“I don’t need you to play with me. I can play by myself just fine. All of my other nannies just watched TV or played on their phones.”

“How lonely.”

Her back straightens and her eyes slit so I can’t see their ocean-green color. “I don’t need you.” Her answer is automatic, her tone filled with something that makes my heart hurt slightly because I don’t know why there’s so much vehemence.

“You can’t play with me or by yourself until you help me clean.”

“Then I’m going to get you fired.”

My shoulders rise with indifference at the conviction behind her words. “That’s your choice.”

She turns again and stomps to her room, her small feet echoing down the hall. I stretch my neck a few times, rubbing what’s become a constant nagging knot where my shoulders meet.

It takes only a minute to fill the laundry basket we’d been using as a basketball hoop, so high I can hardly lift it without random articles of clothing tumbling down the sides. I head out to the hallway, trying to carefully hold it at an angle that allows me to see around it, and pass Mercedes on my way to the basement. She’s sprawled across her bed, diligently ignoring me as my foot slides on a towel. Her snickers follow me down the hall, and I realize how much I’m starting to loathe my job.

I’ve never been down to the basement. Mercedes gave me a tour of the entire house my first day, but all she mentioned of the basement was that it was her uncle’s stuff and the laundry room. I’m in a small hall with only two doors, one of which is closed, and the other is open with clothes strewn about. When I turn on the light, I realize the entire room is packed full of clothes. There are so many I can hardly move. I’ve never seen anything like this. There must be thousands of dollars worth of clothes in this house. I drop the basket outside the door and carefully wade through the laundry, trying to steady myself as my feet shift with the moving garments. White and colored shirts are tangled with jeans and shorts. Pairs of socks and boxer briefs are strewn out, with bright pink shirts and flannel dotting the piles.

I sit down on a large pile with a sigh and close my eyes. I need to look for another job. I’m not equipped to help Mercedes, and this is becoming draining for me not only with all of her attitude and demands, but with less time to work on homework and the commute time to get out here each day. Plus, I’ve been missing my Comparative Art History class every Wednesday because I would only be able to attend for a few minutes before having to catch the bus out here. The combining effects of not getting along with Kenzie, the school stress, and now the added strain of my job makes me question so many things about this year.

I drop a final shirt onto the mass of clothes that I’ve spent the last hour separating, and look around. I don’t know where to start. At home we run anywhere from eight to ten loads of laundry a day. It’s not like I’m not used to having mass amounts of dirty clothes, but this is unreal. I gather a pile of Mercedes’ laundry and shove it into the washer while making a mental game of guessing how many loads are down here. Opening the cabinets that line the washer and dryer, I find the first clean and empty spaces in the house, and shake my head with the unveiling of a whole new issue: there’s no detergent.

My neck drops back so I’m staring at the bright lights overhead. “What did I ever do to you?” My words are intended to be rhetorical, said to no one in particular, except perhaps fate so she’ll give me a small break.

“Give up yet?”

My head feels like it weighs too much as I look at the doorway and see Mercedes wearing a gloating expression that instantly becomes the singular look I hope to never again see on her face. If we were on the farm, I’d probably throw her in the lake.

“I’m too stubborn and stupid to give up. Ask my roommate.”

“My dad doesn’t care about cleaning. He says life’s too short to worry about having everything perfect. Fun is what matters.”

“But you also have to appreciate what you have. Throwing all your stuff on the floor and not taking care of it isn’t appreciating stuff, or having fun.”

“Why are you so uptight?”

I clench my teeth to keep angry words from spilling out, and her eyes turn back to the familiar narrowed glare she’s fit for me.

“Go ahead, Lauren. Do you have something to say?”

I need this job. I hate that I need this job, but I need this job. Twenty dollars an hour is twice what I make at the restaurant. “You need to learn to appreciate things, otherwise, you’re never going to have fun because you’re never going to realize what you have.”

“I don’t have anything.” She turns with a final glare, and her feet stomp back up the stairs.

“IF IT doesn’t work out, we’ll find a place for you here, Macita.”

I wrap my arms around Estella and squeeze. Leaving the restaurant is relieving for the fact that I will no longer have to work closing hours, and horrifying because it means I’m fully committing myself to being Mercedes’ nanny.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“At least I know you’ll be returning to finish my mural,” she says, stroking my hair in a motherly fashion that makes my body itch with the need to move.

“That and you have me addicted to your pollo asada. I swear you’re lacing that stuff with something that’s not legal.”

“Yeah, my love,” Estella retorts, leaving me in a fit of laughter.

“We have to do a going away party!” Mia announces.

“We’re not having a party.” Estella shakes her head. “We only have parties when we’re glad they’re leaving. Lo’s coming back to visit. Weekly.”

MERCEDES’ COMMENT about having nothing is still haunting me three days later as I make the twenty-minute trek on foot to the Knight residence. It’s like being around her has heightened this maternal instinct in me, making me wish to shield her from any conceivable pain or ugliness, yet in the few weeks that I’ve been working at the house, I have seen so little that could constitute as experiencing pain or ugly.

“Hey, Lauren!”

I turn toward the kitchen as I manage to get my key free from the lock, and see Kashton along with a woman and another guy, leaning against the kitchen counters. “Hey,” I call back. My voice is soft and comes out cracked, causing my cheeks to heat. I pocket my key and head over to where the three of them are facing me.

Kashton smiles in greeting and lifts a hand to the man on his right. He’s tall, a few inches taller than me at least, with hair as dark as midnight and two rings that curl around his lower lip, and another in his eyebrow. He’s wearing a light gray beanie that brings out the darker shades in his blue eyes, making them resemble the storm clouds outside. “Lauren, this is Parker.” His elbow twists and his hand rotates to the woman on his left. Her hair is long and auburn with unnatural shades of red and purple peeking through. Not surprisingly, she’s smaller than I am, looking petite and beautiful in a pair of designer jeans and a hoodie. It reminds me of French design, almost messy, yet sophisticated and feminine. Her entire face is set with indecision as her clear green eyes scan over me. “This is Summer. Guys, this is Lauren.”

“The kidlet was right. You are pretty hot.” Parker’s compliment—if you can call it that—only makes me feel more uncomfortable.

Summer takes a few steps closer to me, extending her hand. I take it and swallow my unease. I loathe standing beside small women. I feel like it only accentuates how large I am. Drawing visual comparisons to how much longer my legs are, how much bigger my hands are.