Confessions of a Teen Nanny Read online

  “Well,” Liz said cautiously, “I was going to mention that to you.”

  “Mention what? How much money you make?” Adrienne teased.

  “No!” Liz said, poking her friend in the arm. “There’s another family at 841 Fifth, and they’re looking for a temporary nanny for their daughter, Emma. She’s eight, and totally smart—not a smart-ass like the kids I take care of. They just need someone two or three days a week for two weeks, until the real nanny arrives from London.”

  “Really?” Adrienne asked. “Work in the same building as you, with a kid who’s not an alien? Excellent! How’s the pay?”

  “Better than what I’m making, that’s for sure,” Liz said. “The family is loaded.”

  Adrienne ran through the next two weeks in her mind. She didn’t have any big tests—or any that she knew of yet. She smiled. “Liz, I’ll do it. I can’t wait.”

  “There’s one catch…” Liz said carefully, glancing at Adrienne sideways.

  “What’s that?” Adrienne asked.

  “The little girl, Emma?” Liz continued. “She’s Cameron’s half sister. The job is with the Warners.”

  “You’re not serious!” Adrienne said.

  “I am completely serious. They go through nannies like water. I swear to God, they have had, like, six in the past year since I started working for Dr. M-C.”

  “Why do they all leave?” Adrienne asked.

  “Mrs. Warner is really demanding. Also, Cameron runs the staff ragged doing chores for her. If you become Emma’s nanny, you just might also become Cameron’s personal assistant,” Liz warned. “But, again, the money is killer. Five hundred dollars a week.”

  Adrienne stared, her mouth open. One thousand dollars for two weeks? Sign me up! “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Great!” Liz said. “I’m psyched! Maybe we can watch the kids together?”

  “Definitely,” Adrienne said, hugging her friend. Then she stepped back. “Wait. Do you think they’ll hire me?”

  Liz looked her up and down. Adrienne was very pretty, with short, layered gingery hair and green eyes. She was tall and fine-boned. Since going to Van Rensselaer, her wardrobe had changed dramatically from when they were kids. She had abandoned the tidy, preppy look of her childhood for the edgier styles admired at her competitive public school. Her low-slung cargo pants and hippie-style tops looked playful and great on her, but Liz knew they wouldn’t pass muster on Fifth Avenue.

  “Listen, Adrienne, don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t go in there looking quite so street,” Liz said. “You need to be more Upper East Side.”

  Adrienne took in her friend’s appearance. Liz had always been pretty, with her curly dark hair, but since starting at P-B, she had really grown into her looks. She had a beautiful face, with very pale skin and dark, almost black, eyes fringed with heavy dark lashes. Liz had an innate fashion sense and wore the P-B uniform with little extra touches that made her stand out from the other girls. She wore the crisp, white uniform shirt buttoned up to the neck, where she tied a colorful silk scarf. The school’s baby blue uniform sweater was made of some horrible yarn, but Liz had saved to buy a cashmere sweater that fit the requirements, which felt and looked better. One of the reasons Liz had taken the nanny job with Dr. Markham-Collins was so she could afford the kinds of accessories and clothes it seemed all of the girls at P-B had to have: Hermès scarves, pearl earrings, and expensive watches. The uniform skirt, an unflattering blue-and-white-plaid kilt, was an unavoidable evil for all the girls at school, but Liz rolled hers up to a sexier height that showed off her long legs.

  Adrienne sighed. She loved her own look and didn’t really want to be an Upper East Side clone. It’s only for two weeks, she reminded herself. “What should I wear?” she asked.

  “Wear that simple white blouse of yours, and those really slender gray pants you wore to my birthday party. That green sweater you have is great for your eyes, too. Get some cute flats, and you can borrow this scarf. You’ll look great, and she’ll think you go to school with Cameron.” Liz smiled encouragingly. “Mrs. Warner would freak out if she thought a girl from a public school was taking care of her genius child.”

  “Hello!” Adrienne said, offended. “I go to one of the top-five public schools in the country! The graduating class at Van Rensselaer has more Ivy League acceptances than any school in the city, including yours.”

  “I know, I know,” Liz said, “but how many of those kids have parents in the Social Register, houses in the Hamptons, or multimillion-dollar trust funds?”

  Adrienne was silent.

  “I thought so,” Liz said. “Borrow my scarf.” She handed the scarf to Adrienne.

  Adrienne took it. The major cash was worth a stuffy scarf. “‘Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,’” Adrienne said, quoting Henry David Thoreau, who was on her reading list that year.

  “You’ll be fine. You’re so smart. The Warners will love you.”

  “You’re the best,” Adrienne said. “Hey, what time do you have to be at work?”

  Liz glanced at her watch. “Oh, no! Ten minutes from now. I have to run. I’ll call you as soon as I talk to the Warners’ housekeeper.”

  “Text me on my phone,” Adrienne yelled as her friend turned and ran across the great lawn of Central Park toward Fifth Avenue.

  It had been hours. Adrienne was dying to hear what had happened with the job at the Warners’. Why hadn’t Liz called yet?

  She closed her World History textbook. There was no way she could concentrate on the Great Depression. She looked around her room, which was painted a funky green that she and Liz had chosen together. Schoolbooks and papers cluttered her desk, and her Matrix screen saver rippled in the fading afternoon light. She gazed out her bedroom window at the partial view of the Hudson River. She inspected the movie-poster–covered walls—anything to kill time. Suddenly her cell phone rang. Adrienne looked at the screen.

  U R A nanny!!!

  Adrienne screamed and dialed Liz.

  “Hello?” Liz answered, sounding out of breath.

  “I’m so psyched!” Adrienne cried.

  “I’m grossed so out,” Liz replied. “David keeps throwing up.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Only because he went into my bag and ate ten Mallomars. He’ll be fine.” She giggled. Dr. Markham-Collins’s kids weren’t allowed to have junk food, but Liz always brought some to bribe them so they wouldn’t misbehave. “Trust me, when you’re a nanny, you’ll have moments like this.”

  “So, I have an interview?” Adrienne asked.

  “Totally. You can go at three o’clock Friday afternoon after school. You get out at two forty-five, so you have plenty of time to get there.”

  “That’s tomorrow!”

  “You bet. Remember, dress up.” Adrienne heard screaming in the background. “I have to go. Heather is freaking out. Oh, another thing: If Cameron is there, don’t let her know that we’re friends. She doesn’t really like me very much, and it won’t help you.”

  “No problem,” Adrienne said. “Who knows? Maybe Cameron and I will hit it off!”

  “I doubt that,” Liz said, laughing.

  “Don’t laugh. I can handle a spoiled Upper East Side princess,” Adrienne said.

  “Just watch yourself,” Liz replied. “See you after your interview on Friday. And Adrienne? Good luck!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  is this kid for real?

  Adrienne walked up to the entrance of 841 Fifth Avenue and glanced at her reflection in the carefully polished glass. Not too much makeup, she thought. I look good. Like a very young Nicole Kidman. Sort of.

  As Adrienne approached the door, it was suddenly pulled open by a uniformed doorman. He was extremely tall and wore a long gray wool coat covered with gold braid. He looks like a ship’s captain, Adrienne thought, but smiled and offered him her hand. “Hello,” she said, in what she hoped was a professional-sounding voice. “I’m Adrienne Lewis. I’m here t
o see the Warners.”

  The doorman looked at her with pity. Adrienne lowered her hand. Well, she thought, so much for being nice to the doorman.

  “Are you a friend of Miss Cameron’s?” he asked, staring down his nose at her.

  Adrienne swallowed. What should I say? “Um, I’m a friend of Miss Emma’s?”

  The doorman nodded, then picked up the phone. “I have a Miss Lewis here to see Miss Emma.” He waited a minute, and then hung up.

  “You may go inside. The elevator to the Warner residence is on your left.”

  Adrienne stepped into the cool, marble-clad gloom of the lobby and opened her mouth in astonishment. The ceiling was gilded and painted, and the walls were covered with huge marble slabs and heavy mirrors. A fountain in the middle of the lobby tinkled softly, and the orchids planted around its base were reflected in the rippling water. Large French doors led to a grassy interior courtyard she hadn’t even known existed.

  This was so not what apartment lobbies she was used to looked like. Her own building had shabby tiled floors and an elevator that screeched every time it opened. An orchid would probably die of embarrassment to be seen in my lobby, she thought, staring at the gorgeous room.

  “To your left, Miss Lewis,” said the doorman, pointing.

  “Sorry,” Adrienne replied, scurrying to the elevator, the door of which opened automatically when she approached it. She got into the elevator and, as the door closed, realized that she didn’t know what floor the Warners lived on. She looked for the control panel and discovered that there wasn’t one. The elevator began to move on its own.

  The elevator must be programmed to go straight to their floor—now that’s security! Adrienne glanced around. Pretty, she thought. There were several small paintings of flowers, and a tiny little bench to sit on. A small chandelier hung overhead. The elevator suddenly stopped, and the doors opened slowly. Adrienne looked out the elevator’s open door.

  This is unreal, she thought as she stepped out of the elevator car and into the Warners’ apartment.

  The entry hall was enormous, and they were obviously in the penthouse because the entire ceiling of the entry hall was a glass skylight through which the sun streamed onto mosaic floors. The room was mirrored, and a large crystal chandelier hung from the skylight, the sun bursting into thousands of rainbow-colored sparkles on the walls.

  YIP! YIP! YIP!

  Adrienne looked down. A small, strange-looking dog stood shivering and barking on the mosaic floor. It had long hair hanging from its ears and its tail, but virtually no hair on its body. Does that dog have a disease? she wondered. It bared its crooked teeth at her.

  “BEE-SQUEE!” called a deep, loud voice. “Stop it!”

  The dog growled at Adrienne one last time and ran off.

  The man who had called out approached her. He wore a tuxedo.

  “Is there something wrong with that dog?” Adrienne asked with concern. “It has no hair.”

  The man stared at her with disdain. “It is a Chinese crested terrier. They are very rare. His name is Bisquit. It means ‘cookie’ in French.”

  “I see,” Adrienne said politely, realizing too late that that had probably not been the best way to begin the interview. She extended her hand again. “You must be Mr. Warner. I’m—”

  “I am not Mr. Warner,” the man interrupted. “I am Kane. Mr. and Mrs. Warner’s butler.”

  “Kane what?” Adrienne asked.

  “Kane is my last name,” he said irritably.

  “Oh, sorry…Mr. Kane,” she said.

  “Just Kane, no Mister. Butlers are always called by their last name,” he replied, as if he were speaking to a child. “I suppose you are Miss Lewis.”

  “Yes. Sorry. You can call me Adrienne.”

  “Certainly, Miss Lewis. I’m sorry they sent you up in this elevator. In the future, you are only to ride in the service elevator, unless you are with Miss Emma or another member of the family. Staff does not ride in the same elevator with the residents of 841 Fifth Avenue. Follow me.” With that, Kane walked out of the hall. Adrienne raced to keep up with his long stride. They passed through a room hung with huge paintings, a large library, and a dining room. Then, they came to a large door that opened into the kitchen.

  “This is really the kitchen?” Adrienne asked Kane. The kitchen was beautiful. One whole side was a restaurant-sized cooking section with polished-steel cabinets and marble countertops. There were stoves with eight burners apiece, and several ovens. Obviously, the Warners had big dinner parties. There were windows on two sides, with views over Manhattan to the East River. On the opposite side of the room, in a corner, was a breakfast table, and in the center of it sat a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a cut-crystal vase. Nearby, several sofas and chairs were positioned around a huge flat-screen TV.

  “Mrs. Oblonskaya, this is Miss Lewis,” Kane said, gesturing to a woman in the kitchen.

  “Hello! Hello!” The cheerful little woman burst out from behind the counter and wiped her hands on a towel. She was shorter than Adrienne and about four times wider. Her gray hair was held in a tight bun, and she wore a carefully pressed black maid’s outfit with a starched white collar.

  “My name Tatiana Oblonskaya. You will call me please Tania.” They shook hands solemnly, and then she grinned, revealing that she had a sweet smile and one gold tooth. Adrienne smiled back and liked her immediately. Kane was a bit of an acquired taste.

  “That dog is something,” Adrienne said, as Bisquit ran in circles, alternating between yipping at her and running behind Tania’s legs to hide. “Does he bark like that all the time?”

  “Only at all the peoples. From the Devil he comes that Bisquit. I happy turn him to mush in oven. He bite. You careful. Miss Cameron love it only because he nasty like she be. She is. Sorry, she not so bad. Only doggie. So! You here by us. Good. I teach, you follow.” Tania threw the towel onto the counter and led her back out into the dining room.

  She picked up a heavy envelope and handed it to Adrienne. “Is note. You read,” she said, and stood, waiting.

  Adrienne opened the note:

  Darling!

  We are thrilled, thrilled, thrilled to have you! So pleased you are with us. Be an absolute lamb, help Emma with French, make sure she practices piano, make sure she gets clean, clean, clean, and send her to bed. You’re an absolute treasure.

  Christine Olivia Warner

  Adrienne blinked. “Isn’t there an interview?” she asked. “Don’t I need to meet Mrs. Warner or Emma?”

  “In plenty time you meet,” Tania said. “Miss Emma, she yell at you now. I mean talk to you now. You meet. Come.”

  This is so not normal, Adrienne thought. My mom would be all over someone who was watching her kid.

  Tania walked back through the library and the entry hall, pointing to door after door: “Is Miss Cameron’s room. She never home. Is guest room. Is guest room. Is other guest room. Here is room of Miss Emma. You go in. I wait here for you.” She gestured to the door.

  Adrienne knocked lightly.

  “Come in,” said a child’s voice. Adrienne walked in. Emma Warner sat at her desk by a large window that looked out over Central Park. She was tiny. Smaller than an average eight-year-old, with a little blond bob that was a bit severe for a girl her age. Fine-featured, she turned to look at Adrienne with the calculating eye of an adult. Uncomfortable meeting her gaze, Adrienne looked around the room.

  The bedroom had pretty flowered wallpaper and a romantic canopy bed swathed in lace and chintz. The white-painted bookcases were covered with dolls. The room was a little girl’s paradise. However, Emma’s desk was piled high with books. Mounted on a stand over her head was a TV, on which CNN was playing. Adrienne took a deep breath, and introduced herself. “Emma? Hi there, my name is Adrienne. It looks like I am your new nanny.”

  “It may look that way,” Emma said, “but you are far from hired. You can sit over there.” Emma pointed to a small upholstered chair. Adrienne, not sure how
to handle the situation, walked over to the chair and sat down. It was a mistake. The chair was a lot lower than it looked. It was child-sized, and Adrienne wasn’t. Suddenly, Emma stood towering over her, holding a small pad and a pencil.

  This is ridiculous, Adrienne thought, and began to laugh. She tried to get out of her chair, but realized that she couldn’t without moving Emma out of the way.

  “Um, Emma, I’m kind of stuck,” Adrienne said, trying to rise. “Can you just move, a tiny bit, so I—”

  “Have you been a nanny before?” Emma interrupted.

  Is this kid for real? Adrienne thought. “No, but I have baby-sitt—”

  “Fine. Where do you go to school?” Emma shot back like a prosecuting attorney on TV.

  “I’m at Van Rennselaer, but—”

  “A public school.” Emma sighed. “At least it’s a good one. How were you referred to us?”

  This kid is too much, Adrienne thought. I have to get up. I’m losing control of this situation. “Liz Braun—” she began.

  “Oh, Heather’s nanny. She’s a freak. Not your friend, Liz. Heather. She’s insane. Clinically. I won’t play with her, so don’t get your hopes up that you get to hang out with your friend all the time.”

  Emma closed the pad, but didn’t move. “You’ll do. For now. I watch CNN while I work. I’m translating Madame Bovary from the French. Have you read it? Probably not. Now, at four o’clock…”

  I can’t let her walk all over me like this, Adrienne realized. I need to get back in charge. She stood up, and in doing so, forced Emma backward.

  “At four o’clock,” she said, her voice firm, “you do nothing. For your information I have read Madame Bovary in English and in French. I would also appreciate it if you would lay off your criticism of Heather. She is not clinically insane, or she would be in an institution. I am here to take care of you, not here to be patronized by you, or to be spoken to in a condescending way.”