Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
She laughs, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder. “Okay, you got me. I can’t stand kids, at least not until they’re old enough not to be so loud, sticky and gross all the time. But I love that you love taking care of them. Someone has to like…raise the next generation and all that.”
I wave my toothpick through the air. “I’m not raising them. I’m the nanny.”
She cocks her head. “How is that different?”
I shrug. “I’m just…tending to them. Mentoring them. Helping them get through life and grow up right while their dad is at work or away at a game or whatever.”
“Sounds a lot like raising them to me, but what do I know?” she asks, before continuing in a pointed tone, “I was only raised by a nanny, who I still send Christmas cards every year.”
“You do?” I ask, the thought of getting a card from Ava or Bella when I’m old and gray doing something funny to my heart.
But it’s a happy kind of funny…I think.
Tully nods. “And Easter cards, because Nanny Carol is Polish, and Polish people are super into Easter for some reason. I mean, I know Zombie Jesus was born on that day and all, but they’re like really into it. She sends me pictures from the Easter market in the village where she lives now. It’s insane. Painted eggs as big as I am and tons of food and beer and dance parties.” She shrugs and grins. “Seems pretty lit, actually. I may go party with her next year if I can save up the travel money.”
I grin. “Zombie Jesus. Is she appalled that you’re such a heathen?”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Nah, Nanny Carol loves me just the way I am. Just like you love your girls.”
My girls…
They’re not my girls, they really aren’t, but…
Well, the thought of getting fired and never seeing them again makes me sad. Really sad. So sad that I’ve been able to resist cornering Dean in a linen closet and forcing him to let me return the orgasm favor for an entire week.
I don’t want to be forced to say goodbye to the girls. I also can’t afford to go without a paycheck right now. Thanks to gorgeous, always runway-ready Tully wearing one of my vintage jumpsuit designs around town, I’ve sold three more. But the profit from three jumpsuits isn’t enough to keep me fed and housed. And even if I could sell more, I’m not strong enough to sew full-time yet.
Just like I’m not strong enough to play bass full-time. Even if my audition for the band Beatrice’s producer friend is putting together this spring goes perfectly, and I land the gig, will I be strong enough to keep up with the rest of my bandmates? March is only a month away, and February is a short-ass month.
And it’s not like I’ve had many chances to practice playing for an actual audience recently, either. Last week, I had to bow out of playing Saturday night to take the girls to the game, and tonight, Victoria, The Dirt Bag’s usual bassist, is rocking out on stage while I man the bar.
If I strain a little, I can hear her through the loading dock door, nailing a Stevie Wonder cover…
She doesn’t sound like a woman who’s ready to leave the rock ‘n roll life behind, no matter how many times she’s insisted that juggling a nursing career, a two-year-old, and band life is too much for her overloaded nervous system.
The Dirt Bags have promised I’m first in line to take over for Victoria on bass if I don’t land another gig first but waiting for that to happen has become depressing.
I’m growing increasingly desperate for my “real grown-up life” to begin. Between moving to New Orleans and starting over in a new city, then getting catastrophically injured right as my life was coming together, it feels like I keep drawing the Gingerbread card in Candy Land and getting sent back to the beginning.
But in better news, Candy Land is still as much fun as I remember. I look forward to playing with the girls on rainy days, when we can’t get outside to kick balls in the yard or bike down to the playground.
“I guess we should get back to it,” Tully says with a sigh. “Even though it’s dead as hell, and Emilio has been driving me fucking crazy.”
“Aw, he’s not so bad.” I have a soft spot for our cranky old boss. Probably because he reminds me of Mario from the video games I loved as a kid, both his name and his bushy moustache.
“Oh yeah?” Tully challenges. “I caught him picking his nose near the garnish station last night. As soon as he left, I replaced everything. Just in case. I refuse to serve my patrons booger cherries.”