Undercover Nanny

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Aurora

Never in my life did I imagine I would stand in the middle of a schoolyard holding a chunk of my own hair. The sound of the scissors—sharp and singular—cuts through the air so suddenly I don’t have time to turn around and stop the tiny hands that commit such a heinous crime.

A frail squeak escapes my mouth as I spin and find Maya staring up at me, wide-eyed with amusement. When I ask the little culprit why she did it, I’m left with simple five-year-old logic.

“I didn’t know scissors could cut hair.” Maya shrugs, handing me another clump of my blonde hair before running away.

She didn’t know scissors could cut hair?

“Don’t run with those!” I call after her before sighing in defeat. This doesn’t qualify as extenuating circumstances to justify giving me a half-assed makeover so I look like Weird Barbie.

I unfurl my fingers to release the tethered pieces of my hair, watching as a warm gust of May wind carries them away, serving as an accomplice to erase the incriminating evidence.

Drawing in a deep breath through my nose, I feel the tightness dissipate from my chest. It’s the final day of my practicum as a school psychologist, the last day of dealing with these tiny troublemakers who spread their germs like contraband and interrogate me endlessly.

“Miss Sinclair?” The wanna-be hairstylist returns to the scene of the crime, tugging on my shirt. “Will you come back next year?”

Case in point. “I very much hope so!”

She doesn’t bother waiting for my response and darts back to her friends halfway through my sentence.

The corners of my lips climb up as I allow myself a last glance around the schoolyard.

Little Emily races in front of the swings, chasing another kindergartner.

It’s hard to believe that only a couple of months ago, she wouldn’t step outside during recess because she was overwhelmed by the loud noises.

Footsteps running. Children screaming. The distinct creaking of a seesaw.

Working with these kids has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my life.

Being greeted with a hug and the sound of their voices calling my name in unrehearsed unison always makes me feel appreciated and seen.

Plus, my immune system has never been stronger.

I slide my fingers through my hair until they catch on the newly cut piece.

The strands shift as I try to cover them, hoping no one notices.

I draw in a deep breath, aware my hair won’t be the only casualty of this job.

With a quick adrenaline rush at the anticipation of what’s to come, I head back inside the building.

“…The killer chose the location perfectly. If not for the new owner’s remodel, the body would never have been discovered .

” I stifle a yawn as my favorite podcast narrator concludes his segment dramatically, just before a commercial for cleaning supplies begins: “Food stains? Wine spills? Blood? Scubbly has you covered! Try Scubbly, now with extra strength.”

Targeted advertising at its finest.

I reach for the car’s touch screen and pause the audio.

After a restless night where I compulsively checked my email because my sleep-deprived brain was convinced the school district would send internship placement updates in the middle of the night, I finally gave up and texted Layla to meet me for coffee.

As I slam the car door, my phone rings. I rummage through my bag, fingers brushing past everything except what I need, until I finally close my hand around it. I swipe to answer and lift the phone to my ear. “Ye-s?” The word slips out in two syllables. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes?”

“Are you still in bed?” Mom asks slightly accusatory, but mingled with a hint of concern.

Most of my mom’s tones are a combination of one emotion with a hint of accusation.

Sadness with a trace of accusation. Happiness with a sprinkle of accusation.

Frustration with its own dose of accusation, though the amount depends on who it’s directed at.

“No, Mom.” I lock the car and sling my bag over my shoulder. “If you thought I was still sleeping, why would you call?” I ask through another yawn. “Did you forget about the time difference again?”

Or maybe something’s wrong? Mom usually only calls to deliver bad news.

“I didn’t forget about the time difference, Aurora,” she says, though the slight increase in pitch tells me she indeed forgot that Pennsylvania is three hours ahead of Las Vegas. Again. “I thought you had your final today.”

“No, it was on Tuesday.” I shade my eyes with my hand, using it as a makeshift visor against the sun climbing over the Spring Mountains. “How’s Grandma?” I ask while pulling my bag open and peering inside, hoping to find my sunglasses buried within.

“Your grandma is driving me crazy. She still doesn’t like the fact that I moved back home. She needs my help, and yet she criticizes my every move.” She tsks dismissively. “Apparently, I don’t know how to boil water for pasta correctly.”

I try to say through another yawn, “I symaaz wth ya ma.”

“Aurora, please don’t mumble like that while you’re on the phone with me.” A request with a hint of accusation.

I sigh and repeat, “I sympathize with you, Mom. I know how difficult it is when your parent criticizes your every move.”

“Aurora Joanne Sinclair,” my mom protests after a moment, once the implication sinks in. “I didn’t realize I was such a horrible mother to you.” And there’s a full serving of accusation.

“Mom, I really hope you’re pretending to be offended.”

Silence.

“Mom.” I wave at the minimarket worker opening their bodega across the street.

“You hurt me so deeply.” Another pause. “But I’ll forgive you, because I”—pause—“am an amazing mother, and you”—another pause—“are lucky to have me.” She huffs. “Anyway, when are you finding out about your internship placement?”

“By the end of today.” After my graduation, an internship is the next step toward becoming licensed as a school psychologist. Finally, after seven years of schooling and hundreds of practicum hours, I’ll be one step away from my dream job.

I check my email again. The only new message is spam, an invitation to submit a manuscript to a questionable journal.

“So, you’re officially done?”

I round the corner, momentarily taken aback by how quiet the street is.

It’s not usually this empty so early, but with it being the end of the semester, most students have already scattered back home for summer break.

“Not yet. I still need to drop off my final paper for Assessment Practices.” I pull some caught strands of hair from the back of my shirt and run my fingers through them past the shorter chunk at the bottom.

Maya’s mischievous little grin pops up in my mind.

At least it’s easily hidden beneath the rest of my hair.

“I’m grabbing coffee with Layla before that, so…

did you want something, or is this just one of those paybacks you promised me? ”

Growing up, my mom never missed a chance to remind me what a horrible sleeper I was as a child.

She jokingly, or maybe not so much, swore to repay me for those sleepless nights when I grew older.

And sure enough, there were a few occasions when I was in middle school, and even high school, when she would burst into my room, shout, “Payback,” and leave.

She says nothing for a moment, making me pause in my steps. “Mom, is everything all right?” I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what’s coming.

“Your grandma wasn’t approved for travel.”

My stomach drops at her words. This time, I’m the one who’s silent.

“I can’t leave her alone, so we won’t be able to make it to your graduation ceremony,” she adds, though it’s not needed. “Aurora? Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I say, shaking my head as I consciously push aside the emotions and memories stirring within me—a missed swim meet, a forgotten parent-teacher conference, a skipped end-of-year party. Even though I know it’s not her fault this time, a pang tightens in my chest.

I can’t deal with this right now.

“I really should get going. I guess I’ll see you, um… later. Don’t be mad at Grandma. I’m sure she’s happy to have you around.”

“If you talk to her, could you maybe ask her to ease up a bit on the criticism?” she asks.

I can barely stop myself from chuckling. “Yes, Mom. I’ll talk to Grandma,” I promise, though the chances of me touching that situation are slim to none. I’ll gladly take another haircut from a kindergartner before I put myself in the middle of them.

I hang up and push on the heavy door, immediately greeted with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mingled with the sweet scent of baked pastries.

My stomach growls, demanding attention. I spot Layla, who’s already sitting at one of the high tables, her laptop open as she types frantically.

“Last-minute edits?” I ask, leaning over and giving her a side hug.

“Last-minute writing,” Layla answers, her fingers still flying over the keyboard. “This class will be the death of me.”

“You were the one who chose to take European History as an elective,” I point out. Being only a few years older than Layla, I’ve taken on the role of big sister ever since we met while volunteering at Planned Parenthood three years ago.

“I know,” she grunts, continuing to type.

“I just need to finish this… last… paragraph… and I’ll be done.

” She pauses for a moment, stretching her arms high before twisting her neck from side to side.

A few audible pops echo, enough to make even a chiropractor wince.

“Stop talking to me.” She waves her hand dismissively in my direction and goes back to typing.

I roll my eyes as I place my backpack on the chair across from her before walking to the counter. Other than Layla, there’s only one other student sitting by the window, with notes sprawled out across the table.