthall. I take aseatonthebench,resumingmyroleaslady-in-waiting.
"Darling," Mrs. X begins with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Shall I have Connie get you a drink? Or perhaps some coffee? CONNIE!" I jump about three feet and Connie comes flying out of the kitchen, herhandsstill wet.
"Jesus,doyouhavetobesoshrill?No. I justate," Mr. X says.
THE NANNY.
ARIES.
Connie stops just short of entering the room. We exchange glances and I make room for her on the bench.
"Oh. Oh, all right. So, Grayer, Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you about where you"re going to schoolnextyear."Mrs. Xattempts a secondopening.
"I"m goingtoCollegiate,"Grayer offers,trying tobehelpful.
"No,sweetie. Mommy andDaddyhavedecidedthatyouaregoingtoSt. Bernard"s."
"Burnurd?" he asks. There is a moment of silence. "Can we play trains now? Daddy, I got a new train, it"s red."
"So,sweetie.You can"t wearthebluesweatshirt anymore, okay?" shesays. Connierollshereyes atme.
"Why?"
"BecauseitsaysCollegiateonitandyou"re goingtoSt. Bernard"s? Mr. Xsays withexasperation.
"ButI likeit."
"Yes, sweetie. We"ll getyou aSt. Bernard"s sweatshirt."
"I liketheblueone!"
I lean in and whisper to Connie. "Oh, for the love of G.o.d, let him wear it inside out. Who cares?" She throwsher handsup.
Mrs. X clears her throat. "Okay, sweetie. We"ll talk about this later." Connie disappears back into the kitchen.
"Daddy,come see mytrains! I"ll showyou the newone. It"s red and really,really fast!" Grayer flies past me towardhisroom.
"Thatwas a complete wasteof time. Heclearlycouldcareless," Mr. X says.
"Well, Janefelt.i.twasimportant?sheretortsdefensively.
"Who the h.e.l.l is Jane?" he asks. "Look, do you have the slightest idea of what it means to be in the middleof amerger?I don"t havetime forthis?
"I"m sorry,but?
"Do I have to be on top of everything?" he growls. "The one thing I delegated to you was his schooling andnowit"s all f.u.c.kedup."
"It was averycompet.i.tive year!" shecries. "Grayerdoesn"t playtheviolin!"
"Whatthef.u.c.kdoestheviolin havetodowith anything?"