time.”
A.M. grinned and waited for the requisite chuckle. “I have the results in this envelope. If I call your name, you are still in the running for
Platinum Nanny
. Take one of these from me”— A.M. held up a platinum star—“and proceed to the ballroom. If not,
ciao
.”
A.M. waited a pregnant beat, then opened a sealed platinum envelope. “The first contestant still in the running for
Platinum
Nanny
is . . . Veronique.”
The young French woman didn’t look at all surprised as she slid off her stool, took a platinum star, and headed out the door.
Figures,
Kiley thought. Veronique was already a professional nanny. Plus, she had TV-friendly breasts. Four more names.
Cindy Wu.
Steinberg.
Oh God. Kiley felt as if she was going to barf. Now it was just Tamika, Jimmy, and her.
“Tamika.”
The black girl looked stunned; after spraining her ankle, she hadn’t even finished the obstacle course.
“This isn’t
Survivor,
” A.M. explained. “Don’t
ever
assume you know who will stay and who will go, because it’s all up to Platinum.” She eyed Kiley and Jimmy, who was grasping his muscular thighs in a death grip. “Our final possible Platinum Nanny is . . .”
Please, please, please . . .
“Kiley McCann.”
Kiley sagged with relief. Jimmy didn’t bother with goodbyes; he just shuffled off, a camera following him to record his misery. Kiley didn’t feel bad about it, either, because Jimmy was a jerk. Then she hugged a still lingering Tamika, the contestant she felt closest to, and practically danced out of the room. She was one step closer to her goal, Scripps, the ocean. It was definitely worth celebrating. And as much as she loved her mom, watching TV with her in the hotel suite that night was not going to cut it.
Clubbing. With those girls she’d met. Hell, yes. Now all she had to do was convince her mom to let her go.
18
ADOPTION GIFTS
Two bilingual Lizzie dolls with outfits designed by Stella
McCartney. From: Governor Schwarzenegger and Maria
Shriver.
Two remote-control Robosapiens. From: Uncle Ivan and
Aunt Deborah.
Two Discovery Sky & Land telescopes. From: Jennifer
Garner.
Two Lullabye Baby 34-inch Gund stuffed bears. From:
Peter Engel.
Two pink Nanette girls’ faux leather jacket-and-jeans
three-piece sets. From: the staff at Spago.
The list went on, and on, and on. Esme sat on the living room couch of her guesthouse, writing thank-yous to famous people who had already sent adoption gifts to Diane and Steve. Writing to these famous people was surreal, but remarkably boring. Diane had dictated onto a tape what she wanted written. Esme had to listen to the cassette, write it out, and leave space for Diane’s signature. A ten-year-old with neat printing could do what she was doing.
Over the past two days, the gifts had come piling in: it seemed like there was always a messenger’s car or FedEx truck barreling through the broken front gate and up the driveway. There were more than fifty names and gifts on Esme’s list; she’d written six thank-yous so far.
The bird in the old-fashioned cuckoo clock on the wall startled her with its call. But the time was wrong. So Esme got up, stretching a kink in her back, to take it off the wall.
She opened the back of the clock and examined the works— old clock oil had gummed up its movement. She unearthed a bottle of ammonia she’d seen under the kitchen sink and poured a little into a dish. Then she added water, got some cotton swabs and cuticle oil from the bathroom, and carried it all back into the living room.
There, she dipped a swab into the improvised cleaning solution and dabbed at the thick oil, lost in thought. This new life seemed part of an alternate universe. What was she doing in this magnificent guesthouse, writing thank-yous to people she knew from television and in the movies because her boss had told her to do it? Taking a job because her mother told her to take it? Because Junior told her it would be good for her?
A.M. grinned and waited for the requisite chuckle. “I have the results in this envelope. If I call your name, you are still in the running for
Platinum Nanny
. Take one of these from me”— A.M. held up a platinum star—“and proceed to the ballroom. If not,
ciao
.”
A.M. waited a pregnant beat, then opened a sealed platinum envelope. “The first contestant still in the running for
Platinum
Nanny
is . . . Veronique.”
The young French woman didn’t look at all surprised as she slid off her stool, took a platinum star, and headed out the door.
Figures,
Kiley thought. Veronique was already a professional nanny. Plus, she had TV-friendly breasts. Four more names.
Cindy Wu.
Steinberg.
Oh God. Kiley felt as if she was going to barf. Now it was just Tamika, Jimmy, and her.
“Tamika.”
The black girl looked stunned; after spraining her ankle, she hadn’t even finished the obstacle course.
“This isn’t
Survivor,
” A.M. explained. “Don’t
ever
assume you know who will stay and who will go, because it’s all up to Platinum.” She eyed Kiley and Jimmy, who was grasping his muscular thighs in a death grip. “Our final possible Platinum Nanny is . . .”
Please, please, please . . .
“Kiley McCann.”
Kiley sagged with relief. Jimmy didn’t bother with goodbyes; he just shuffled off, a camera following him to record his misery. Kiley didn’t feel bad about it, either, because Jimmy was a jerk. Then she hugged a still lingering Tamika, the contestant she felt closest to, and practically danced out of the room. She was one step closer to her goal, Scripps, the ocean. It was definitely worth celebrating. And as much as she loved her mom, watching TV with her in the hotel suite that night was not going to cut it.
Clubbing. With those girls she’d met. Hell, yes. Now all she had to do was convince her mom to let her go.
18
ADOPTION GIFTS
Two bilingual Lizzie dolls with outfits designed by Stella
McCartney. From: Governor Schwarzenegger and Maria
Shriver.
Two remote-control Robosapiens. From: Uncle Ivan and
Aunt Deborah.
Two Discovery Sky & Land telescopes. From: Jennifer
Garner.
Two Lullabye Baby 34-inch Gund stuffed bears. From:
Peter Engel.
Two pink Nanette girls’ faux leather jacket-and-jeans
three-piece sets. From: the staff at Spago.
The list went on, and on, and on. Esme sat on the living room couch of her guesthouse, writing thank-yous to famous people who had already sent adoption gifts to Diane and Steve. Writing to these famous people was surreal, but remarkably boring. Diane had dictated onto a tape what she wanted written. Esme had to listen to the cassette, write it out, and leave space for Diane’s signature. A ten-year-old with neat printing could do what she was doing.
Over the past two days, the gifts had come piling in: it seemed like there was always a messenger’s car or FedEx truck barreling through the broken front gate and up the driveway. There were more than fifty names and gifts on Esme’s list; she’d written six thank-yous so far.
The bird in the old-fashioned cuckoo clock on the wall startled her with its call. But the time was wrong. So Esme got up, stretching a kink in her back, to take it off the wall.
She opened the back of the clock and examined the works— old clock oil had gummed up its movement. She unearthed a bottle of ammonia she’d seen under the kitchen sink and poured a little into a dish. Then she added water, got some cotton swabs and cuticle oil from the bathroom, and carried it all back into the living room.
There, she dipped a swab into the improvised cleaning solution and dabbed at the thick oil, lost in thought. This new life seemed part of an alternate universe. What was she doing in this magnificent guesthouse, writing thank-yous to people she knew from television and in the movies because her boss had told her to do it? Taking a job because her mother told her to take it? Because Junior told her it would be good for her?
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