Wonderful

Connie Smith has been Stevie Wharton’s au pair for thirteen years.

Well, aur pair isn’t the right term. Not anymore anyway. Connie had taken the job, as an American, to work for one half of the Wharton family while they lived in Spain. Stevie was only five when their parents had divorced, and Mrs. Wharton, the busy socialite, needed all the assistance she could get in raising her little girl. Fearing that her daughter would lose her American heritage (no, really) Mrs. Wharton looked for an American nanny, and, after going through five, found Connie fresh out of college. Connie, looking for a job to live on until her writing career took off, accepted. Who would reject an opportunity to live in Spain, just to take care of a kid? Besides, it would only be temporary, right?

Except it wasn’t. Thirteen years and one move to New York later and Connie had practically raised Stevie. With Mr. Wharton in Los Angeles and Mrs. Wharton traveling all the time, it was up to Connie to bring Stevie up as a functioning adult.

Well, Stevie is eighteen now and Connie is, for the most part, proud of the way Stevie turned out.

For the most part.

~~~

“Are you nervous, sweetie?”

Stevie looks sharply from her food and gives Connie a glare. Connie raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous?” she asks, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, which it is, because it’s just the first day of her second semester of her last year of high school. Just because she’d had a panic attack before the first day of the fall semester doesn’t mean she was going to have one now.

“Just curious.” Connie swoops in to pick up Stevie’s now empty plate. “Besides, you just ate that omelet in ten seconds flat.

“Did not,” Stevie huffs, checking the contents of her book bag for at least the thirteenth time in twenty-four hours.

“Don’t try to argue with me’ it’s too early for this and I’m getting too old. Now go on and brush your teeth before Mickey comes to pick you up.”

“You’re thirty-five,” Stevie says over her shoulder as she makes her way to the bathroom. “Stop talking like you’re sixty-five.”

Despite the fact that she is being treated like a five-year-old, Stevie doesn’t argue. Maybe Connie’s right and she is a little nervous, but she’s also incredibly relieved. There’s so much more to do in the next five months - exams, projects, prom - but there’s also the things she doesn’t have to worry about anymore. All of her college applications had been sent, and despite how much she wants to see the acceptance/rejection letters already, that is one thing she can’t control, so she has to let it go. She’s almost out of the hell hole that is high school, and she couldn’t be more excited.

So, with her teeth brushed, her uniform pressed, and her back ramrod straight, she heads out of the loft.

“Hold on a second,” Connie says, just as Steve opens the door. Stevie stops and turns to Connie, fully expecting the hug she’s enveloped in a few seconds later. “Take care of yourself,” Connie whispers in her ear and lets go.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later,” Stevie says, heading out.

She shares an elevator with the busy businesswoman from the eighteenth floor, hops off, and her driver, Mickey, is parked and wiping the hood of the car when Stevie gets out of the building.

Mickey has been Stevie’s driver since she was seven, ever since he had started losing his hair at the tender age of twenty-eight. He and Connie are the only constants in Stevie’s life, the only ones who she can count on to be there during her piano recitals.

“Hello, Mickey,” Stevie says, hopping inside the car.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mickey says, taking his attention from the hood of the car. His “traditional New York accent” shines through. He hopes into the driver’s seat and asks, “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, trying to stay even a little bit peppy. “How was your trip to Long Beach, Mickey?”

“It was great! The kids say thanks for their presents. Sarah made you a card.” Mickey hands Stevie a card with the hand that’s not on the steering wheel. It’s made out of pink construction paper, and on the front of the card is a big purple heart withe the word “Stevie” in glitter. Inside, in childish but neat scrawl is a “thank you” for the dollhouse that Stevie had picked for Mickey’s daughter Sarah.

“Tell her this is the nicest card I’ve ever gotten,” Stevie says, putting the card safely in her book bag. It’s not a lie, either. It’s kind of the only card she’s ever gotten; she’s not counting the cards her grandmother had been giving her for her birthday every year for eighteen years.

“Martha was asking about you. You could’ve come along, you know. The kids love you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have wanted to impose. Besides, Mother and Father wanted me to visit.”

“How was that?”

“Great. Busy.” That’s all Stevie says, but it’s understood, by both of them, that what she really means is “Mother left me to wander Paris on my own for five days as she mingled with her rich friends. Then, Father spent our time together in L.A. meeting clients while I went to the Paley Center multiple times.”

“Glad you had fun.”

They’re pulling up to the front of the school building, and Stevie pulls out her little compact mirror. She checks, well, everything. After making sure that nothing is out of place, she puts it away. “Thank you, Mickey,” she says, sliding toward the door.

“Have a nice day,” Mickey says as she opens the door and hops out. She watches him drive away and then turns to look at the very old building of St. Augustine Private Academy.

Stevie rolls back her shoulders, puts on her signature cold expression, and makes her way up the stone steps to the double doors of the school. There’s a group of guys hanging out beside the door, laughing, when they see Stevie. One of them immediately pushes the others aside and opens the door for her.

“Thank you,” she mutters, not even cracking a smile.