Page 12 of The Prez

Rolling my eyes, I grab my phone and hand it to her. She scans it, looking it over like she’s a private detective. After a moment, she hands my phone back. “I guess it’s fine. It doesn’t say anything fishy. But it’s still weird that it was posted on social media.”

That’s the thought I had when I saw the ad. The post said to send an email instead of a DM, so I did and got a reply with tons of paperwork. It was organized and well prepared. If someone is looking to kidnap applicants, they sure went through a lot of trouble to do that.

“It is,” I say, “but it seems on the up and up. I’ll leave the address so you’ll know where I am and I’ll turn on the location on my phone. You’ll know where I am the entire time.”

“Good. When is your interview?”

“Today actually. In two hours.”

Hazel nods. “Well, good luck. The kids and I will be gone by then.” A smile spreads across her beautiful face and I can’t help mirroring it. “You’re gonna fucking kill it. You were so great with the twins. I know you’ll have these parents eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“Let’s hope so,” I say with a wink.

A few minutes later, breakfast is finished and we all sit down to eat before Hazel takes the kids to daycare and she heads to work as a dental office manager.

I putter around the house for a while, cleaning up andgenerally keeping myself busy until it’s time to leave. As I told Hazel I would, I turn on the location on my phone and send her the address that was at the bottom of the application. She sends me a thumbs up and a GIF of a dancing daisy that says good luck over it. I smile and pocket my phone, heading to the interview with butterflies swarming in my belly.

The Uber ride is about twenty minutes, weaving deeper into Mellbind. I’ve lived here almost my entire life, but I tend to stay away from this area. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s for older people. The houses are nice and tidy, spaced out with large yards that have roses and shit planted in their cute little flower beds. It’s a nice area, but I’m used to hanging out closer to the college where people my age live.

Butterflies threaten to choke me, swimming up from my belly and clogging my throat as the Uber drive stops in front of a quaint brick house with a cute little porch that even has a swing attached. The garage is open and I spot an old American car—I don’t know the model—and a newer SUV in the driveway.

“Here ya go,” the Uber driver says unnecessarily. I thank him and climb out, looking around as I make my way to the door. This is the only yard that doesn’t have flowers growing around the outside, but it’s still nice.

The sound of the crying baby greets me as soon as my foot hits the bottom step of the porch. Someone isn’t happy.

I ring the doorbell, hoping the parents can hear it over the shrill cries. Poor little guy. The application said it’s a little boy. My hands are already itching to comfort him, to calm him so he can get some rest. He sounds exhausted.

The door opens and a handsome white guy with brown hair and haggard looking brown eyes greets me. He smiles warmly, bouncing the crying baby in his arms. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I say, raising my voice so I can be heard over the crying. “I’m Omari Williams.”

The man’s smile grows. “Yes, hi. Come on in. Give me a moment to get the baby a bottle.”

He waves me in and hustles to the kitchen. I look around the place, trying to find something … homey about it. But it looks very utilitarian. Nothing personal that says someone lives here. From the father’s appearance, he’s put together and looks like he would have … something that makes this place look like home. All I can see are baby clothes and baby items everywhere. Other than that, it just looks like a place someone might come to rest in on occasion. No photos or even mail visible.

The man comes back, still rocking the baby, whose face has turned red from the force of his crying. I don’t want to be presumptuous and offer to take him, so I fist my hands by my side.

“I’m sorry,” the stressed father says, patting the baby’s thigh gently as he rocks him. “I think he’s hungry, but he won’t take a bottle.” He looks at me with tired eyes. “We can go over your application if you’d like. I looked it over last night and right before you came. You have experience with kids?”

“Yes,” I say, glancing back and forth between him and the baby. “I don’t have, like, a degree or anything. But I helped raise my niece and nephew after …” The baby ramps up the crying, his voice warbling with the force of it.

I can’t take it anymore. “Give him to me, please,” I practically beg, holding my hands out.

The man glances down at the baby, then at me. He looks so helpless, like he wants assistance, but doesn’t trust me just yet to hand him over. I make the decision for him and tuck my hands under the baby and draw him out of the man’s arms. I take the bottle and rub the bottle nipple on thebaby’s gums, humming to him while I walk around the room.

Almost instantly, the baby stops crying and takes the bottle, sucking on it greedily. “Not so fast,” I whisper with a smile, drawing the bottle out just a little so he doesn’t choke. When he drinks at a more casual pace, I pat his leg. “There ya go, little man. Why were you giving Dad so much trouble, huh?”

The man pipes up. “Oh no, I’m not his dad. I’m just here to help for a little while.” He steps over to us, looking down at the baby. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen him quiet. How did you do that?”

Continuing to rock the baby gently and feed him the bottle, I say, “You’re wound up. He can feel how stressed you are and it stresses him. If you’re calm, babies are usually calm too. Not always, but most times.” The bottle is drained, and the baby’s eyes are drooping. He’s probably so tired after all that crying. I hand the bottle to the man and put the baby against my shoulder, patting his back. “Give me one good burp and I’ll let you get some sleep, little man. What’s his name?”

“Rafael. After his uncle.”

“Rafael. How adorable. Come on, Little Raf. Burp for me and I’ll leave you alone, I promise.” As if on cue, the baby burps loud and long. Then he lets out a soft sigh and rests on my shoulder, his head to the side. I look over at him and can’t help how my heart softens. His little mouth is open, his soft baby breaths puffing against my cheek.

“We can have a seat here,” the man whispers.

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, speaking at a normal volume. “You want the baby to be used to the normal volume of a room. That way they can sleep through anything.” While I’m speaking, Little Raf doesn’t stir.

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