All I wanted was some extra cash to buy a camera. Cue the Facebook ad that left me standing at the gate of his house.
My ad was professional: Certified babysitter available, 5 years experience. Loves to have fun and play with the kids. Can provide enrichment. A Markus Finch texted me on a Wednesday to ask if I could come do a meet and greet Friday. I agreed, but he never mentioned how to get in the gate.
The black wrought iron absorbed the bright sunlight and held the heat deep in its core. The wires on the wheels told me it was an automatic gate. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel. One two three. One two three. The heat forced itself into my skin, creating refugees of salt and water. Maybe there was a button I had to push.
I left my car to inspect the twin stone columns flagging the gate. The sandstone was rough on my palms, releasing a softer heat deep to my core. Real. Solid. No button, no hide-a-key, no keypad, and no cameras.
Maybe I should have left. God knows that would have saved me from heartbreak. Instead I walked to the center of the gates and pressed the square in the middle. They swung open.
“I’m so stupid.” I told the faded bead snake hanging from my mirror. He bounced in reply to my question and the pothole in the driveway.
The house grew the further I continued down the driveway. Grey with white trim. Classy. I parked my car against the inner circle of the driveway, shoving my window back in place. I needed to get it fixed. The stairs were just shallow enough that I took them two at a time, my battered and faded bag bouncing against my hip.
I struck the door three times and sent a half formed prayer that I wasn’t being hired to babysit spoilt brats. I could and I had, but it was more fun for me if they started out unspoiled.
Wrinkled lined the face of my host, but strangely never strayed to his eyes. Stress was his main mistress and happiness a faded memory. His eyes were the shade of the barrel of a gun and just as unyielding.
“Hi! I’m Stormy Wylliums. I’m the babysitter you contacted.” My hand hung in the air as he evaluated me. It slowly fell back to my side after a few moments.
“Not as high end as we usually hire, but I guess she’ll do.” The backhanded compliment drifted into my ears so softly I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear it. He stepped back and opened the door a little wider. “Come in. I’m Markus Finch.”
“Thanks.” I walked in the door, relishing in the wave of cold air frosting my skin.
The interior of the house dripped in warm silvers and cold blacks. Glass and statues held court throughout the room. Several canvases that were probably worth more than my house, perched on the wall, held there by invisible wires. Several hallways and doorways tunneled off from the main entrance.
The side of the door was devoid of shoes and coats. So shoes stay on. I searched the room for toys and games. Nothing. How old is the kid I’m watching? Maybe he’s special needs?
“Come. He’s locked himself into the gym again.” Mr. Finch flattened his lips. “He’s what you would call a challenging child. If you last more than a week, we will discuss your permanent pay and compensation.”
“I don’t think he’ll be the most difficult child I’ve dealt with.” I said as we turned another corner. “How old is he again?”
Mr. Finch stopped in front of a frosted door. “He’s 17.”
17? Why was he hiring me to watch a seventeen year-old? I’m seventeen. My hand slid into my bag and I gripped my pepper spray. What had I gotten into? “Is there- I mean, does he have a learning disability?”
Mr. Finch’s eyes hardened. My heart stuttered a beat.
“I don’t mean to offend, but I do like to know what I’m walking into. I have experience. I just find it strange that you’re requesting I babysit someone my own age.” The words tumbled off my tongue like rocks sinking into the sea.
Mr. Finch sighed, all the pomp rushed out of him. All that was left was a defeated and frustrated father. “He’s in some trouble and has to have someone watch him. He’s scared off all the professionals that I’ve hired. If you can’t stick it out, then his next option is jail.”
“No pressure.” I muttered. “Let’s meet him then. I’ve dealt with spoilt brats before, I can do it again.”
Mr. Finch ignored my jab and pressed the buzzer on the door. The bass subsided and a shadow moved closer to the door.
“What do you want, Father?” The radio distorted the voice, but the evidence was clear.
He was a brat and had daddy issues.
“Open the door Kemper.”
“Leave me alone. I’m being exiled remember.”
“Kemper Finch, open this door. I have a new babysitter here.”
I flinched at Mr. Finch’s tone. It was a kick straight to the adrenal glands. My hand gripped the strap of my bag tighter. If he was abusive, I could never work there.
“Goodie. What old broad did you find for me now?” The door opened.
Abercrombie and Fich, one of your models is loose on aisle 3. The thought scrolled through my head when my charge came into view. On second inspection, my eyes caught the hint of yellowing around his left eye, the slight shake of his hand, and the several red dots. Drugs. That was the trouble he got in. Nothing heavy like coke or meth. He’d be in some high end rehab joint. Ecstasy probably. Something you can find in clubs, enough of a high to get you out of the real world into a better one.
“Are you done checking me out?” Kemper demanded.
“Was it ecstasy?” I replied. I had to know what I was dealing with.
Kemper watched me. His eyes a pale blue, his left brighter because of the yellowing bruise. He turned to his father. “Where did you find the fat cow?”
Oh hell no. No one gets treat me like that. I had those demons locked away for a reason and some spoilt brat wasn’t going to unlock their cage. “I asked you a question. Did you use X or was it something heavier?”
“Seriously. I bet there is inbreeding in this one.” Kemper’s eyes darted back at me.
I held my grin back. He was watching me, testing. I had two year-olds do the same. Time out wouldn’t work with him, so something better. A phone was laying on the edge of a workout bench. Perfect. I grabbed it and walked back in front of Mr. Finch and the brat.
“What are you doing with that?” Kemper’s tone rolled out of his mouth, but the tightening of his eyes cued his worry.
I put it in my bag. “Until I get straight answers out of you, and you apologize for being rude, it’s mine. Now answer my question.” I resisted the urge to tap my foot against the black wood floors.
Our eyes met. If he wanted to act like a two year old, I could treat him like one. His hand twitched again. He wanted his phone but was hesitant to rip my bag off me. I was probably fired at that point, but I wasn’t going to leave without making my point. This poor brat had no clue the two families’ worth of stubbornness he had just unleashed. Not to mention the temper. If I lost this stare down, I would lose every other battle with this guy.
Mr. Finch cleared his throat, breaking our battle of wills. “Shall we go to the kitchen to discuss your payment?”
He’s letting me stay? I stared at him in disbelief for a beat, then shrugged. “Sure. Lead the way.”
The kitchen was just as opulent as the rest of the house. All the appliances were shining stainless steel, without a single fingerprint and overly large, as though prepared to feed an army, not just the two inhabitants. All the visible glassware looked like crystal, but several shelves were hidden by solid wood, so the crystal was obviously just for special events.
“Stormy.” Mr. Finch broke me from my musings, pulling a seat from the table for me.
“Sorry. I’m confused.” I began, taking my seat. “I thought I was getting fired.”
“You’re the first one that hasn’t ran out on me.” Mr. Finch retrieved a pen from the steel cup on the counter and pulled his checkbook from his pocket.
I shifted in my seat. “He’s not… well… I’ve handled two year-olds with the same problem. Have you considered that he’s just spoilt?”
“He is a spoiled brat, but he is my son, and I want him to learn how to appreciate what he has.” Mr. Finch ceded. “You seem straightforward enough to put him in his place.”
“Wouldn’t an older professional be better? He obviously had a drug problem. I’m not sure I’m qualified.” I wanted to slap myself. Here was a job and I was trying to get out of it.
“I think that makes you more than qualified.” He caught my worried expression and steepled his fingers. “All I want you to do is watch him, and make him live like a normal person. And make sure he stays away from drugs.”
“You want him to live like a normal person in a house this size?”
“As much as possible. You will have help, his temporary guardian Charlie. The both of you will be in charge of his allowance and activities as well as getting him used to public school.”
Footsteps in the doorway alerted us to Kemper. His jaw was clenched and his hands fidgeted together. “I’m sorry I called you a fat cow and said there was inbreeding in your family. Can I have my phone back now?”
I pulled the device from my bag and placed it in his hand. “See was that so hard?”
“Like pulling teeth.” He replied and left the room.
Maybe there’s hope for him yet. But there was one thing I needed to know before I agreed. “What’s my pay?”
“$200 a day, no matter the hours, plus bonuses during the holidays. As well as meals, whatever updates you need on your technology and health insurance.” Mr. Finch slid a piece of paper in front of me. “You’ll need to sign a nondisclosure agreement. It’s just a precaution to keep the paparazzi and fans away.”
So he had noticed my iPhone 5s clutched in my hand. I ignored the jab and focused on the contract. “Nondisclosure? I’m sorry, but who is your son?”
His eyebrows quirked up an inch. “You really have no clue?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. But you will have to be prepared. Even in this little of a town I’m sure someone will recognize him and it’s your job to keep him from getting a big head.” He placed a pen on the center of the contract. “Once you sign, you will start tomorrow, you will need to be here at 8 A.M. sharp to meet with Charlie. The both of you need to decide Kemper’s schedule and allowance.”
My hand hovered over the pen for a moment. $4,000 a month plus extra? What the hell. I grabbed the pen and signed.
Dear World: Is Anyone Listening? 