Nannying 101—remember the details.
“But you’re on holiday.”
She groaned. “Tell my Maman that.” Taking a sip of lemonade, she flinched and shuddered. “More sugar next time.”
“Sorry. I told you… I can’t cook.”
She nodded, tickling the cat under the chin.
I waved her notebook in the air. “So, what exactly does your mum have you doing?”
She sighed. “It’s a project. It’s for a special commendation from my school’s chancellor.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “In plain English, please.”
“It’s to earn extra credit.”
“Ah, gotcha.” I ran my palm over Bean’s back. “What’s the credit for?”
“It’s a contest. The entire class does it, and the winning essay grants the writer entry into the Programme Polaris.”
I blinked. “It sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie.”
Sophie scoffed. “It’s an advanced study track forexceptional students.” She said the last bit like a school principal or a politician. “I have to write an original essayin Englishon a theme.”
Her explanation sounded so fancy. My gut pulled. So, itwasmy English skills Maxime was after. No wonder he’d imposed a speak only English rule. He was running an immersion therapy program of his own. Getting Sophie into the “zone”.
I’d happilyspeak English ‘til the cows came home, but with dyslexia, the thought of helping Sophiewriteher essay formed a lump of concrete in the pit of my stomach.
“What does this Polaris thing get you? A seat on the UN council? A ticket on the first shuttle to Mars?”
She smiled. “Nothing so exciting. Early university credit, one-on-one mentoring, and recommendations from the school.”
“So, it’s quite important then.” My voice was a ‘barely there’whisper. Its volume matched my plummeting mood.
“My mother’s obsessed with it. She thinks it’s my golden ticket to Oxford University at sixteen.”
Oxford was one of Britain’s top universities. That meant the essay was super-important. But when Sophie furrowed her brow, I went for my usual fix-up:humour. “Sixteen? To Oxford? Oh, I wouldn’t go there.”
She eyed me with suspicion. “Why?”
“You’d never get a moment to study. Too many eager young men offering to throw you in a boat and punt you up and down the river. It can get as busy as Venice on a weekend. You’d get no work done.”
As I spoke, I adopted a strong-but-silent expression, borrowed from the covers of a million historical romance novels. I mimed the action of punting up a river.
She giggled—actually giggled—and my heart leapt. Had I found a crack in her veneer? The smallest thawing in her often-icy facade.
“I’m sorry I haven’t helped so far, but I’m here now. Locked, loaded, and ready for action.” I wasn’t sure how much use I’d be, but surely just knowing I was in her corner was a positive thing. I could supply emotional-support, hot chocolates and help her with anything she needed—backed by my trustyGrammarlyapp.
She tipped her head and looked at the open notebook in my hand. “I hope you can read my handwriting.”
Glancing down at her page of notes, I hoped so, too. I gave her a sunny smile. “And if I can’t, I’ll get myself some reading glasses. I’m not getting any younger. Just a few years away from grey hair and wrinkles.”
If only it were that simple. I’d used the reading glasses excuse before, more times than I could count. It was easier thanexplaining that my brain didn’t behave the way most people’s did around words.
Sophie searched my eyes, her stare like twin lasers searing into my soul. I swallowed. Her frown was textbook Maxime. The two could partner up as world class interrogators. Neither could be the good cop, though.
“Okay, let’s get to work, then,” she said, pulling a pen out from under a cushion. “You read through my notes. I’m still in the brainstorming stage, but it’s taking shape.”
