Never Bargain with the Boss: Prologue

This woman cannot be serious.

Beatrice. That’s her name. Like she’s an eighteen-hundreds-era homesteader, waiting for her one true love. Except she’s not. She’s my nanny.

And utterly, completely ridiculous, I think with an internal eye roll. No one would fall for a woman like this, anyway.

Oops, judging by Beatrice’s expression, I might’ve actually rolled my eyes. Not that it matters.

“You have to give everything your best effort. We’re all destined for greatness, but it won’t simply fall into your waiting hands. You have to do the soul work to be ready, the stars have to be perfectly aligned, and you need an open heart and mind to receive the universe’s gifts when they come to you.” She places both hands on her chest like her heart is not only open, but full public access. “What’s your birthday again? We can figure out your star sign, so you’ll know when good and bad things are coming your way and you can reach your truest potential.” Her voice lilts up as though she’s actually stretching for something, even though she’s sitting at the kitchen island, not grasping anything more metaphysical than an air fryer-cooked chicken nugget.

Beatrice gives me an earnest look, like she’s certain her woo-woo pep talk will alter the entire trajectory of my life, and opens an app on her phone where she waits with a poised finger to type in my birthday, which I guess is supposed to magically fix everything wrong with me.

Except, I’m fine. Actually, I do have one problem right now. Does her contract include drug tests? Because I’m pretty sure that my Uncle Kyle would say she’s on a major trip.

I failed my math test, not because I didn’t understand the material but because I refused to give Mrs. Vanderlicker—which isn’t her real name, but it’s what we call her—the satisfaction of thinking she actually taught our class anything. All that I understood of graphing linear inequalities, I learned from Dad. But it doesn’t matter. It’s one test, not the end of the world, but according to Beatrice, it’s a sign that I’m not living my best life.

“If we’re all destined for greatness,” I start, quoting her fortune cookie paper phrase, and she smiles like she thinks she’s truly done something. “Then would you consider what you do to be great? I mean, driving me around, flipping through Instagram while I take riding lessons, and complaining about your boyfriend… is that the true greatness you’re destined for?”

I pop the chicken nugget I’m currently holding between my fingers into my mouth, chewing it thoughtfully like I’m thinking hard about that question too. Beatrice’s eyes widen and her mouth makes a perfect raspberry-colored O. Raspberry like the lip gloss, not the fruit, which she loves the color of but hates the taste of. It takes her a long second, but then she blinks and huffs out, “That was rude, Grace.” She stands, the legs of her chair squeaking along the floor, but before she leaves, she adds, “I was trying to make you feel better because I know how hard math can be.”

I could say something mean, like ‘math is hard for you, maybe, but not for me.’ But I don’t. I swallow the hurtful words along with the rest of my chicken nugget, because I’m not a complete bitch.

I am, however, a twelve-year-old girl, with all the hormonal fury that comes with that, plus a somewhat absentee dad who pawned me off on a nanny who thinks charting my star sign will make the hellscape that is middle school better, when it hasn’t helped her a bit because her boyfriend—who she says is “The One” even though there was a different “The One” two months ago—keeps commenting gross things like ‘heyyy mama’ on other girls’ Instagram posts.

I even keep my mouth shut when I hear Beatrice slam her door and start dramatically wailing. Not getting drawn into her exaggerated theatrics, I clean up from our after-school snack, throwing away the air fryer liner, putting our plates in the dishwasher, and wondering what’s going to happen now while I get out my homework and get started.

A few minutes later, I get my answer when my phone rings.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Young lady, I am very disappointed in you.” Dad’s voice is deep and serious, and I can picture his frowning face like he’s here. Which, of course, he’s not. He’s at work, like always.

“Okay. Am I grounded or what?” I say, rolling my eyes because what’s he gonna do? Take away my phone? He would never, because it’s how he tracks me. Not let me ride my horse, Pegasus? He pays for the lessons and my horse’s barn fees either way, and it’s my main activity, so I don’t think he’ll do that, either.

So, lecture it is. Or at worst, a few days of hanging in my room after school. Oh, no, the horror of Netflix on demand. Because it’s not like I’ve done anything bad or wrong. I said something that hurt Beatrice’s feelings. Rude, but forgivable, especially given the circumstances. And in this family, rude barbs are the preferred form of communication, having been perfected into a genetic art form.

Not that Dad’s asking for my side of things. He rarely does. He heard Beatrice’s version and went straight to lecture-mode and his disappointed-dad routine.

“I’m heading into a meeting, but we’re going to talk about this later. For now, Beatrice quit, effective immediately.” He sighs, and that part stings. I hate that he’s frustrated with me about this again because Beatrice isn’t the first nanny who’s left her station as my caretaker. She’s just the most recent. I know it stresses him out to have deal with this again, but in my defense, I’ve had to deal with her on a daily basis, so I’m pretty sure I’m the one getting shafted here.

“All right. I’ll have your dinner warmed up when you get home. You thinking eight or nine?” I offer, trying to get in Dad’s good graces before the coming discussion.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “No way. You’re not staying home alone. Uncle Kyle will be there shortly to get you.”

“Dad,” I drawl out, making it an extra two or three syllables. “I’m twelve now. Almost a teenager. I don’t need a babysitter. I can be one in all but two states.”

“Kyle will be there soon. I’ll pick you up from his place after my meeting. Understood?”

I drop my head, knowing I’m not winning this one. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you too,” I mumble, rolling my eyes again as I hang up the phone.

At least Kyle’s my most fun uncle.