Rebecca
I check the clock on my phone for the fifteenth time, smudging the screen with my thumb. Six minutes until I meet Megan for the first time.
I am nervous. I am scared. What if she hates me?
I've changed shirts three times and have spent more time on my hair than I did for the last three weeks combined, and it still falls limp at the roots, frizzing at the ends. There are two mugs on my desk, both half full, both cold. "Chill out," I mutter, but the words do nothing to slow the jitters.
She's eight. Just a kid. Chances are, she'll find me dull, file me in the drawer labeled "Adults Who Make Dumb Jokes," and get on with her life. Still, the pressure sits heavy and cold. I have no experience being the person a child wants to see. I mostly deal with children who've been conditioned to crave Miss Rebecca's stickers and the promise of extra Lego time.
