Page 41 of DadBod
ELIZABETH
I’ve beena nanny now for two days, and I must say, I rather like it. Well, most parts of it. Calvin is the good part; Ryann… not so much. She’s only come down from her penthouse twice. Once to get something from the fridge, and another to grab a phone charger. She didn’t speak to me either time. I tried to get her to talk by saying, “Oh, hello, Ryann. How are you today?” She didn’t respond, unless you call glaring at me a response. I suppose it is. I didn’t let it stop me. I mean, I work with Rome. I kept right on talking. “Good. Glad to hear that. I’m good, by the way. Calvin’s great. Thanks for asking, Ryann.”
Was that a smart-ass thing to say? Absolutely. Am I sorry? Not one bit.
None of it garnered a response from the teen, but I’m going to keep trying. Maybe after a couple of weeks, she’ll get used to me being here and decide to join us. I can only hope.
“Scrambled eggs is the only thing you can cook?” Calvin asks like he really wants to know.
“Sadly, there are only a few things I can cook. Grilled cheese…”
“Yum.”
Glad to hear that. “Spaghetti sauce…”
“Yeah.”
“From a jar.”
“Oh.”
Yeah. I know. “And scrambled eggs.” I hold up a finger. “With toast.” See? Not so bad.
“Maybe my dad should give you some lessons, because it’s gonna be a long summer if you can’t cook.”
I laugh at his candid response. “I’ve survived this long; you will too.” I’m very creative when I need to be. “I can boil water and use a microwave.”
Calvin frowns.
“No worries, little man. I can follow directions on a box.”
“At least ask my dad how to make pancakes or something.” Calvin’s starting to sound a little whiny about the subject.
“Now see… there are frozen pancakes that you just zap in the microwave…”
I swear to you, the boy groans. Placing my hands on my hips, I have to ask, “Are you a food snob, Calvin James?”
“Definitely.”
Okay. Well. He’s honest. I’ll give him that.
“On that rude note.” I scrunch up my nose and give him my own frown. “Help me clean up the breakfast dishes.”
“What?” Calvin sounds surprised.
“What do you mean, ‘What?’”
“You want me to clean up?”
The two of us stare at each other for a good thirty seconds. Our version of a standoff. I speak first. “I’m not the cleaning lady. Yes, you can help me clean up.”
“Dad doesn’t––”
“Good for him. But you can help me.” I smile. “Come on, kiddo. I love having a helper when I clean. It makes it more fun.” On the counter near the fridge, there’s a fancy Bluetooth speaker that must have cost more than a month of my rent. I reach out and press the On button. On my phone, I hit my cleaning playlist. It’s filled with peppy, upbeat songs, mostly from the ’80s since that was my mom’s favorite.
“Fine.” Cal slides off his stool like it pains him.
When he rounds the large island, I hand him a clean dish towel. “I’ll wash. You dry.”