Say something. Anything. Words are a thing humans use.
“Hi,” I finally manage, and I can hear how nervous I sound, how young, like a kid calling about her first job. “I’m calling about the nanny ad? In theVoice?”
“Oh, that’s great,” he says, and there’s this pause where I can hear something in the background—maybe a TV, maybe music, I can’t tell. “Thanks for calling. Can I—sorry, what’s your name?”
“Oh. Right.” God, I sound like an idiot. “It’s Annie. Annie Collier.”
“Hi, Annie.” There’s something warm in the way he says it, like he’s actually glad I called and not just going through the motions. “I’m Leo. As you probably saw in the ad.”
“Right. Leo. Hi.”
“So the position is for my daughter, Emma. She’s four. My schedule at Columbia is…chaotic. Teaching, lab work, committee obligations that feel designed to torture the morally weak. Some days end early, some stretch into the night. I need someone from roughly eight to five or six, Monday through Friday, with the understanding that flexibility isn’t a perk, it’sthe job description.” He pauses, and I can hear him exhale, a soft, tired sound. “I know it’s not ideal. I’m transparent about that.”
His voice is doing something to me. It’s deep, a little husky, the kind of voice that sounds like it should be on the radio or narrating documentaries about the ocean or something equally inappropriate to be thinking about while on a job interview phone call. There’s also something familiar about it, like maybe I’ve heard it before, but that’s impossible because I don’t know anyone in New York except Cori and Brett and Marcus and—
“Do you have experience with children?” he asks, pulling me back.
Right. The question I’ve been dreading. I start biting on my thumbnail, catch myself, pull it away from my mouth. “Okay, so on the topic of transparency, I don’t have any formal experience with kids. I’m going to be honest about that. But I’m responsible and I’m a quick learner, and I think part of what makes me a good candidate is that I really need this job, which I know sounds desperate but it means I’m going to show up and give it everything I have. I’m not going to flake or decide after a week that it’s not for me. Ineedthis to work, which means I’ll make it work.”
There’s a pause on the other end, long enough that I start to panic. I’ve either repelled him with my bluntness or intrigued him with my honesty.
“No experience at all?” he asks finally. “Even with younger siblings? Cousins?”
“I’m an only child. No cousins that I know of.”
“Oh.”
Another pause, and I’m already preparing myself for the polite brush-off, the thanks-for-calling-but-we’re-looking-for-someone-with-more-experience speech I’ve gotten from approximately every other job I’ve applied for in this city.
“Look, I should probably tell you,” he says, and his voice has gone careful in a way that makes my stomach drop. “Emma’s going through some things right now. Her mom isn’t exactly in the picture anymore—it’s fresh, only about six months—and she’s really struggling behaviorally. It’s bad. I think someone with some experience might be better equipped to navigate that.”
“How is she struggling?” I ask, because it seems important to know, and also because I’m not quite ready to accept defeat yet.
“She’s just been…picky about who she wants to be around right now.” He sounds sad, and like he’s had to explain this too many times already. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, just that it might be more challenging than a typical four-year-old.”
“And how’s that been working out for you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “The hiring people with experience thing?”
There’s a pause, and then this small laugh, surprised and a little rueful. “That’s a fair point.”
Something loosens in my chest. “Look, here’s what I’m thinking. We could help each other. I’m new to the city, I desperately need a job, and I’m willing to give this everything I have. If you hire me and you hate me or Emma hates me, you can fire me, no hard feelings. But maybe—and I know this is optimistic—maybethe fact that I don’t have experience means I won’t come in with all these preconceived notions about how kids are supposed to act or what I’m supposed to do. Maybe I’ll just figure it out with her, you know?”
Another pause, longer this time, and I’m chewing on my thumbnail again, my heart still beating too fast.
“Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?” he asks finally. “Around ten in the morning? It’s one of my days off. You can meet Emma, we can see how you two get along.”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll give you the address. Are you able to write it down?”
“Yes, yes, totally. Whenever you’re ready.” I’m scrambling for the pen Cori handed me at some point during this conversation, scribbling the address on the edge of the newspaper. “Thank you, Leo. Really.”
“Thank you for calling. It was good talking to you, Annie.” He pauses, and then adds, “This might sound strange, but your voice sounds really familiar. Have we met before?”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “We haven’t. But I thought the same thing about your voice, actually.”
“Interesting.” There’s a smile in his voice now, I can hear it. “Okay. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“See you tomorrow. Good night.”
