My hand flies to my own hair.
“And the one after that,” he continues, “Emma threw a plate at her head during lunch. It shattered against the wall. Could have seriously hurt her, though. She’s stronger than she looks.”
Horror roots me to the spot. “That…that little girl did all that?”
“That little girl in there,” he confirms, and he looks so deflated, so worn down. “Among other things. Biting. Hitting. Screaming so intense we’ve had neighbors complain. The behavioral issues have been…a lot.”
“Why?” The question is automatic, essential. “There has to be a reason why.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I see the internal debate—how much to reveal to a stranger, an antagonist. Then, a sigh and a surrender. “My ex-fiancée walked out on us six months ago, Emma’s mom. She left one morning and we haven’t heard from her since.”
The air leaves the room. Oh. The puzzle pieces slam into a devastating picture. A mother’s abandonment. A father’s parade of replacements. A child’s world, atomized. Of course she’s furious.
“Anyway,” Leo says, pulling me back to the present, “none of them have gotten through to Emma the way you did today. Not a single one.”
“I didn’tdoanything, though,” I protest, because I genuinely don’t think I did. “I just…talked to her.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, his gaze sharpening. “You didn’t condescend. You didn’t perform patience. You stated a boundary—‘these are my things’—and you gave her a path to dignity—‘help me pick them up.’ You engaged her curiosity instead of punishing her anger. You saw the child, not the problem.”
“I was flying by the seat of my pants! I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Then your instincts are good.” He pauses, his eyes searching mine. “She picked up your things. She helped you. That’s a currency none of the others earned in weeks.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just sit there, clutching my purse in my lap like it might anchor me to reality.
“And the camera,” he adds, a note of something like wonder entering his voice. “You didn’t just explain it to her. Yousharedit with her. You included her. You treated her like a person.”
“Sheisa person,” I say, simply.
“I know that.” His voice is quiet, edged with a pain he normally keeps sheathed. “But to a scared, angry child, being treated like one can feel like a miracle.”
The water runs in the bathroom. A child’s off-key singing drifts down the hall as we sit in the strangest interview of my life.
“So,” I say, when I can bear it no longer. “What are you saying?”
I watch the internal war play out on his face—professional caution versus desperate need. I see the exact moment the latter wins, a decision made against his own better judgment.
“I’m offering you the position,” he says. “If you’re still interested.”
I just stare at him. I was completely prepared to leave here and go home jobless. I was already mentally preparing myself for the very real possibility that I’d be homeless by the end of the month, asking Ernie if he had any extra space in his sleeping bag or if he could teach me any of his showtunes.
“Just like that?” I hear myself ask.
“Just like that.”
“You don’t want to—I don’t know—make sure I’m not an escaped felon or something? Do a background check?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Areyou a felon?”
“Well, I did do six months in Rikers for aggravated assault, but it was a misunderstanding. The guy really deserved it.”
“Christ.” Leo actually covers his face with both hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms like I’m giving him a migraine.
I snicker. “I’m joking. I’m not a criminal. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket.”
He drops his hands and looks at me like he’s reconsidering this entire decision. “You’re not helping your case.”
“Sorry. Nervous humor. It’s a problem.”
