a random story from my childhood

I can't be more than 13 when Darwin starts working for us. "Darwin" isn't her real name -- I mean, it is, legally, but it's not the one she was born with. At some point in her not so distant past, she tossed off something nice like Sheryl or Diane or Amy and adopted the mantle of Ye Olde Evolutionist(e). We're not sure why, but she seems normal (kind of), and my parents are in a bit of a desperate situation (what with Geraldine The Stupid Nanny having driven the Ford without oil all summer, effectively ruining the car my sister was supposed to learn to drive on, and thereby getting her ass shipped back to Glasgow post post haste) and so they hire her.

I've had a hundred nannies before, and I'll have a hundred more before I'm through, but none will be as awe-some (or perhaps awe-ful) as Darwin.

She stands a full five foot three. Now, I'm 13, so I haven't reached my stilty five eight yet, but I'm not far from it. But whereas I'm about, I don't know, 110 pounds, Darwin's got me beat by easily fifty pounds. She's kind of like a caramel apple, but weirder.

She's got eczema, which is fine, but she wears these ratty-tatty gloves to cover it up, which are not so fine. They're dirtier than the pair of socks I wore into the garage last week (because I'm 13 and the thought of getting a pair of slippers from upstairs was tooooo exhausting). They look like my dad's old underwear -- grayish, stretched out, and pathetic. She wears them all the time -- driving, cleaning, reading, and, worst of all, cooking. I'd almost prefer chunks of leprotic skin falling into my dinner than the shaky-flaky variety I'm getting from those gloves. (I could eat around large chunks of hand.) And she's not that great a cook, so it's not as if I'm being transported by delectable dinners to distract me from this likelihood.

Darwin does lots of things wrong -- she T boned the car the first week she was driving it and she vacuums in the nude (I have this on my sister's good authority, as she used to skip school and take her boyfriends to the house to make out until she discovered this disturbing phenomenon, which probably put her off making out for a whole month -- which is a long time for a high school sophomore), but for me, where she is about to go terribly wrong is in having a discussion with a 13 year old about Satan.

See, Darwin's wiccan, and, surprisingly, I don't hold that against wiccans. But she's strangely proselytizey, and decides (one dark and rainy (and I might add, super-spooky) night) to accompany me downstairs to the basement and talk to me about Satan.

"You know," she says, ironically brushing off the sofa with her dusty-yucky gloves before plopping down on it, "you should never tempt Satan."

A cricket chirps in the corner, and the cat slinks off to stalk it.

"Because Satan might feel moved to prove himself to you."

"Really?" I ask, casually. "Hmmmm."

I swallow the lump in my throat and change the subject, all the while thinking what the hell does it take to tempt Satan? Am I tempting Satan just by thinking about him? What's he going to do to prove himself to me? I'M GOING TO DIE OR, WORSE, END UP LIKE DARWIN!

That night, I can't sleep. Because, you know, I'm tempting Satan. Just by trying not to think about him. I don't pray to god (because, well, we're not close, and that feels like cheating) but I think horrible thoughts about serial killers (who probably tempted Satan) and the creepy axe-wielding man who lives under my bed and will hack my ankles to bits if I try to get out of bed. I sweat. I panic. I cry.

Finally, with the grace of a gazelle escaping the jaws of the impending cheetah, I leap from my bed and hustle my 13 year old butt down the stairs. I burst into my parents' room with the silence of a freight train and touch my mom on the shoulder.

"Mom!?!? I can't sleep! I'm afraid I'm tempting Sataaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

I believe it was shortly thereafter that Darwin discovered the Galapagos.