Chapter One
Candace
Oh, this feeling is decadent.
Sinful.
My hands dip back into the warm water.
My eyelids flutter closed, and the soothing sound of island music serenades me from all sides. I’m wearing an exotic lei. Oh dear, is that a handsome bloke walking my way down the beach? Tall and strapping? He’s got a coconut drink in his hand, complete with a little paper umbrella. For me?
How did I get so lucky?
An ocean breeze rustles my hair as the handsome man steps closer—and then a screech pierces the air.
Reality is a knife, slicing through the center of my blissful daydream.
“Ms. Candace! Mika just BIT ME!”
“Did not!”
My private island is stripped away as I blink my eyes open again. Ah yes, my preschool classroom. I look down at the soggy pair of poo-stained trousers I’m trying fruitlessly to rinse in the sink. There is no tropical music or ocean breeze, but there are catchy toddler tunes playing incessantly over the speakers, as well as a portable fan propped up on the counter to assist in drying this morning’s finger paintings.
I’m not on a beach; I’m on the Upper East Side.
There is no man walking toward me in the buff, kicking up sand. There hasn’t been a man for many, many moons. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I’ve forgotten which hole the penis goes in. There? NO.
Mika and Tinsley have come to join me by the sink to plead their sides of the argument.
Tinsley was playing with my toy! And I wanted it back!
He bit me!
I’ve heard this story a thousand bloody times. I know how it ends.
I leave the pooey trousers to soak in the warm water (though I know it’d be best to just incinerate them), dry my hands, and crouch between the two warring toddlers.
I’m very good at my job. I have a special touch with children, like Tinkerbell or one of the Muppets. I check Tinsley’s arms for teeth marks, and fortunately, there’s nothing much to see. I still give her a little mermaid-shaped ice pack and a big hug then force out a meek apology from Mika. Once that’s done, I draft an incident report and tack it to the outside of my door for an assistant to take to the headmistress.
The two tots hug and walk off holding hands, best pals once again.
I place my hands on my hips and peruse my classroom. Right now, the children are having free play, or as this snazzy preschool insists on calling it, “interpretive creative time”, but a quick glance at the clock tells me we’re five minutes late for our science lesson. That’s right—the parents of The Day School expect their wee children to get a real education here, not just search for boogies and mutilate Play-Doh all day.
As such, I spent ten hours of my own time over the last few days constructing a blown-up version of an atom out of papier-mâché. It’s so beautiful I could take it down to a trendy gallery in SoHo and they’d probably be able to sell it to some loaded art collector for more than my annual salary.
I’m meant to teach the toddlers what protons, neutrons, and electrons are. It’s my planned lesson for the day. A few months ago, I would have laughed at this concept. Preschoolers learning about atoms?! What about colors and letters? Ha ha ha. No. These kids already know all of that. If put to the test, they probably know more than me. I shudder at the thought. Best to keep them thinking I’m the one in charge here.
“One, two, three! Eyes on me!” I singsong. The toddlers listen quickly, loving the game. “Toys down! Hands up!” Several pairs of hands shoot up into the air, fingers wiggling with glee. “Time to pause our play and gather round the circle table. We’ve got an important science lesson to learn today.”
The Day School is the premier learning center on the Upper East Side. Parents put their children on our waitlist when they’re little more than zygotes. There is nothing they won’t do to ensure their child earns a spot here. There is no behavior too extreme. They’ve camped out on the sidewalk the night before registration day. They’ve hired private investigators to tail our headmistress. They’ve sent lavish gifts to bribe their way in. (This particular tactic I happen to really love. Please send more cookie bouquets! You won’t hear complaints from me!)
There are no limits to what these loving (read: crazy) parents will do for their children. They assume this school is the best of the best, and well…they aren’t wrong. Tuition is upwards of $40,000 a year (!), and every teacher here, including myself, has at least a master’s degree in some fancy subject related to rearing today’s youth: child development, adolescent psychology, astrophysics. The music teacher had a twenty-year run on Broadway! The chef in the cafeteria has won a James Beard award!
I don’t quite belong here. I’m not all that fancy or brilliant, just a transplant from England with a Mary Poppins accent and a mound of grad school loans (thank you, Columbia) who happened to be in the right place at the right time. A few months back, I was working as an assistant to the assistant in the 4s classroom, and then the teacher in charge of the 3s room got fired for having a scandalous affair with one of the student’s parents, which left me in a unique position.
Candace, we need you! Are you prepared to mold young minds into the leaders of tomorrow?
You mean pass out juice boxes and deal with incessant whinging? Er…I mean, sure thing!
At twenty-four, I’m the youngest teacher here. As if that’s not bad enough, my short stature and general wide-eyed fairylike demeanor don’t necessarily help my case. I look more like one of the students than one of the staff members. I’ve thought of ways to help this unfortunate circumstance: potentially dying my pale blonde hair a dark brown, wearing false glasses, trading in my Keds for no-nonsense Mary Janes. Last month, on a whim, I tried on a polyester pantsuit at Macy’s and had to hold back a scream when I saw my reflection. I thought for a moment my gran had come back from the grave to haunt me.
Lack of respect and crazed parents aside, the arrangement I’ve got going here is quite nice. The toddlers are cute and too young to realize they’ll grow up to become entitled buggers. Their parents have really set them up for it: Yates and Niles and Bronwyn and Margaux and Briggs. Their names might as well scream, We’re going to own all of New York one day! They’re signed up for ballet lessons and Mandarin lessons and piano lessons. Their eating habits are more cultured and refined than mine. They have drivers and nannies and masseuses. I’m slightly intimated by the lot of them—until one of them lets loose a fart or a burp and reminds me that they are, in fact, only three years old.
It’d be a nice life, really, working here on the weekdays, exploring the city with free time on the weekends, if I were able to swing it. Even though the school itself takes in more money than an illegal drug operation, somehow it doesn’t quite get funneled down properly to us teachers. The pay here is absolute crap, so to afford my life in New York City, I’ve had to get creative. I split a flat with two other girls I met through a Brits abroad social club. The club itself was incredibly lame—full of old geezers moaning about World War II—so the three of us bailed after the first meeting (taking some stale biscuits with us).
To make ends meet, I also work a few other odd jobs. Two nights a week, I waitress at a trendy bar called District that draws in Wall Street types—guys with big egos and big wallets. I have to wear a sort of skimpy outfit, but I usually get loads of tips, and it’s fun to take on a persona so different than the one I affect at The Day School.