The Met

The Guggenheim Soho

The Morgan Library

The French Culinary Institute

The Swedish Consulate

Orchid Room of the Botanical Garden

New York Stock Exchange Trading Floor

The Angelika (Preferably the German Expressionist series, but anything with subtitles will do.)

I shrug and open the envelope, thrilled to discover that despite only working two hours, she's paid me for the whole day. The Envelope is a major perk of being a nanny. Traditionally, we're kept off the books and dealt with strictly in cash, which always keeps me hoping she'll stick in an extra twenty. A girl I knew lived-in with a family whose father slipped a few hundred dollars under her door whenever his wife drank too much and "caused a scene." It's like
waiting tables-you just never know when the customer might be overwhelmed with appreciation.

"Caitlin? Hi, I'm Nanny," I say. Mrs. X told me that my colleague is blond and Australian, which makes her fairly easy to pick out amid the sea of faces that have had work done and the faces that are doing the work. I recognize her from the Xes' photo session in the park.

She looks up from where she sits on the school steps, sensibly outfitted in an Izod shirt and jeans, a sweatshirt tied round her waist. She's holding Grayer's apple juice in her right hand with the straw already in it. I'm impressed.

Just as she stands to return my greeting, our charge and his classmates are released by his teacher and the courtyard becomes instantly animated. Grayer comes streaking through the crowd toward Caitlin, but screeches to a halt when he sees me, his enthusiasm visibly draining out through his Keds.

"Grayer, Nanny'll be coming to the park with us this afternoon-won't that be fun?" I sense from her tone that she isn't quite convinced we're in for a laugh riot. "He's always a bit cranky when school lets out, but he gets over it fine once he's had his snack."

"I'm sure."

It is chaos around us as children are snacked and play dates are made. I'm impressed by the finesse with which she works Grayer from snack to stroller to good-byes. He maintains screaming conversation with three of his classmates while getting a sweater put on, a Baggie opened, homework unpinned from his lapel, and a stroller strapped under him. She's like a puppeteer, keeping the play in motion. I debate taking notes. "Right hand on stroller handle, left hand pull down sweater, two steps left and squat."

We head toward the park as they chatter away. She propels him forward with ease, though he can't be a light load with his sand toys, school stuff, and backup supplies of snack.

"Grayer, who's your best friend at school?" I ask.

"Shut up, stupidhead," he says, kicking out at my shins. I walk the remainder of the way well outside his field of stroller vision.

After lunch Caitlin takes me around to meet the other nannies in the playground, most of whom are Irish, Jamaican, or Filipino. They each give me a quick, cold appraisal and I get the sense I won't be making a lot of friends here.

"So what do you do during the week?" she asks suspiciously.

"I'm a senior at NYU," I say.

"I couldn't figure out how she found someone who only wanted to work weekends." What? Weekends what?

She reties her ponytail while she continues. "I'd do it, but I wait tables on the weekends and, really, one needs a bit of a break by Friday. I thought they had a girl who worked weekends in the country, but I guess she didn't work out. Are you planning on driving out with them to Connecticut on Friday nights or taking the train?" She looks pointedly at me as I stare back at her in confusion.

Then it is suddenly clear to both of us why we aren't meant to discuss the "transition." I'm not the pinch hitter, I'm the replacement. A sadness flickers over her features.

I reach to change the subject. "So, what's with the card?"

"Oh, that grotty old thing." She swallows. "He carries it everywhere. He'll be wanting it pinned to his trousers and in his pajamas. It drives the Mrs. crazy, but he refuses to so much as put on his underpants without it." She blinks a few times and then turns away.

We make it full circle back to the sandbox where another family, who I assume from their matching shell suits and overwhelming zest for life are tourists, is playing.

"He's so cute. Is he your only child?" the mother asks in a flat Midwestern accent. I'm twenty-one. He's four.

"No, I'm his-"

"I told you to get out of here, you bad woman!" Grayer hurls his stroller at me, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Blood rushes to my face as I retort with false confidence, "You ... silly!" The tourist clan focus intently on a group sand-castle project.

I consider taking a playgroun

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