Page 111 of Worst Nanny Ever
“Oh, I doubt that very much.”
He executes a little flourish with his paintbrush that makes me smile.
“Don’t put her up on a pedestal, Eugene. No one likes being on a pedestal. It makes for a pretty crappy fall.”
“Wouldn’t it be highly unusual for me to give her a call after all this time?”
“Okay, here’s our plan. Step one, give her the pencil cup.”
“Why?” he asks, his brow furrowing.
“I wanted you to make this because the one you originally gave her broke. You’re making the replacement as a grand gesture.”
He glances down at it, his brow still furrowed. “I never gave her a pencil cup.”
Oh, shit.
“Well, she had one just like this, and she said another teacher gave it to her in the Secret Santa exchange, and you said?—”
He sets down his brush, looking panicked now. “It was the gym teacher, Mr. Rodney. He can bench-press sixty pounds.”
“That’s not as impressive as you seem to think it is.”
He takes off his glasses and starts wiping them manically on his shirt. “Of course. I don’t know why I never saw it before. She’s in love with Mr. Rodney.”
“Snap out of it, Eugene,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of his face. “The person who gave it to her is immaterial. She didn’t say she wanted to jump the guy or anything. What matters is that you’re giving her a new one.”
“She’ll think I’m a stalker.”
“I’ll explain that you and I are friends, and when you foundout about the broken pencil pot, you insisted on personally replacing it. That’s the first step.”
“And the second?” he asks, giving me a hopeful look.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
He sighs and forlornly applies some gray paint to his hedgehog. It’s still excellent, bless him, even now that he’s feeling deflated. I add some jagged white teeth to my squirrel’s mouth.
“Is that a vampire squirrel?” the purple-haired studio owner asks, walking past us with a grin.
“It is now.”
“Excellent.” She checks out Eugene’s work and nods. “Wow, that’s really good.”
Eugene huffs another sound of dissatisfaction as she walks away, joining her tattooed boyfriend at the front desk.
“Yes, Eugene? Was that sigh for me?”
He sighs again, pushing his glasses up. “I can’t imagine going into the brewery this afternoon after the display I put on. I’m tempted to call in sick.”
I feign shock. “Playing hooky? What have I done to you?”
“Moira would be disgusted with me,” he grumbles. “She would never play hooky.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I say. “We’re going together, after we go clothes shopping, and we’re going to announce our supercool holiday party. Everyone’s going to want to slap you on the back and buy you a drink.”
“No more drinks.”
“Have it your way, Spreadsheet.”
