Nanny Returns by Emma McLaughlin Read Free Book Online Page A

the Harvard of prep schools.”
    “X Wealth Management?” Is the name a coincidence or, in addition to leaving his family, has he also left the bank? “Any connection to Mr. X?”
    “You know him?” He cocks his chin to the side.
    “I do—I did . . .” I pause. “I knew …their son.” Which just sounds weird. “I was his nanny.”
    His head ticks back on its axis. “You were a nanny?”
    “In college. Before my master’s.”
    He balks as if I’ve revealed that a stint at the Hustler Club subsidized my BA. “Well . . .” he prevaricates, “it is an impressive family. Are you still in touch?”
    Technically? “Grayer was just over at my house yesterday.”
    “Marvelous.” That seals it. “Long-term investment in a child—that’s what we believe in here at Jarndyce.”
    “So, where did they steal you away from?” I move us along.
    “Assistant vice principal, PS 348, Nassau County.” His voice drops to a monotone reserved for admitting embarrassing facts of public record. Like when celebrities on the red carpet are probed about their latest YouTube debacle.
    “Oh, that’s great!” I exclaim with untempered gusto, the answer only making his presence here more confusing. Private schools of this caliber are like the National League or American League. There are minors and majors and strict rules. New York City heads are scouted from the top positions at the private schools of Cleveland, Boston, or Philadelphia. They are not plucked from the strawberry patches of Long Island. It’s one thing to eschew the ranks of the educational elite when choosing your consultant, it’s quite another when choosing your headmaster. “That sounds like it must have been good preparation for—”
    “The board brought me in to steer us through this transition,” he says tightly. “The old head didn’t share their vision.” He clears his throat. “Shall we go in?” He reaches out for the doorknob, a LIVESTRONG bracelet peeking out from his cuff.
    “Great!” I smile. So what Gene lacks in pedigree he makes up for in his ability to share a vision.
    We enter Ingrid’s homeroom, where the kids chat among themselves as they slouch on the rubberized floors beside empty stainless steel cases that will one day hold Bunsen burners and jarred specimens. Taking in the arrival of their headmaster, they straighten somewhat, their listless expressions perking. Across the room I spot Ingrid setting up a podium with the help of a diminutive student wearing a black straw porkpie hat. As Ingrid takes a seat, the girl lowers herself to the floor, resting her head against one of the chair’s legs like a loyal spaniel. I follow the back of Gene’s blazer as he wends over to the far wall, careful not to step on the professionally polished nails of girls lounging in black pleated miniskirts, their black over-the-knee socks flashing swaths of nubile thigh. Atop long-sleeved scallop-necked tees in a range of pastels, some have draped black cardigans or sweatshirts around their shoulders, an appliquéd crest visible in the folds. The boys sprawl among messenger bags and Apple devices in black flat-front chinos. Their white dress shirts peek out crisply from black blazers embroidered with matching crests, and the sherbet hues of their ties echo the shirts of their female classmates. Individually, a Teen Vogue spread; collectively, a little Pink Floyd.
    Gene finds a spot for us to stand by an anatomy diagram, while Ingrid approaches the podium. He turns to me, his charisma recovered. “You know, the thing about it was, Nan, my predecessor just wasn’t excited by the prospect of change. Even the new neighborhood. They sold his apartment and bought my family a condo in Chelsea.”
    “Oh, I love Chelsea,” I cheer as if he’d asked me to move in, thankful to see kids lining up at the podium, bringing this sort-of interview to a pause so I can get my bearings. To review: Shari had a baby and left, hurting Gene’s feelings and pissing