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“I don’t know.” She shrugs, continuing to paint. “I was a baby.”
“Wow, are you sure you haven’t done this before?” I look over her shoulder at her pink, glittery dog. “That looks so beautiful!”
She giggles, her eyes big. “No, I told you I have—I have not.” She stumbles over her words a little in her excitement.
“Well, maybe we should ask your dad very nicely to get you some of these to do at home. I’m sure he’d love to hang them on the refrigerator or in his office.”
“Will you come over to do them with me?” she asks hopefully and it makes my heart sink a little.
“I don’t think I can but maybe we can after school sometime if we have time.”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “What’s pissy?” she asks, changing the subject abruptly like kids often do.
“Uh, that is not a word we should really be using. That’s kind of a bad word,” I say it softly so that she knows she isn’t in trouble.
“Oh.” She stops painting and looks directly at me. “Dad said that’s what you are.”
“Ha.” I can’t hold back the half laugh, half huff.
Very classy, Mr. Vaughn. I can think of a few choice words for you myself.
“I’m sure he probably meant something else. Sometimes grown-ups say things they don’t mean when they’re mad.”
My phone dings with a text and I look down to see Mr. Vaughn’s number on my screen. I slide open the message, adding his name to my contacts before I forget.
Mr. Vaughn: Everything going okay?
I’m half tempted to respond with a comment referencing how pissy I am, but I decide against it. I look up at Daisy who yawns.
Me: Just fine. She’s starting to yawn so I will put on a show for her to fall asleep to.
Mr. Vaughn: Great. Will be leaving here within the hour. I’ll bring cash to pay you. Make sure you program my name and number into your phone.
Me: Already did, sir.
I’m hoping he can pick up on the snarky tone of my text. I’m very much a functioning adult who doesn’t need to be told what to do. I roll my eyes and reach my thumb up to turn my screen off when I see his response that sends a tingle straight through my body.
Mr. Vaughn: Good girl.
I can imagine him saying it in that deep, syrupy voice of his while he stares me down with those piercing eyes.
“All done,” Daisy says.
“Why don’t we put on a show while it dries? Does that sound like a good idea?” I ask her as I start to pick up the paints and put them away.
She nods as I usher her to the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands.
“Can we watch Scooby-Doo?” she asks, stretching her arms overhead.
“Of course we can. You know, that was my favorite cartoon when I was younger too and my mom’s. That’s where she got my name.”
She looks at me, confused. “Your name is Scooby Doo?”
“No.” I laugh. “My name is Daphne, but you call me Miss Flowers because that’s my last name. My mom loved her name when she watched the show and decided to name me Daphne as well.”
“I like that your name is Miss Flowers ’cause my name is Daisy and that’s a flower.” She climbs onto the couch as I grab a pillow and blanket for her.
“I like your name very much too.”
