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June
“Youareawarethisis a contract job, correct?” Ms. Raybourne, the communication director of the Philadelphia Tyrants hockey team, looks at me over her reading glasses, a neat gray bun at the base of her neck. “The child’s care will end when the hockey season does.”
I already answered this question at my first interview. “Absolutely. I hope to get a full-time teaching position next year. The timing works perfectly for me.” I offer her a winning smile. “I would just like some flexibility to help my foster mother when she needs me. It should only be during the day—rides to doctors, grocery shopping, things like that.”
“You’ll have your days to yourself, when the child is in school. She’s in the second grade.”
“That will be perfect.” When Mama Lily had her stroke and fall in the spring, I opted to put off looking for a full-time position. After a few more health setbacks this summer, she’s begun to stabilize and make progress, but I want to be available when she needs me.
Ms. Raybourne studies me. Even though my shapewear is cutting off the oxygen to my lungs, I force myself to sit still under her gaze. Tapping her pen on the desk, she glances over my resume again. I don’t know what she’s looking for. It’s only a page long, and she already saw it last week. My college degree and teaching criteria are on top. I graduated from Rutgers University magna cum laude in the spring, so my credentials are nothing to be ashamed of. If she does the math, though, she’ll see it took me six years to finish my education. I had to take classes part time and work to pay for it. I got some scholarships, thank goodness. But even with working at the day care part-time, babysitting, and shifts at the diner on weekends, I had to take out loans. Still, not too bad for a foster kid from New Jersey.
She lays the resume on the desk, pushing it away from her. Dread sinks into my gut. Is that the end? I had a feeling this job was too good to be true, but I was still hopeful when I got invited back for a second interview. The pay is extremely generous, more than enough to help me pay off Mama Lily’s debts, and it comes with housing. I’ve been crashing temporarily at friends’ houses. I need something more permanent.
As I brace myself for Ms. Raybourne to excuse me, she narrows her eyes. “How do you feel about signing a nondisclosure agreement?”
“I’m sorry?”Not what I expected.
She leans back and steeples her fingers. “You’re going to live with a professional hockey player. Whatever you see or hear in his home must remain private.” Her head tilts. “This includes pictures you take, especially pictures of the child.”
I straighten. “I would never share pictures of a child.” The suggestion fills me with outrage. Only monsters exploit children. “And my employer’s personal life is not my business.”
A smile stretches over her lips. “Then you’ll sign the NDA? After your attorney looks it over, I mean?”
“Of course,” I agree, even though I don’t have an attorney or the money to hire one.
“Then you’re hired, Miss Harlow.” Ms. Raybourne places her palms on the desk, the professional smile still in place.
“I am?”
“As long as Mr. York agrees.” Checking her watch, she nods. “He will stop in once practice is over.” She raises her eyebrows. “You still want the job, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. Absolutely. I wasn’t sure…” I don’t want to say I didn’t think I would get it because that sounds like I shouldn’t have it, and I definitely don’t want that. Instead, I smile back and offer her my hand. “Yes. I would love the job.”
Her grip is firm and not too long, the perfect handshake. Her grin fades, and the seriousness returns to her face. “There’s only one more thing, then.”
“Yes?”
“I must impress upon you that this is a strictly professional arrangement.” She chews on her lower lip. “By that, I mean I need you to conduct yourself professionally and with proper decorum around your employer at all times.”
“Proper decorum.”What does that even mean?“I assure you, Ms. Raybourne, I am the epitome of professionalism. I won’t use any inappropriate language, and I’ll always dress conservatively around my charge.” I pause, searching for other assurances. “Did the headhunter forward my list of references? If you call any of them, they’ll testify to my character and decency.”
“That’s not what I mean, Miss Harlow.” She sighs. “Let me be plain. You’ll be living with Mr. York, but there shouldn’t be any personal relationship between you.” When I only blink at her, she elaborates. “Especially not anyphysicalrelationship.”
“Oh,” I say, stretching the word out as clarity hits me. My face heats. She can probably make out every freckle I have, and there are a lot of them. “Right. Of course. I get it. Hands off the boss.” I grin at her, squaring my shoulders and pretending my skin doesn’t match my hair. “I would never.”
She leans closer, her tone hushed. “I apologize, but there are a lot of women who would take this role to get closer to someone like Mr. York. Or rather, closer to his seven-figure salary.” She shrugs. “It’s happened before.”
I’m sure it’s horror that straightens my spine. I hurry to reassure her and speed along this awkward conversation. “Ms. Raybourne, there’s nothing to worry about there. This is a job for me. I love working with kids, and I’m good with them. I started helping with the other foster kids in the homes I’ve lived in since I went into the system at ten. I’ve babysat since my early teens, and I’ve worked in day cares. My degrees are in elementary education and special education. In the future, I’ll look for a more permanent position. But this job gives me a chance to do what I love and the flexibility to help my foster mother during a tough time. That’s all.” I take a breath. “I have no interest in a relationship with Mr. York—no interest in a relationship at all. I certainly have no intention of complicating anything.”
That last statement couldn’t be truer, and by Ms. Raybourne’s genuine smile, she must hear my sincerity. She leans back and taps on the keyboard. “I’ll print out the paperwork while we wait for Mr. York to arrive. He said he wanted you to start as soon as possible. Will tomorrow be good for you?”
“Absolutely.” I’ve been staying with my friend Ava for the past week, and her apartment is a closet. She’ll be happy to have me out of her hair.
She stands. “Let me just get this stuff off the printer.” Sweeping from the room, she leaves the door open.
Alone, I snag my phone from my purse and drop a quick text to Lily.I got the job!She responds immediately with a smiley face. I can see Ms. Raybourne through the window next to me, so I pull up my phone’s browser and type ‘York Philadelphia Tyrants.’
My phone is old and slow, so it takes an embarrassing amount of time for it to load my results.
