We had been working for nearly five hours. Since the count of one, I’d been sitting with my head in my hands and eyes closed. Bane had yet to notice; he was too engrossed in re-checking the grammatical mistakes in some freshman’s prose. I’d been playing this little game with myself all afternoon, to see just how long it would take my editor to notice this each time. Over one thousand was record breaking.
One thousand twenty-two, one thousand twenty-three, one thousand twenty-four…
“Alright, this one is done, on to the next.” Huh, almost thought that I’d lost there, but Bane was just talking to himself. He’s the biggest nut I’ve ever met, in that respect. But then again, I was pretending to be asleep instead of working on the school laptop that Ms. Moreno had only been too happy to let us take to Bane’s house, once we’d explained the situation.
One thousand thirty-five, one thousand thirty-six, one thousand—“Deirdre?” Blast.
I opened my eyes to meet Bane’s stressed glare. His level of panic had increased exponentially with every passing day—it was now Friday, and Monday was his self-imposed deadline. In his ultimate insanity, he wanted to go to school tomorrow (I was included in this plan, by the way) to print everything. I may have been the resident basket case, but Bane was stark raving mad.
“Are you working?” I nodded once, and turned my fingers to the keyboard. As production manager, I was supposed to pull all the poems and things together, and Bane had relinquished the duty in its entirety. He didn’t even demand to see my pages as I completed them, like Liz had last year. Somehow he knew that layout was my area of expertise.
He groaned. “You type so slowly.” It practically drove Bane up the wall that I kept speed to a minimum. “Seriously, Deirdre, you’re like a tortoise. At this rate, you’ll never get anything done.” Huh, he’d called me by name. That meant he was actually angry.
“Done,” I muttered triumphantly. My timing could not have been better.
Bane turned a bit blue. I sincerely hoped I hadn’t killed him, even though he more or less was the bane of my existence. “You’re—you’re done?” he choked. I nodded. “But, but, how can you possibly be done? I have things still to go in.”
How questions were tricky. They usually required several sentences worth of explanation. “I have spaces set aside for them,” I muttered. Something I’d never really noticed about myself before—the longer I’m going to have to talk, the quieter my voice gets. There was one notable outburst, er, exception to this. “I have the original drafts, and left room accordingly.”
At this, I flounced (well, if I knew how to move that quickly or jerkily, I would have flounced) over to the piano, where I spent every minute of my free time at Bane’s. I let the notes come as they wished, mind racing in the background to last year’s AP Music Theory class, which told me what would sound good, and what simply wouldn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t as complex as something composed by someone brilliant, but it didn’t sound atrocious.
Just then, Natalie climbed up onto the seat next to me. “Hey, Deirdre,” she chirped. According to Bane, Natalie really liked me. And I could believe it; every time I was there, she talked to me. Once, she brought me a cookie. Apparently this is a seven-year-old way of showing affection for your older brother’s subordinate.
More than that, I liked Natalie. I hadn’t ever spoken to her, but she seemed to be okay with that. In fact, I think she liked the fact that I listened, and let her blather on about whatever her sweet, seven-year-old mind came up with.
Now, I just continued with my unplanned playing as she chatted at me. “I was going to go over my friend Susie’s house tonight, but then Mommy had a meeting, so I can’t go. And Bane is working all the time, so Mommy said that maybe you would play with me, and I really, really want you to, Deirdre.”
I opened my eyes. “What?” I asked.
Natalie giggled. “You talked. You never talk, silly Deirdre. But Mommy said that I can’t talk to you about it until she does.” She jumped down from the bench and flounced off. That is flouncing, Deirdre of the Sorrows. Take notes.
Some hours later, Mrs. Morrison came home. Since I had finished, my playing had only been interrupted briefly, when Bane finished doctoring a poem and needed me to put it in its place in the magazine. The whole process would have gone much more quickly if he’d only asked me to work on some—I was excellent with grammar; it had been my job to catch the mistakes sophomore year—but he didn’t ask, and I didn’t suggest it.
So, I was not actually working on the magazine when Mrs. Morrison called, “I’m home, everyone. Who’s playing the piano?” Instantly, I stopped playing, feeling like a child caught at a trick.
She stuck her head around the corner. “Oh, hello, Deirdre.” I turned to face her.
“Please don’t stop on my account. Nobody plays the piano around here anymore. What is that you were playing?”
“Nothing,” I muttered.
Bane’s mother, like her son, was irritatingly fond of trying to make me talk.
“Nonsense—it was lovely. Who composed it?”
My face turned bright red. “Me,” I whispered.
She clapped her hands together. I could see where Bane got his gesturing tendencies. “That’s so impressive! Please, play more!” So, of course, I played my nocturne. I couldn’t come up with something on demand like that.
When I was done, she clapped, like I was her eight year old at a first piano recital, or something. Now, don’t get me wrong; if I actually liked people (as Bane had so kindly pointed out earlier) I would really like Mrs. Morrison. But the clapping was unnecessary and embarrassing.
When she was done, she came over and sat next to me on the bench. “That was lovely, dear.” Yes, she’d already said that. “It’s so nice to have someone playing around here. You’re such a nice friend for Bane.” I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but we’re not friends, lady. I kind of hate your son. I tolerate him, but I don’t like him. “And the girls love you.” Point? “I was wondering if—and if you don’t want to, or if you have plans, don’t worry, because I can get Bane to do it—if you would babysit the girls tonight.”
Maybe the entire Morrison family had a bizarre brain parasite that had eaten all their common-sense cells. I mean, I’m the last person I’d ever want near my kids. I don’t think Aunt Mo ever even let me babysit Jack when he was littler.
Natalie came running around the corner, her socks slipping on the hardwood floor.
She vaulted up into my lap, throwing her arms around my neck. “Please say yes,” she whispered into my ear. “We’ll have so much fun, and we can play with my dolls, and watch TV, and I’ll show you how to make cookies, and it will be so much fun. Say yes, Deirdre, please!”
“Natalie!” her mother scolded, laughing in the “children…what are you going to do?” sort of way. “Let Deirdre decide for herself.”
“Yes, Mommy,” Natalie said, looking far too innocent. “Linnie wants you to stay too,” she whispered to me.
“Natalie!” Mrs. Morrison insisted. Natalie jumped down, and ran out of the room.
She gave me a kind smile. “She’s right, though. The girls adore you. And I would pay you, of course.” They must all be out of their blessed minds. Fortifying my college fund was an appealing prospect, though.
I nodded. “You will?” Mrs. Morrison asked, sounding delighted. I really don’t understand what this family likes about me. I nodded again. “Oh, thank you so much, Deirdre! I mean, Bane might be around, but I hate that he’s responsible for the girls all the time, and I don’t know anyone else to ask, around here.”
“Deirdre!” Bane suddenly shouted from the kitchen. “Calamity! Get in here before everything goes to dust!”
Mrs. Morrison grinned. “And I think Bane would be a mess without you.”
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