Page 1 of The Nanny is Off Limits

“Mr. Kincaid, I have your son’s school on line two.” My assistant’s voice bounces off the walls of my office. Panic and a flare of annoyance set in as I wonder what my ten-year-old did this time.

This is the third call this week. There were the fake cockroaches he brought in that incited a riot and screams from practically every fifth-grade girl on Monday. He did the same with a rubber snake on Wednesday. This is on top of his standard daily comedic routine that does nothing but infuriate his teachers for beingdisruptive.

He’s already a year ahead, having skipped kindergarten and he does exceptionally well in school, making the school psychologist believe he’s the textbook study of a child misbehaving because he’s not beingchallenged enough,on top of the trauma of the last year, but he’s barely ten years old and in fifth grade. I’m not ready to send him to middle school yet and I’m not about to send him there to force him to a maturity level he is definitely not ready for.

But you’re forcing my hand, Sawyer.

They haven’t exactly threatened to kick him out of school but the wordsbetter fitandelsewherehave been thrown around a few times in the last principal-parent conference and that was before the rubber snake incident.

Fuck.

I rub my temples in preparation for the headache this phone call is going to cause. “This is Rowan Kincaid.”

“Hi, Mr. Kincaid.” I hear the voice of his principal, Mrs. Dean, who I imagine has been in early childhood education since before I was born and therefore has the patience of a saint but also doesn’t take a whole lot of shit from anyone.

I take a deep breath, preparing for the worst. “Is he okay? Everything alright?”

I hear a sigh and the closing of a door. “Sawyer is fine. We have him here in the office. You’re going to need to come down to the school now though.”

Unease washes over me and I run a hand through my hair nervously because he’s never been sent home from school before. “And why is that?”

“Your son started a fire in the boy’s restroom.”

Thoughts of my ten-year-old being labeled an arsonist and banned from every private school in Maryland come charging through my brain. “Excuse me?”

“It has been contained and no one was hurt, but we did have to evacuate the building and he is suspended from school for the next three days. We are considering expulsion, Mr. Kincaid.” I don’t say anything because really what the fuck could I say? “We have been patient and understanding about your…situation, and Isla is lovely. She is thriving in first grade,” she says in reference to my youngest daughter, “but we need to have a serious conversation about your son’s future at Rosewood Academy.”

“Is Isla, okay? Does she understand what’s going on?” I don’t focus on the second part of her statement as I panic thinking about Isla being afraid and also not being able to find her brother when they were evacuated. This is another reason I haven’t moved to send Sawyer to middle school. It’s Isla’s first year at this school and I wanted her to have her brother close while she acclimated.

“Yes, the younger children just think they have a second recess.”

I look down at my watch to see the time and know it’s going to be annoying as hell getting out of D.C. at the moment. “Give me thirty minutes,” I tell her.

“Very well. We will see you soon.”

“Thank God,” I hear murmured as soon as I push through the door to the administration office. I turn to see my ten-year-old sitting on the couch in the corner with his feet propped up on the coffee table and his arms spread along the back like he owns the place.

“Oh, you better start praying.” I point at him and watch as he has the audacity to roll his eyes before standing up and making his way toward me. My son is the spitting image of me with dark hair and sometimes green sometimes hazel eyes, depending on the lighting, but he, like my other two children, has a more olive complexion due to their mother’s Italian roots. “You’re in big trouble.” I point at him before pointing a finger back to the couch. “Every electronic you own is mine for the rest of the month.”

“Month!? Dad—” he starts.

I only glare at him. He couldn’t possibly think he was getting off easier than that.

“You want to make it the rest of the year?” I glower.

“It’s September.” He deadpans.

“You’re telling me. You’ve been in school for two weeks.”

I watch as he huffs and moves back to the couch. He pulls his hood over his head and crosses his arms, and I already can picture him doing the same as a surly teenager in a few years.

God, help me.

“Mr. Kincaid.” Mrs. Dean’s voice cuts through the air and I suddenly feel like I’m the one in trouble. “Let’s talk in my office. Sawyer will join us in a moment.” I follow her into the room where another woman is seated holding a notepad in her lap on top of three textbooks. She gives me a warm smile and a nod. “This is Dr. Courtney Anderson. She’s the school’s psychologist.”

I resist the urge to groan because the last thing I need is her weighing in on all the ways I’m failing as a parent. I don’t respond because as an attorney, I know to never show my hand early on.

“I’m just here to try and get a better gauge of the situation. No one wants to expel Sawyer.”

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