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“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I mutter as I pour myself a generous glass and open my laptop.
I scroll through Craigslist on the off chance anyone might need private music lessons. Over half the emails I sent out to parents about lessons over the summer were returned with explanations about traveling or not in the budget. Another blow to my nonexistent savings.
A listing catches my eye and I click the link to open it.
Needed: Live-in nanny. Full-time 5-6 days per week. All expenses covered. Dental, vision, and medical insurance. Competitive salary. Immediate hire.
“Whoa, what?” I pull the laptop screen closer to me as I read the salary. “That can’t be right.” I squint, reading it again.
How the hell can someone pay more than twice what I make as a teacher for a nanny and offer living expenses covered and health insurance?
My excitement builds as I read over the qualifications. Okay, now I see why they pay so well. They want someone with a preferred degree in childcare or related field, CPR certified, 5+ years’ experience with children, no pets, can teach music.
“Holy shit!” I yelp as I hop up off the couch. I can’t hold back the smile as my heart thuds wildly in my chest. I am literally a perfect candidate for this job, and they want someone who can start ASAP.
I open my email and copy the address. I attach my resume and spend the next thirty minutes crafting a perfectly worded cover letter and link to my LinkedIn profile. I hold my breath, hit send, and flop back against the couch.
Finally, a glimmer of hope.
* * *
“And you have a degree in education?” Miss Perry, a willowy woman with a perfectly tight bun and beige skirt suit, reads over my resume. Her short-clipped nails are the softest shade of pink and her skin is smooth and shiny, like she’s been freshly Botoxed.
“Yes, a double degree actually in music education as well as early childhood education.”
I squeeze my fingers together in my lap, trying to calm my nerves.
“I see and your last job ended because?” She peers precariously over the glasses that are perched on her nose.
“Budget cuts unfortunately. I was there for three years but the funding for the music program wasn’t renewed so… here I am.” I plaster a nervous smile on my face as she returns her gaze back to the paper in her hands.
“Oh, and I brought a letter of recommendation from the school I just taught at.” I reach into my bag and produce the document, handing it to her.
I resist the urge to recite my resume for her. I want to explain why I’m perfect for this position, but something about how uptight she is makes me lose my nerve. Not to mention the sheer monstrosity of a house that I drove up to, complete with a massive wrought iron gate. I had no idea places even existed like this in the Chicago suburbs.
“Great.” She gives a tight-lipped smile and places the resume on the desk in front of her, along with the letter. “We’ll call you.” She stands and juts her hand out to me.
“Okay.” I shake her hand. “Thanks again so much for taking the time to interview me. I’ll be anxiously waiting to hear from you.”
She walks me to the front door in silence, only the clicking of her heels on the marble floor echoing around us.
“Oh, and just so you know, my schedule is completely open. I have no obligations so if I got the job, I’d be fully committed.” She stares at me blankly, her hand resting on the front door handle. “What I mean is no husband or kids or pets or anything. Not even a boyfriend,” I say around a chuckle.
“Bye now,” she says and I take the hint, stepping through the front door, and it closes behind me.
* * *
One full week and nothing.
No callback.
No email.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and double-check the ringer is on. I also make sure I don’t have any missed calls or texts. I’ve left two voicemails and a follow-up email. I know I sound desperate, but Iamdesperate. I’m on my last month’s rent and I have a total of $122 to my name.
A fleeting thought pops through my head.Maybe now is the time to reach out to Warren Dorsey. He’s a billionaire several times over.I push the thought from my head as quickly as it enters.
“Still nothing?” Shelly, my coworker at the local café I managed to snag a barista job at, asks.
