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I’m the only student working in the office.
The position is split between several work-study students, and while kids are coming in here at all hours looking to speak to an advisor or to get answers to questions I generally can’t answer, it’s not really a place to meet people.
I’m thinking this as I look at the four walls, replaying Miss Dawson’s words. I need another part-time job. Maybe waitressing. I have experience with that. Maybe I can find a spot where the tips will be so good that I’ll able to leave this job where I make next to nothing.
Eight hours. I barely make enough money to keep myself stocked up on shampoo and tampons, forget about new clothes or luxuries like a salon haircut.
There’s a big bulletin board on the wall in the waiting room with all sorts of announcements, and since I’m never really that busy, I’ve got plenty of time to study it today.
My responsibilities in this office are limited to filing papers when the secretary asks, which she doesn’t do all that often, and handing out course catalogs to the students and parents who come in. So I take my time scanning the concert flyers, the guide to campus mental health services, the ads looking for math tutors (not my subject) or foreign language tutors (definitely not my subject).
My eye catches on one post that’s handwritten in bold block letters. You can see the ink has bled through the paper, making it seem as if the words were written with a heavy hand, or by someone who was seriously stressed out. I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle as I make my way through the list of qualifications for this babysitting position.
-Aminimumof two years’ experience caring for a toddler.
-3.5 GPAor higher.
-Must beRed CrossCPR certified.
-EXCELLENT DRIVER WITH NO HISTORY OF ACCIDENTS OR SPEEDING TICKETS.
All caps for that last item. Whoever wrote this means business. And then right above the tabs with the phone number to call, you get one last parting shot:
-Must meet ALL qualifications (no exceptions) and must be able to start immediately.
I wonder when this was put up, and with a satisfied smirk I notice that not one single tab has been ripped off.
Babysitting? It’s more like an ad for a position in the president’s security detail, complete with background check.
And while I happen to tick all the boxes for this type-A, neurotic potential employer, I have no intention of applying. Everything about it screams miserable helicopter parent.
No thank you.
I’m still smiling, scanning the board for something worthwhile when I feel a tug on the hem of my skirt. I look down to see the most adorable little thing looking back up at me.
I crouch down to her level and give her a big smile to calm that bottom lip of hers that’s quivering. “My name is Skylar. What’s your name?”
“Libby. I can’t find my daddy.” She starts to cry when she adds, “He told me don’t walk away.”
“It’s ok, Libby. I’ll help you find him.” She nods and tries to smile through her tears. “Let’s see…Which way did you come from?”
She looks back and forth like I do. The halls aren’t crammed or anything, but there are a fair amount of people. I look down to see her still looking back and forth. She has no idea. I scan the hall again for a frantic parent but don’t see one.
“Libby, you can sit at my desk while I get this sorted out. And don’t worry, when I was your age I used to get lost all the time. We’ll find your dad, piece of cake.” I smile and snap my fingers before lifting her onto my chair. “How old are you?”
She holds up four fingers and says, “I’m four years old.” I note that she usesI’m four, notI four, and make the uneducated assumption that she’s bright. “And do you know your last name?”
“Libby Hale.”Hmm…A little difficulty annunciating the L, but pretty good.I’m about to tell her to sit tight when she adds, “I live at 246 Grove Circle, Skwell Hill Nort, 15232.”
Damn, she even knows her zip code. “You live in Squirrel Hill North?” She nods. “I love that name! Are there really hills with squirrels running all around?”
“Yes!”
Since she knows the zip code I go for the phone number, but she gets jammed up on the last few digits and then starts to cry again.
“No biggie, Libby. I don’t need the phone number.” I poke my head around the corner. “Diana,” I call out to the department chair’s personal secretary. “If Doctor Thompson comes back,” I lower my voice to a whisper, “tell him I have a lost little girl in my office. I’m going to call the security desk and let them know.”
Diana walks in as I’m on the phone with security. “And who is this little sweetie pie?”
