Laken
We regret to inform you that you have not made it to the second round of interviews for an internship at Tate & Cane Enterprises. While your skills are impressive, there were candidates with qualifications more suited to our immediate needs. Please feel free to reapply in the future.
Increasing my pace across the snotty Upper East Side neighborhood in New York City, I ball the form letter in my hand and toss it into the nearest trashcan. Of course, I’ll reapply. The three previous attempts were just a practice run for the main event. No sweat. Fourth time’s the charm, right?
Wrong.
Fourth time will be a repeat performance of the epic failure that would soon be my professional career. After four years of undergrad and two years of busting my ass in graduate school at NYU, it’s now obvious I’ll live out the rest of my days as a nanny for Satan’s mistress. Even sucking up to Olivia Cane’s sister at NYU did nothing to advance me up the corporate food chain.
Growing up, adults feed us all the same line of crap, and we fall victim to the biggest lie told on the face of the Earth.
You can be anything so long as you work for it.
Bullshit. I aced all the tests. I brought home all the medals. I was praised with the honors, and where did it get me? Hoofing it up the steps to the most hateful bitch in Manhattan. All the pie in the sky ideals I’d been force-fed by the authority figures of my youth backfired when I’d graduated college and had nothing to show for all that work but a stack of rejection letters.
It’s always the same song and dance.You’re overqualified, Miss Cavanaugh. You’re underqualified, Miss Cavanaugh. You don’t have enough experience, Miss Cavanaugh. You’re wearing blue today, Miss Cavanaugh. You don’t have a dick, Miss Cavanaugh.
Okay, I may have made that last one up, but still. You get how unfair it is, right?
Pressing the numbered code to the massive wrought iron gate that leads to the estate I’d nicknamed Bitchtopia, I laugh at the irony that’s my life. The interesting thing about where I’ve ended up career-wise is that I’m not particularly fond of children. I’ve never had any desire for my own. However, when I don’t have my nose shoved in a book, I spend most of my time babysitting the kid fromJerry McGuire.
Okay, he’s notreallythe kid fromJerry McGuire. That would be super creepy and a little disturbing considering that kid has to have a couple years on me, at least. He sure as hell looks like him though. What the hell is that actor’s name? Jonathan somebody?
And what a great movie line about her completing him.
Actually, it isn’t a great line. That line gives women unrealistic expectations of love and commitment. Screw you, Tom Cruise. Screw you and your meaningless bullshit. Renee Zellweger should’ve never fallen for that crap. The woman had a good, stable job with a respectable company, and just because old Tommy boy gave a rousing speech that stirred up her lady bits, she up and quit to work in a broom closet?
No, thank you.
I can’t help the involuntary eye roll as I climb the marble steps leading to the front porch. Front porch? Do four-million-dollar homes even have front porches, or is there some rich, pretentious name for them like podiatry landing plateaus? Rich people are funny like that.
Thankfully, my eyes stop rolling for a second time before the door opens and dressed in a crisp, battleship gray maid uniform, Lollie forces a tight smile of sympathetic comradery on me. It means only one thing.
Oh shit. Lady of Bitchtopia is home.
“Seriously?” Dropping my head back, I shake it and sigh dramatically.
Lollie just nods, the corners of her eyes pulling down with worry as she wrings her hands. “I tried to warn you, but you didn’t answer your texts.”
In the year that I’d sold my soul to the devil, Lollie had become a sounding board for my disdain of all things Hammerle. She shares my opinions, yet remains less vocal, happy for me to take the lead in the Lady Hammerle character roasts. She’s a little skittish of any blowback, which I guess I understand considering she lives with the woman and depends on her for things like shelter and not being smothered in the middle of the night.
And can we please talk about the name Lady Hammerle for a minute? Who the hell decided she was aLady? The woman has no blood ties to royalty whatsoever, and if she’s British, I’m a Transformer.
I pat the canvas backpack on my shoulder. “Turned it off. I didn’t want to deal with any more inquiries from home.”
Her face falls as she smooths the gray-streaked hair in her tightly pulled bun. “Oh, dear, another rejection?”
Groaning, I roll my eyes again, something that’s become a habit these days, when a shrill voice from inside the house carries through the foyer and invades my ears.
“Preston Bartholomew Kingsford Hammerle! What is this vile thing?”
I wince at hearing his full name.
Did she want him to get his ass kicked?
Preston’s little six-year-old voice floats past my ears. “It’s a butterfly rainbow, Mama. I made it for you.”
She grunts, the loathing in her voice balling my fist on instinct. “Ugh, they’re dead and disgusting. Get that thing away from me.”
