Page 18 of Count My Lies

Violet stares at me hopefully, eyebrows raised in anticipation. She wants me to say yes. I want to say yes.

A smile breaks out across my face. “I’d love to,” I say. I can’t help myself. It feels like kismet. Every moment from Harper’s bee sting until now, everything falling into place, just so. The last eighteen months have been so hard, but this—a chance to start over—is what I’ve been waiting for. And it hasn’t all been lies, not really. I do have experience with children, in and out of the classroom, some medical expertise.

No, I’m not a nurse, but I am well-versed in first aid, something required at the preschool. I’ve dealt with plenty of injured kids, kids with sprained wrists and ankles, kids with bloody knees from a fall, kids with fevers, kids with stomachaches, earaches, headaches, peanut allergies, half the class with EpiPens in their backpacks. Several of my students dealt with medical conditions, too. Riley, a four-year-old in my first year of teaching, had epilepsy; Cleo, in my third year, had diabetes. I’d had conferences with their parents, kept medical files in the top drawer of my desk, knew what to do if Riley began to seize, if Cleo’s monitoring device went off. This wasn’t much different, really. I’ll read up on Harper’s condition, too. I’ll be prepared. And Violet had said it herself, Harper hadn’t had an episode in a long time.

“Really?” Violet says, her voice rising a pitch. She claps happily. “Seriously, you’d be a lifesaver.”

“Yeah.” I nod, grinning. “I’d be glad to.”

She beams. “Great! Is Friday too soon to start? Maybe you could come over for a few hours in the morning while Harper’s still at school. We can talk logistics.”

My stomach flutters. This isn’t just a hypothetical; it’s really happening. “Sure. Is ten a good time?”

“Perfect,” Violet says enthusiastically.

I smile back at her until I notice the time on her Apple Watch.Shit.It’s almost two thirty. I have to get back to work. If I don’t, Natasha will kill me. And then feed me to her Jersey cousins.

“I should go,” I say reluctantly. “I have to swing by the pharmacy for a prescription refill.”

Violet nods. “We should get going, too,” she says. “If I can ever pry Harper from this playground. And seriously, thank you again.”

“I’m happy to do it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. But inside, I am elated. I’m going to be working for the Lockharts. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. I stand. “See you Friday?”

“Friday at ten!” she says.

I leave on cloud nine.

I’m floating when I get home. Natasha glowered at me when I returned to the chair beside hers, but I didn’t care. She’ll get over it; she always does. I’ll get her two Danishes instead of the one I’d planned on. Another day her attitude might have bothered me, but not today. Nothing could burst my bubble.

My mother notices. How could she not? The happiness is spilling out of me like an overflowing tub, the faucet left cranked too high. It bubbles up and over the porcelain edge, sloshing onto the floor.

“You’re humming,” she says from her armchair. I pretend not to hear her. She’s right, though: I am. I’m in our small kitchen, next to the living room, cooking our dinner. I’m attempting to re-create Violet’s pappardelle Bolognese from the other night.

I tip the boiled pasta into a colander in the sink, steam rising from the basin. I take my time mixing in the sauce, weighing what I’m going to tell my mom.

I walk into the living room with two servings, a shaker of Parmesan tucked under one arm, hand my mom a plate, then the cheese. She adds more than she should, but I don’t comment.

“What’d you say?” I ask.

“You were humming,” she says again. “Good day at work?”

I sit down on the couch, in the seat closest to her, and set my plate on the coffee table. “I met up with Violet again today. And Harper. At the park,” I admit. I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on the muted television. A rerun ofSeinfeldis playing, the one with the babka, I think. “She asked me to nanny for her. A few times a week.”

I hadn’t planned on telling her—she’ll worry; she always does—but I can’t help it. I’m so excited about spending so much time with Violet and Harper—and Jay—I want to shout it from the rooftop.

“Nanny for her?” my mom repeats.

I nod. “Yeah, I told her I used to nanny. It’s just a couple hours a week.” I try to sound offhand, but it’s futile. I sound giddy. I glance over at my mom. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line.

“Does she know?”

I stare at her, then shake my head. “No,” I say quietly. “I didn’t tell her.” I’m never going to tell her. Violet can never find out why I don’t work at Mockingbird Montessori anymore.

My mom stares back at me. She blinks a few times, then nods.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “This will be good for me. I miss being with kids. Plus, the pay is great. Which means one step closer to my own apartment,” I add. She knows how much I want this.

Her mouth relaxes. She reaches over and squeezes my thigh. “I’mglad for you,” she says. Then she looks back at the TV, picks up the remote. She aims it at the screen but hesitates before pressing the button. “But be careful. You hear me?” She doesn’t look at me when she says this.

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