Chapter 2
Chapter Two
T ruly, I wasn’t expecting unicorns to start line dancing across the floor while the New England Patriots sprayed champagne on me. But I thought I would feel something a bit more special than the heartburn swirling in my chest. Those fleeting seconds of relief after reading the congratulatory email came and went, leaving me right where I started—lying on my living room couch, no one around to divulge the news to.
Is this how all my classmates felt? The ones that got their jobs pregraduation? What did they do after the momentary little joy ride from uploading their “thrilled to announce...” posts on LinkedIn?
Something about “So grateful to have graduated from one of the top business schools in the country, and now I’m gonna be a European nanny, but don’t worry because it’s just a dues-paying means to an end” just doesn’t sit right.
I’d rather keep my feed blank and save it for something worthwhile.
Mom took the news as best as she could. I wasn’t fortunate enough to escape her blank stare that had drawn out for what felt like eternity. She followed up with her slew of questions that I couldn’t answer because the au pair coordinators didn’t tell me jack.
“Is it safe? How do you know? Are they paying you? What about food? What will Continental think?”
That last one irked me most of all. Why would they care? It’s not like this type of work is beneath them. Besides, why can’t I make a decision for myself without feeling like I need the world’s thumbs-up?
Anyway, it’ll be the breath of fresh air I need from living at home. Don’t get me wrong, Mom is a wonderful human. She makes the best pot roast and gladly joins me for ocean swims, even when the water temperature dips below sixty degrees. Aside from that, we’re two very different people. Exhibit A: She dutifully attends weekly vestry meetings, and I go to church on my yoga mat surrounded by quartz crystals. Do I need an Exhibit B?
We respect our differences, but the air is getting stale. And working abroad as a last-ditch effort to bolster my Young Soarers application sounds a bit more enticing than sitting around the house waiting for her to tell me for the nineteenth time this eon to clean out my closet. All while I go on another string of failed dates. No thanks.
The morning after I applied to my summer soiree, a hefty hangover loomed in my forehead—what I get for going with the nine dollar, bottom-shelf bottle of red. I tried for about two hours to undo my application, but in my drunken state, it looks like I had signed the binding e-contract after the coordinator sent me my acceptance email. And I wasn’t really looking to drop $500 on the withdrawal fee.
It all happened so fast. I didn’t even have time to regret it, because my flight to France would take off thirty-six hours after my acceptance email came through, and I had to pack two months’ worth of clothes into one suitcase.
When I told Tiff the news, she cackled until my silence clued her in that I wasn’t joking, and yes, I was actually doing it. We promised to FaceTime, but we’re reluctant to admit that it’s just a nicety meant to make ourselves feel better. These days, text is our norm, even when we live four miles away from each other. This time, I think we both know what’ll end up happening. She’ll be free when I’m busy and vice versa. The five hour time difference is just an added hindrance.
Our friendship clinging to childhood memories, it’s like my best friend is slipping through my fingers. Like our chapter together is closing for now. Then who will I have? My social life has shriveled up like a raisin in the sun. Once the corporate era starts, Tiff will be living it up in New York with her boyfriend, Trey, and I’ll probably coop up in some dingy Boston apartment alone. All our other college friends have moved out of state to bigger and better things, or so they say. But at least I’ll be in my dream job with Continental Air once this joke of a summer is through. I hope.
* * *
The plane ride, rather vainly I thought, would be productive.
“I’ll have so much time to brainstorm,” I said to myself. Maybe I’d finally finish my documentary outline on Icelandic orca pods or the memoir from study abroad that’s nagging for my attention.
Sometimes I appease the Capricorn in me with the productive butterflies that come from thinking about the work, as if the act of planning it is equally as exciting as doing it. But the leather-bound journal and my favorite ballpoint pen sit in my backpack underneath the seat in front of me. And I don’t bother moving an inch to retrieve them.
Instead , a twisting knot swells in my stomach. It’s an all-too-familiar feeling. I felt this same out-of-body confusion watching my classmates walk across the graduation stage. Each of them wearing ear-to-ear smiles and the same not-so-flattering cap and gown. The promise of new adventures brimming in their eyes. A gilded vision of the future. An illusion. Seriously, did they really shake President Cawley’s hand thinking, “Goodbye shotgunning beers outside the football stadium. Hello cube farm at insurance firm. This is where the real fun begins.” Who am I to assume? Maybe they’re stoked, and I’m glad for them. But I can’t be the only one who didn’t want anything to do with that. Or they just have immaculate poker faces.
Still, it doesn’t change where I’m at now. It’s not like I can redo college. I don’t know which direction I’d choose if I even had the chance. Filmmaker of sorts, yes. But when a career lives on a project-to-project basis with no guarantee of stability, income, or health insurance, it’s hard to even think about taking the leap. Or, at least, that’s what my divorced mother has drilled into me.
Plus, it’s hard to admit to friends, family, and even strangers my dream to be a full-time creative if I’m not already a world-renowned Octavia Butler or Steven Spielberg. Like until you’ve won an Oscar or have taken home a National Book Award, don’t even bother classifying yourself a creator of any caliber. It’s a baseless and wildly false extrapolation, I know. But tell that to my clenching throat whenever someone asks about my real career aspirations.
My education is invaluable, I know it. Outside the major, it got me to think critically, to ask questions and learn from unique angles. I just wonder if my diploma read something different, what path it might have opened up for me.
But I can’t daydream any more could-have, should-have, or would-have scenarios. Because if my plan of becoming a Young Soarer inductee comes to fruition, I’ll be well on my way to living out the timeline on my vision board’s collage of magazine clippings.
Kat McLauren, travel writer extraordinaire with the nest egg to dive into the world of entertainment. A clear vision at my ship’s helm... hopefully. Sure, there may be some residual impatience for not throwing the ten-year plan aside and taking life by the horns now. But I’m not willing to chance sitting in a two-hundred-square-foot apartment eating Cup Noodles for the ninth night in a row, wondering why I threw my common sense down the drain. Fact is, the uncertainty of it all would chew me up and never spit me out.
On top of all of this swirling in a constant loop around my head, I can’t possibly write even half a sentence on this circus of a flight. Across the aisle are two women who apparently hadn’t read the unofficial rules to pipe down after dinner was served on the red-eye.
Nope, they go right on with their conversation, so by the time we’ve reached the middle of the Atlantic, everyone on board, including the pilot, can tell how upset woman #1 is with her daughter becoming a yoga instructor in Bali and how woman #2 can’t fathom where the younger generation’s work ethic has gone.
It completely interrupts my perusal of the sparse documents the Dare to Au Pair company had sent about the kids I’ve been assigned. An eleven-year-old girl and two eight-year-olds, a boy and a girl. No names listed. All that’s provided is an image of a rustic cottage, an address, a list of French emergency services numbers, and a brochure highlighting must-see attractions in the French Riviera.
The plane gabbers continue on with their gossip, so I cue the noise-canceling headphones.
Ah, that’s better. The first dollop of quiet on this trip settles in, bringing with it a tingling in my stomach. I don’t have enough evidence or Wi-Fi signal to consult Google for which of my chakras is getting all fired up. Then I begin to feel something else. Down my back this time. Not tingly. Wet. Cold and wet.
What the ? —
I leap forward as the chill sends shivers up and down my spine. Turning around, I meet the menace. It’s a three year old who spilled his juice bottle. I smile at him and then his father who desperately apologizes in French. I open my mouth but realize I have no clue how to say this in his language. So I go with what I know that’s closest.
“It’s okay. Está bien.” My aggressive nods communicate more than my words.
He’s cute. The kid, I mean. Well, the dad’s not too bad looking himself. Forget age. He looks like he could be in a Giorgio Armani commercial. But as much as I can hope for a drop of vain attention, I’m delusional if I think he’d ever flirt with me. Without makeup, I can pass as a high school sophomore.
I wave to the little boy. At first he playfully grins, biting one of his fingers and giggling intermittently. But that ends without warning. Not two seconds later, his juice bottle goes flying and smacks me right in the forehead. His laughter explodes as the orange juice drips down my jawline. Other passengers offer napkins and empathetic glances that make me want to hurl.
Instead, I scurry to the bathroom at the rear of the plane and comply with the faucet’s weak water pressure. The hairs framing my face are still sticky as I coat them with a damp paper towel. The coolness gives me pause, and I stare at myself in the reflection.
What am I doing?
I’ve exceedingly succeeded in having the most dreadful start-of-a-journey flight. Maybe this’ll be the only bad juju for the trip. There’s a hiccup in every travel story, right? I’ve just gotten it out of the way early on. I’m fine with that. So long as it’s not foreshadowing my life for the next two months. I thought babysitting would be easy.
After I return to my seat and give the father and his kid a polite it’s-not-okay-but-I’ll-pretend-like-it-is nod, I grip the plastic armrests for the next three hours as my worries torment my brain.
What if I just quit while I’m ahead?
No, I can’t do that. My hopefully soon-to-be Continental Air coworkers will think I have the work ethic of a fruit fly. But maybe I can find an excuse that would let me go home. Something socially acceptable that wouldn’t stab my integrity or conscience. In the meantime, I just hope I can wrangle these kids better than I can the toddler kicking my seat.