I abuse parentheses!

Let it forever be known that I, Beca Mitchell, do not like little kids. Especially not spoiled 5 year olds who think they're light years ahead of their time just because they have uber rich parents that live in freakin Manhattan and get the latest and greatest iPhones for Christmas every year and attend those pretentious pre-schools that required an IQ test to get into.

Ah, but exactly how did I end up babysitting one of said kids on my summer vacation? Very interesting question whose answer is basically that I needed the money. As is often said, cash is never the problem. The problem is that I never have any cash. For an 18 year old straight out of high school, average-ish grades and no notable skill sets to speak of (besides my DJ-ing talent which until now, has somehow still gone undiscovered by the likes of David Guetta and Skrillex, but I digress) money-making prospects obviously aren't that great.

But in this economy, whose is, am I right? Anyways, the bank of parentals is closed permanently because my mom's skipped town with some guy who's young enough to be my brother and my dad's living on a teacher's salary, and he also has his other family to care for, so, whatever. But after a couple of weeks of shitty less-than-minimum-wage dead end jobs that make me want to shoot myself in the head, the Stepmonster must've finally felt bad for tearing my family apart and gave me a 'hot tip' about one of her fabulously wealthy - and no doubt equally snobby to boot - Manhattan sorority sisters that needed a new babysitter for their 5 year old and that she could recommend me if I'd like.

I should've just said no, but L.A isn't a cheap city to live in and my dignity and pride have left the building the second I agreed to work at Walmart anyway, so I (begrudgingly) accepted her offer. I dumbly thought that it couldn't be that bad. If push comes to shove I can always drug the kid to sleep and just watch TV or work on my mixes the whole day. 100 dollars (Jesus, how much money do they even make!) an hour to lounge around in a mansion or penthouse doesn't sound terrible at all.

And that, kids, is the story of I ended up at the front door of a 40-year old woman who goes by the name of Cordelia and a daughter whose name is Paris on a lovely Sunday morning. 8 a.m sharp.

What kind of woman names their child Paris? Does she idolize the great Paris Hilton? Did she vacation in France and love it so much that she named her daughter after the capital city to make sure she'd never forget? Just imagining Paris having to go through the shitstorm that's high school with that name makes me feel bad for her a little. But then I remember that her parents are worth an estimated 100 million that she'll inevitably inherit and I'm instantly less sympathetic.

I knock on the door and a woman who's had just a touch too much botox, wearing an elaborate green dress comes out and looks me up and down while trying to put on an earring. Did I just stumble onto the set of Desperate Housewives, I ponder silently for a few seconds before slamming on my biggest, brightest fake smile and introduce myself, putting out my hand for her to shake.

She doesn't take it. Both hands busy with her left earring. There is a look of slight disdain in her eyes, but I will myself not to let it get to me. 100 dollars an hour. 100 dollars an hour. I chant in my head.

It's now that I realize I'm probably under-dressed. Kids like these are used to nannies from Europe with child psychology degrees from prestigious universities. I'm dressed in worn jeans, boots and a T-shirt. First impression's looking great.

She tells me that she will be gone until late in the afternoon. At 3 o'clock Paris' maths tutor will come by and I'm to let him in and not disturb their session unless it's an emergency.

I nod obediently to all the information she gives me. I have to basically treat this Paris kid like a princess and I'm her willing slave. For 100 dollars an hour.

We're in the middle of her monologue when a little girl wearing a white dress comes out with a children's book in hand, walks past me like I'm not even there into the modern kitchen. She opens the fridge, expertly grabs a carton of milk and starts pouring it into a cup before taking it back to where I'm assuming is her room and shutting the door behind her.

The only other thing she does is wave goodbye boredly at her mother on her way back to her bedroom.

All that without so much as a glance my way. Well, she seems nice. Cordelia doesn't seem to notice her daughter's hostile behavior, or perhaps she's secretly glad for it because she herself can't be? I don't know. 100 dollars an hour!

"She's a little shy at first," the woman says with fake empathy.

"It's okay. So am I."

We stand there awkwardly for another few seconds as she put on her designer heels.

"I think that's everything." I nod. "Call me if there's an emergency, but I hope there won't be, Rebecca?"

She gives me a look, so I don't tell her everyone calls me Beca. Instead I just nod again. "Absolutely not."

Then she's out the door.

And I'm left alone with Paris in this giant penthouse.

I have no idea what to do, so I just sit down and watch some TV for a bit. I figure if I leave her to her own devices, she won't have a temper tantrum. Everybody wins.

After a little while, I hear her door open and she makes her way to where I am. She's dressed in couture. A 5 year old. In couture.

"I wanna go out. There's nothing to do here," she demands expectantly.

"Uh, okay, where do you want to go?"

"I want to go to that Starbucks. Down the street."

Jesus Christ. She's not joking either. I'm not sure if I'm even supposed to give her coffee, but I don't want to call her mom.

She must've sensed the hesitation, because she sighs, "My mom and I go there all the time. I like their smoothies."

There's no reason why she'd lie, and even if she did, Cordelia doesn't seem to be the most attentive mother in the world, so it probably doesn't matter.

The air outside is very nice, it feels like wealth and power here. The walk to the Starbucks is a relatively short one. Usually I don't get my caffeine fix from here because the coffee is crap, overpriced and there are too many hipsters taking pictures of their coffees for my liking. Today, however, something inside catches my eye. No, not a something. A someone.

Now I know it's definitely a marketing strategy for coffeshops to employ cute girls and guys to work behind the counter for them. They're always friendly and have smiles on their faces. The kind that lights up the room (corny, yes, but also true). Very approachable, flirty, even, but always out of reach. It's eye-candy to keep you coming back, I'm sure. I am fully aware of these facts, but this girl is pushing the limits of cute to downright gorgeous. Red hair falling in waves that frame her face perfectly and eyes bluer than the Facebook and Twitter background combined (yeah I went there).

Oops, am I drooling.

Anyway, I make my way over to the counter and pretend to skim over the menu.

"Hi, what can I get you?" She has a really nice voice. One that I would not mind having my name screamed in, if you catch my drift (for those that missed the obvious innuendo. I am, in fact, talking about sex with this girl).

I end up ordering a latte for me and a mango smoothie (hold the sugar!) for Paris. I almost asked for her number too but didn't because I am much classier than that but mostly because there's also that burning question of whether or not she plays for my team. Cordelia didn't leave me with any cash, so I pay using my own, wondering if I should start like an expense account if this kid is gonna be drinking Starbucks everyday this summer.

Then again, if this girl was going to be here, I wouldn't mind.

I swear the smile she gives me is a little bit brighter than the one she gives everyone else. I swear it on my 100 dollar an hour wage.

Frustratingly, she doesn't wear a name tag, so I'm left wondering what the name of this beautiful creature is. Not Paris or Cordelia, that's for damn sure.

I pick up our drinks soon after, and hope my staring (some might say what I was doing was closer to "ogling" but I much prefer the word "staring") during the wait wasn't too blatant.

Paris picks out a straw and starts sipping (more like slurping, but I refrain from telling her that) from her smoothie, shooting me judging looks from behind her cup.

"Someone could've kidnapped me while you were flirting, Rebecca."

"It's Beca," I quickly correct her, ignoring the fact that this 5 year old just picked up on my gayness. "Everyone calls me that."

"Great, but you're not going to change the subject. Next time you need to look out for me better."

More slurping.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Fine, next time I'll hold your hand or something."

She seems satisfied with that answer and finish off her juice in one final slurp before throwing her straw away.

"Let's go." I snap out of my daydream where Starbucks girl and I run off into the sunset. I almost want to waste some more money by going up and getting a muffin just so I can talk to her again. "We can come back tomorrow if you want to flirt some more." Paris rolls her eyes.

Excuse me, your name is Paris, you don't get to roll your eyes. I don't say this aloud.

"How did you know..." I trail off awkwardly instead. I don't want anyone to overhear, not because I don't want them to know I'm gay, but because God forbid one of Starbucks girl's co-workers can overhear.

"That you like the girl at the counter?"

I nod. Am I THAT obvious? Do I have a rainbow permanently stuck to my forehead or something? How does a 5 year old have a gaydar? I myself hadn't been aware of my flaming gayness until a couple of years ago. I'm not wearing any flannel or plaid either. So not a tell there.

Paris looks me up and down before wriggling her eyebrows in the snarkiest way possible for a 5 year old. "Just a wild guess."

She actually does grab hold of my hand as we leave the place.

I hope Starbucks girl doesn't see me holding this girl's hand and think I'm a teenage mother or something. Yikes.