The Genius's Nanny

"You're fired." The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, like the smell of stale coffee that permanently permeated the grey carpeting of the office. I blinked, my hands tightening around the strap of my tote bag. It was a reflex. "I... excuse me?" Mr. Geller sighed. He didn't look angry. He didn't look malicious. He looked bored. He took a sip from his mug—World’s Best Boss printed on the side in ironic, chipping font—and gestured vaguely at the open spreadsheet on his monitor. "It’s not about your performance, Macy," he said, his voice flat. "It’s the budget. Corporate is tightening the belt. Last quarter’s numbers were abysmal, and we have to trim the fat. Unfortunately, the Junior Graphic Design Assistant position is... well, it’s fat." Fat. I was fat. Not physically—I was actually too thin because I’d been skipping dinner to save money for new drawing tablet nibs—but metaphorically. I was excess. Unnecessary. "Mr. Geller, please," I said, my voice trembling. I hated how small I sounded. I was twenty-two years old, a college graduate, and I sounded like a child asking for a hall pass. "I can’t lose this job. My rent is due in a week. I have loans. I’ll take a pay cut. I’ll work fewer hours. Please, just... don't let me go." Mr. Geller finally looked at me. Really looked at me. His eyes were sympathetic, but in that distant, corporate way that meant he had already made up his mind before I even walked into the room. "HR has prepared your severance package. It’s two weeks' pay," he said, sliding a manila envelope across the desk. "I’d suggest you take the rest of the day to pack your things." I stared at the envelope. Two weeks. My life, my stability, my ability to buy groceries—all reduced to a thin, beige envelope. "Thank you, Mr. Geller," I whispered, because my mother had raised me to be polite, even when my world was ending. I walked out of the office in a daze. My cubicle—my tiny, chaotic corner of the world—looked different now. It looked like it belonged to a ghost. I grabbed a cardboard box from the supply closet and started numbly placing my things inside. My cactus (named Spike). My pink stapler. My framed diploma from the Art Institute, which I had so proudly displayed on my first day. Bachelor of Arts in Animation and Visual Storytelling. I traced the gold seal on the paper. A lot of good it did me now. I wanted to be a cartoonist. I wanted to tell stories, to draw characters that made people laugh and cry. Instead, I had spent the last six months formatting spreadsheets and adjusting the brightness on stock photos of corporate handshakes. And now, I couldn't even do that. "Rough day?" I looked up. It was Sarah from accounting. She was holding a donut. "I got fired," I said simply. Sarah grimaced. "Oof. Sorry, honey. Tough market out there." She took a bite of her donut and walked away. That was it. I was gone. ★ The next three months were a blur of rejection emails and instant noodles. I treated finding a job like... well, like a job. Every morning, I woke up at 7:00 AM in my tiny apartment. I made a cup of cheap instant coffee, sat at my desk, and opened my laptop. I applied to everything. Lead Character Designer. (Rejected: "We decided to go with a candidate with 10+ years experience.") Storyboard Artist. (Rejected: "Your style is too 'cute' for our current gritty reboot project.") Freelance Illustrator. (Ghosted.) I even tried to pivot. I applied to be a cashier at the grocery store. I applied to walk dogs. I applied to wash dishes. But the economy was in the toilet, and apparently, even dishwashing was a competitive field. My savings account, which had never been robust to begin with, was now flashing red warnings at me. Balance: $12.43. I stared at the screen, resting my chin on my crossed arms. "I’m going to lose the apartment," I told the empty room. My apartment was small, but I loved it. I had painted the walls a soft cream color. I had my drawing desk set up by the window where the light was good. I had my little collection of plushies—a panda, a strawberry, a little round chick—lined up on my bed. They were my audience. My silent, supportive friends. But plushies didn't pay the landlord. And my landlord, Mr. Russo, was not a plushie. He was a man with a very loud voice and very little patience. Maybe I should just move back home. The thought made my stomach twist. Going back to my parents' house meant admitting defeat. It meant listening to my dad say, I told you art was a hobby, Macy. I told you to study nursing. No. I couldn't do that. I would rather starve. Which, coincidentally, was currently happening. I needed air. I put on my oversized hoodie—the one with the little bear ears on the hood that I only wore when I was sad—and headed out. The park near my apartment was usually my happy place. It was autumn, and the trees were exploding in shades of burnt orange and gold. Usually, I would bring my sketchbook here. I would sit on a bench and draw the people walking by—the old couple holding hands, the guy struggling with three dogs, the kids chasing pigeons. I would turn them into cartoons, giving them big eyes and silly expressions. Today, I didn't bring my sketchbook. I just sat on the cold metal bench and watched the world spin without me. A wind blew past, scattering dead leaves across my sneakers. I shivered, tucking my hands into my pockets. Bzzzt. My phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it out, frowning. The screen was cracked—a casualty of the time I dropped it running to catch a bus I still missed. Unknown Number. My heart skipped a beat. Was it a job application? Did the gallery finally call back about my portfolio submission? I slid my thumb across the screen. "Hello? This is Macy." "Ms. Macy Choi?" The voice was female, crisp, and sounded expensive. It was the kind of voice that wore a blazer. "Yes, that's me." "This is the Harrington Estate Agency. We received your application for the live-in caregiver position." I blinked. "I... I'm sorry? Caregiver?" I hadn't applied for a caregiver position. I was sure of it. I had applied for Caricature Artist at the Zoo and Night Shift Baker, but not caregiver. "Yes," the woman continued, ignoring my confusion. "For the Vane family. We’ve reviewed your background check and your references. Mr. Vane is very particular about who he lets into the house, but your profile has been flagged as... suitable." "Suitable?" I echoed. "Ma'am, I think there’s been a mistake. I’m a cartoonist. I don't have any medical certifications or—" "The position is for a nanny, Ms. Choi. For an eleven-year-old boy. No medical certification is required. Just..." There was a pause. A strange, heavy silence on the other end of the line. "Patience. And discretion. The pay is four thousand dollars a month, plus room and board." I nearly dropped the phone. Four thousand. That was... that was everything. That was my rent paid for the next six months. That was new art supplies. That was carbonara with real pancetta, not cut-up hot dogs. "Four thousand?" I squeaked. "Can you start immediately?" My brain was screaming at me. Stranger danger! This is weird! You didn't apply for this! But my stomach growled, loud and demanding. "Yes," I heard myself say. "Yes, I can start immediately." "Excellent. A car will collect you tomorrow at 9:00 AM. Pack light, Ms. Choi. Uniforms will be provided." Click. I stared at the phone. The screen went black, reflecting my own stunned face. I had a job. I had a very high-paying job.