ONE
LEDGER
We regret to inform you.
That was the opening line from the financial-aid office, and they could have stopped there. I knew what was coming and closed my laptop. There’d be paragraphs about budget restrictions and a departmental review and more blah blah blah. I flipped open the laptop, interested to discover how accurate I’d been.
Hmmm, ninety percent correct. I deserved a high five.
The short version was that my funding was gone, effective immediately, and my dissertation on communication patterns in high-stakes professional contexts was now an expensive hobby.
I reread the email in the kitchen, standing over a bowl of cereal I could no longer afford, and did the math I'd been avoiding. I had to pay rent, tuition was due this month, and my laptop was held together by a strip of electrical tape. I had enough savings to last a few weeks if I stopped eating anything that wasn't rice and soy sauce.
My mom would give me money if I asked. She wouldn’t hesitate, and she’d take it from the emergency fund my parents had spent twenty years building. That fund existed because twopeople had arrived in this country with three suitcases and a five-year-old—me—determined their kid was going to have options they didn't.
So, that was how I ended up sitting in the lobby of the Feeney Au Pair Agency late one afternoon, wearing my best clothes and pretending I hadn't googled “how is an au pair different from a manny?” as I sat outside in the parking lot.
I wiped my damp palms on my pants and hoped the receptionist didn’t see what I was doing. Glancing around the office, I noted the fresh flowers and the plush carpet, and I pressed one hand on the couch which was softer than my bed. The receptionist strolled over and offered me a glass of sparkling water on a tray. I sipped it, and droplets spilled on my shirt but not my pants, thank gods.
This agency hadn’t been on my list, but one of my friends had worked with them, and though he’d been reluctant to give me their deets, he relented after I’d gotten on my knees and begged.
Working as a manny or au pair wasn’t my dream job. I loved kids, but it was a lot of work. But I had little money and bills to pay, so I couldn’t afford to be choosy. With room and board plus an income, a manny was the best option, no matter how grudgingly I was approaching it.
“Ledger?”
The tall woman in the doorway was wearing a navy trouser suit, and her stiff hair, which matched her expression, was likely held in place with a ton of hairspray. Along with researching au pairs, I’d found her name on the company’s masthead. She was Meara Feeney who’d founded this place, and I gulped the last of my water before standing up.
“That's me.”
Her firm handshake didn’t dispel the notion that she was all business.
When she led me into her office, she had me sit in one of two chairs angled toward each other. That was a deliberate choice and a technique I recognized from my own research that involved reducing the power distance and building rapport.
“Your resume is impressive.” She had a computer on her lap, but she didn’t open it. “You’re a PhD candidate in psychology, and you’ve worked with children before.”
I’d added those details to my resumé before applying to the agency.
“Yes, I was a counselor at a summer camp, and I’ve done tutoring. I did a one-month stint as a live-in manny while their full-time help was on vacation.” I left out the part where the kids had been tiny terrors who put a marble up my nose while I was sleeping. Some things didn’t need to be on the record.
“Why are you looking at placement work now?”
There was no point dressing this up. Besides, Meara could probably ferret out any fibs. She had that aura that suggested she had an inbuilt lie detector.
“My funding fell through.” I looked away at a painting on the wall. “I need income that covers rent and tuition and still leaves me time to finish my dissertation. A live-in position would solve that.”
She studied me as my advisor did when I handed in a draft, scrutinizing but not judging. She may have heard similar stories in the years she’d been running this business.
“This agency serves a specific clientele.” She smoothed over her pants. “Our families require a high degree of discretion. Many of them are very private people with particular needs. There are extensive NDAs involved.”
With my finger and thumb touching, I ran them over my mouth. “My lips are sealed.” I regretted the gesture as soon as I’d done it because it was unprofessional.
“But can you be flexible? Our families sometimes have unconventional household routines that include dietary requirements and schedules that don't follow a nine-to-five structure.”
I almost laughed. “I’m a grad student, so my schedule is unpredictable.”
I thought that might get a smile out of her, but instead, she removed a folder from the desk.
“I have a placement that might work. It’s a single father with three children aged eight, six, and five.” She closed the folder. “He's been through several candidates already.”
