CONSUELA

"You just have been slacking terribly, Consuela," Madre Chupando la Sangre said, scrolling through that teléfono that she never puts down. I was stirring mi precioso de la pequeña niña casero zumo de naranja when she started yelling at me again.

Ay! I reminded myself. You need to... think in English more! You need to get better... at this!

Madre Chupando la Sangre means Blood-Sucking Mom. I, sometimes, do think that she actually feeds off of the happiness of others. Mrs. Munroe is a cold woman. Muy horrible: very horrible. She does not even talk to her own daughter except for when she is in a lot of trouble. Being a nanny, you see many places like this. A case where los padres do not pay any attention the the kids, only their business and their looks. It makes my heart break inside. I have to give as much support as I can to their poor daughter.

"Si, Mrs. Munroe," I tell her, still stirring the homemade orange juice. I keep my eyes on the breakfast I am making for my precious child, pretending to be picking over it when really, I just don't want to look at the woman.

"You obviously just have not been teaching her the right morals, or at least not well enough," she continued to rant. She was looking at her pager now. "I have to work all of the time, Consuela—" (because she chooses to) "—and I can't be around as much as I'd like to be. That's why we have you, so you can still look after her and teach her the right things about life. And, ugh, God forbid, one of those things isn't getting a tattoo!"

I didn't want to, but I had to somewhat agree. You see, their daughter came in a few nights ago with a small tattoo on her, uh, um... well, she got a tattoo. It obviously was just a desperate cry for attention, but her parents are not smart enough to pick that up, of course. Her first instinct wasn't to tell them, but unfortunately, it got infected. Madre Chupando la Sangre walked in while I was helping her put medicine on it... and let's just say... things did not go well.

"Si, Mrs. Munroe," I say again, adjusting a fork to where it was perfectly straight on the silver tray.

"Speak English, for God's sake, Conseula! You've been working for us for eighteen years now. You should be able to speak without confusing me."

"Si—yes, Mrs. Munroe," I gritted my teeth, sprinkling some sugar and cinnamon onto the butter on top of my baby girl's toast. She likes it that way. Neither of her parents know that, though. My heart ached. I was completely done with the food. I had no choice but to look up at the terrible woman and force an obedient smile. "I will... speak with her."

She just shook her head, pushing some buttons on her ear piece behind her dark hair. "I just can't believe she did that. A tattoo! It's so... trashy! She knows how we feel about things like that. We let her stay out past curfew—" (she doesn't really have one) "—we let her use our credit cards and go shopping whenever she feels like—" (they let her use their cards and hers) "—and this is how she repays us? By getting a tattoo? Not only that, but she got it on her—"

"Mrs. Munroe, if you don't mind me saying," I cut in, trying the best, clearest English I could, "she does not feel proud of it. She told me just last night that... that it was stupid of her." I am making all of this up. Sounds good, eh?

"Did she now?" she asked me, her dark brown eyes drilling into my light brown ones. "Well, good. She must have some sense somewhere, then."

This woman is such a... a—how do you say?—bitch! Talking about her own daughter that way! Children are a gift, a treasure, meant to be loved. Apparently, Madre Chupando la Sagre did not get the memo.

"Yes, Mrs. Munroe," I said like a mindless servant.

She watched me expectantly for a moment or two. I stared back, unsure of what she wanted. "Well, go!" she said obviously, shooing me out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. "Don't let the food get cold!"

I was pretty sure that I tasted blood in my mouth, I was biting my tongue so hard. I stepped up the many, many steps and shuffled down the grand hallway, going past my nice headquarters and into my precious child's room. The flawless white carpet was blinding in the sunlight pouring from the huge window. She was lying in her bed, eyes halfway closed, watching the big TV on her wall. Her eyes wandered to me, and lit up immediately. She looked exhausted. Her mother had been up here only a few hours before, chewing her ear out again. She looked relieved that it was me and not someone else coming into her bedroom.

"Hola, Consuela," she smiled, sitting up straighter at the sight of the tray of food in my arms.

"Hola, bonita," I grinned back, almost in an apologetic way. I hate not being able to stand up to her mother when she puts her down like that. But Mrs. Munroe is my boss, and if I am an inch out of line, I will get fired. And my pretty girl can't survive without me here. I am her lifeline. I make sure that every time I see her, I call her bonita; Spanish for beautiful, because she is. It is a shame she carries on the way she does... she is such a beautiful person.

She looked behind me, brows raised. "Mom isn't behind you, is she?"

I shook my head. "No, she is not. I think she maybe went to work."

A look of relief washed over her features. "Thank God. I will go insane if she comes in here to scream at me one more time."

"Si, beautiful," I agree, taking a seat on the bed beside her, watching her eat her toast hungrily. "She was just giving me a speech downstairs a few minutes ago."

My beautiful girl frowned and stopped chewing, staring unseeingly at the television. "I know. I heard."

I scowled, too. The house is so big, everything echoes. "Lo siento. I know why you did it, though. Got the tattoo."

Her brows raised at me. "Do you?"

"Yes. You wanted your parents to notice you."

She shook her head, eyes wide. "Oh no, Consuela. That's not even close. If I wanted them to know that I got a tattoo, I would have told them. I know you won't believe me, but I really just did it... ya know, to do it. I wanted a tattoo. All of my friends thought that it was a good idea."

I shook my head. She was such a smart chica... but sometimes she didn't do smart things. "But a tattoo, bonita? A tattoo?"

"I never planned on my parents seeing it! That's one reason I got it on my—"

"Knock knock!" came a drawling voice from the doorway. I pursed my lips while my back was turned to my employer, but as soon as my face came into view, I politely smiled. "Hello, you two. Enjoying your breakfast, sweetheart?"

My darling girl struggled to keep the shocked expression off of her face at the nickname. That would be the first time her mother had ever said that word to her, and not sarcastically. She just nodded, keeping her eyes on her plate. I could see her face transforming to a stony stolid the longer her madre was in the room. See, this is one of her worst problems. Everyone seems to believe that she is spoiled from the inside out (which she slightly is), but the issue here is her parents, not her. They aren't being parents, and she acts out for attention, whether she admits it or not. It is not that hard to see.

"Didn't get to yell at me enough this morning?" she nipped, almost to herself, taking another bite of toast. I could tell that her mother's temper was shorter than usual today... and that's saying something.

"Allison Munroe, don't even start with me," she seethed through a whisper, shaking a manicured finger at her, eyes shut tight. I noticed that she had far too much eye makeup on for someone her age. Again. "I just wanted to talk with you. Don't get fresh with me."

Allison rolled her eyes. "'Fresh'? Really, Mom?"

"Do you want to hear what the doctor had to say or not?" she exploded. I'm surprised that she wasn't stomping her foot. My little girl just responded by rolling her eyes and huffing, taking a swig of her orange juice. Suddenly, my boss's head snapped in my direction. Almost like a horror movie. "Consuela, dear, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I need to have a word with my daughter."

I nodded hastily and rose from Allison's bed, making to walk out of the room with my head down. I hated the way that Mrs. Munroe talked about Allison. She said 'my daughter' in a very possessive way, like I was planning on stealing her away in the night. Just at the door, I turned my head to face my little chica. Her eyes were pleading, saying 'do not leave alone with her!'. I shook my head and my eyes apologized as I backed out of the room. I acted like I was shutting the door behind me, but I left it open just a crack. I pasted myself against the hallway wall directly to the right, ears keen for their conversation.

I heard the squeaking of what sounded like bed springs. I took it that Mrs. Munroe had sat down on the bed.

"The doctor says that the infection is gone. Isn't that lovely? Now, Allison, your father and I have been talking..." she trailed off, her voice a little muffled. I could tell that she was looking down at her phone or her pager. She looked back up, "... and we don't think that the way you have been behaving lately has been appropriate."

"Oh, really?" she shot back, snapping. "You two don't deem it 'okay'? Here's how thing have been working and are going to keep working, alright, Mom? I'm going to leave the house when I want, wear whatever I want, go out with whomever I want, and get back whenever I want. You two never seemed to care what I do or who I did it with until you caught me the other day."

"Allison," she breathed, and I could see her bury her face in her hands through the crack in the door, "you are killing me. Whether you like it or not, I am your mother, and you have to listen to me!" My little girl opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off. "No, I don't want to hear it! Your father and I have been far too lenient with you, and... and... you are turning into some... tattooed brat! I will not have it in my house!"

"Well, it's not like we can just go and get it removed!" she screamed back. "It just got over being infected! And you know that if you had to take off work to take me to the doctor to get it removed, all of your friends would be asking questions, wouldn't they?" She found her weak spot. "And you just can't have your friends knowing that you have a tattooed, white trash daughter, now can you?"

"ALLISON MUNROE!" she gasped. "Don't you dare call yourself white trash. You are a Munroe. And no, we aren't getting it removed. You shouldn't be wearing anything that would reveal it, anyway. And I want you to have to see it, to live with it every day. Knowing that you got a tattoo and are being looked down upon should be enough punishment for you as it is. We are not wasting another dime on that thing, and tattoo removals are painful."

She rose her eyebrows rudely, arms crossed. "So? Is that all you wanted to tell me? That all I have to do is keep it, and that's my punishment?"

Her mother looked down at her phone again, and I wanted to growl. I wish she would have the decency to look at her own daughter when they have a conversation. Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "Oh, no, honeybunch. That's not your punishment." She closed her phone and looked upon her with shining eyes. "You, from now on, must be home by ten o'clock every night. Including Fridays."

"But Mom—!"

"And you cannot use your credit card or our credit cards anymore. If you use any kind of payment, it has to be cash, and it has to be money that you've earned."

"What? No credit card? Mom, it's just a stupid tattoo!" she whined.

"You will also be helping Consuela with chores until the day you leave."

I must admit, that one actually wasn't too horrible. I'm not opposed to getting some help around here. After all, this casa is huge. After I got over of the initial shock of Allison helping me with housework, what she really said didn't seem to sink in for me or mi bonita chica until a few seconds later.

"Wait—leave?" Allison's chocolate eyes flashed with confusion. "Leave for where? You aren't sending me off to boarding school or anything because of a stupid picture on my—?"

"No, we can't pull you out of college," she shook her head. She almost sounded disappointed. "But you are going somewhere that I think will set you straight." They were both silent and Allison's stare was unbelievably stifling.

"Well?"

"You are going to stay with your uncle," Mrs. Munroe smirked.

Sonny looked less angry and more confused. So was I. I didn't even know that she had an uncle. Apparently, she was thinking the same thing.

"Uncle?" her brows pulled together. "You only have a sister, and she isn't married."

"It's your father's brother," she said dismissively, and by her tone, I could already tell that she didn't approve of him.

"Dad has a brother?"

"Yes, he does."

"Well, why haven't I heard of him until now?"

"He lives far away," Mrs. Munroe lied, and I think both of us picked up on it. "He lives where your father came from... where he left as soon as he turned seventeen."

"Where does he live, exactly?"

My little girl could detect the underlying meaning in this. If they were sending her there as punishment, it wasn't any kind of retreat.

"Galliano, Louisiana," she smiled. "You'll be staying down there with them for a few months... ya know, learning how to work. Someone needs to learn the value of money and the correct things to spend it on—such as, whatever isn't a tattoo."

"I have to work?" Allison's eyes were wide. "Like... work-work?"

"Work-work," she smiled. "And not just any kind of work. The hard, sweaty, gritty kind. You should come back with a skill that few—or no one—in this city should possess: being able to shoot and kill a full-grown alligator!"

It was almost like my chica and I shared a mind. We both nearly collapsed, gasping. I quickly clamped my hand over my mouth, hoping against hope that I wasn't heard. But I think that Mrs. Munroe was so busy enjoying her daughter's reaction that she wasn't concerned about anything outside of that. I almost coughed. Were we talking about the same chica here? Allison Munroe? Who has never, in her whole life, touched a grain of dirt... never made mud pies when she was little... never gotten a job or had to touch a mop? And she was expected to go hunt alligators? She'd kill herself!

"W-what? WHAT? You mean... like, old cabins and Cajuns and that can't speak English and bayous and hillbilly rednecks?" she erupted, practically banging her fists on her bed. "With... with bugs and gross weather and dirt? Mom, they probably don't even have showers!"

Now, see, this is the bad side of mi bonita chica. This is what her parents instilled in her. "Honey, you should have thought of all of that before you got that tattoo."

She was red in the face, looking like she was about to hit her madre across the head with that silver breakfast tray. She spluttered, unable to form intelligible words.

"I—I—no one even told me I had a hillbilly uncle! Or that if I got a stupid tattoo that I'd have to GO LIVE WITH HIM! Oh my God... I can't survive there, Mom! I have to have a shower. And... and what am I supposed to wear? I can't wear Gucci to go shoot a bunch of slimy lizards with!"

You see, I tune out at about this time. Whenever Allison gets on a rant, this is about the moment where I'll go dust the grand piano for about the eighth time or vacuum the priceless Persian rug in the foyer. So, that's what I did.

I know that many people would blame me, the nanny, for the misbehavior and bratty whining of an eighteen year-old girl right about now. I blame the parents, and they say, 'But you knew this would happen, you raised her! It is your job to make sure that she does not end up that way!'. But no one, unless you have been in my shoes, really understands. The child knows that you are not their madre, and there is only so much that they can learn from you. There is only so much that you can teach them—that they will let you teach them, before they go to their padres and try to learn.

As soon as Allison reached that stage, right about when she was seven, she became old enough to realize that something was wrong with the picture. It was just me, and she was seeing her friends at school with parents who came to their dance recitals, their soccer games... and my poor girl noticed. The rare times that her parents would come in at an hour when she could see them, it was such a sad sight. It wasn't even like they knew each other. The three were like complete strangers—two adults who were stuck babysitting a child that they didn't know.

When she got to the age of about eleven, she stopped clinging to me so much as a mother and started misbehaving. It wasn't anything bad really... but when something would go wrong at school, or she would smart-mouth the teacher, I'd always be the one who was home when the school called, and Allison would always beg me not to tell her parents. And I never would. I would still straighten her out, though... as much as I could.

And it's such a shame that when she got old enough, she started staying out late with her friends and spending money everywhere just because she could. Her parents weren't home enough to really notice that much, and since I was the one raising her and not them, they didn't really seem to care. As long as she didn't do something so horrible that 'the Munroe family name was disgraced', she was allowed to do whatever she pleased. She started taking advantage of her beauty and dating all kinds of guys. I'd know because whenever she had boy problems, I would be the one hearing about it, not her madre. I really hoped that she was still pure... and the deepest confines of my heart believed that she was... but I never know anymore.

She is a spitting image of her mother. Except she has her father's chin and height. She is such a gorgeous girl, with long and wavy brown hair, shining chocolate eyes, a beautiful Spanish body. I hated that she wore those... what are they called again?... stiletto heels and those short skirts. It killed me inside. Allison had such a beautiful smile, too. So big and bright. When she was little, I told her that the sun couldn't outshine her smile. She would just smile bigger and hug me. Now, she'll mutter a 'thank you' and keep texting on her teléfono or keep buying clothes.

She would hate me for agreeing with her mother (and I can't believe that I am saying this, either), but I think that she needs this. Not just because of the tattoo, but to save her. Before she is an adult and turns into her mother—which I know is exactly what she is trying to get away from. This may be the bitter dose of medicine that she needs.

There are many things that can't be taught by a nanny; they must be taught by the madre. And there are many things that can't be taught by the madre, but must be taught by life.

I think this Louisiana may be life's lesson that she needs.

Or... it could do nada and just make her more resentful towards her parents and make her act up even more.

I guess we'll see, eh?