I don"t need to watch the CW TV showˆ Privileged to find out what happens when Upper East Side trust-fund tots grow out of their nannies. They grow into me: a full-service, round-the-clock tutor. Parents want me because I"m a 26-year-old, white, clean-cut product of the private school system and make my living holding their children"s hands and highlighters before every test. This last piece defines our relationship; parents know my rent will not be paid without their beneficence, and I know their children can"t really form sentences on their own. Still, I thought this ranking only existed in a vacuum when I was frequenting a luxury residence. After all, I grew up in Riverdale and attended the same schools as some of my protÃ&Copy;gÃ&Copy;s. But this was called into question when I bumped into a Madison Avenue mother at a Waldorf-Astoria wedding. â??Wow, what a transformation, she said in a saccharine voice. â??Just like Cinderella. I was her daughter"s wordsmith, but I had no words. While I don"t traipse around her apartment in ball gowns, it wasn"t like I had been waiting around for my ruddy, matchmaking godmother to whisk me off to the gala. Hadn"t we received the same invitation? I was the soot-faced peon, whose social life consisted of playing with pencils, barring this one-time-only Uptown socialite opportunity. I spent the evening recounting the interaction and collecting snide reactions, like cruditÃ&Copy;s and potato puffs: â??What a witch, â??Quit now. I was relieved with every remark, hoping the comments would wipe the dirt from my cheeks and delay my twelve o"clock bedtime. Though I voluntarily left the party before midnight, I still couldn"t shake the images of pumpkins and glass slippers. I retreated from limo-lined Fifth Avenue to my downtown walk-up and instantly kicked off my pinky-toe-pinching heels, elated to have had the foresight to buy blister Band-Aids. The following morning I only had one person left to horrify: My Bronx-based mother. But instead of ranting, she laughed. â??Come on, it was a compliment, she called you beautiful. You"re making a big deal out of nothing. I was annoyed. This was supposed to be the pinnacle moment, where my mom crushed the fluff-head who had the gall to call me the name of a fairy-tale servant. Was I overreacting, or was my boss the depraved stepmother incarnate? I peered down at my green ink-stained hands and worn-in Converse, acknowledging that my chosen attire could be mistaken for cleaning clothes. I had gotten Cinderella"s grueling daytime routine down pat. But if cleaning out the junk that"s been deposited in my student"s brains by day and primping for parties by night is what transforms me into my cartoon counterpart, then I was willing to accept the title. I just needed to tweak the princess piece. When I next find myself at a lavish ball, I"ll make more like Cinderella: spend less time trashing the wicked stepmothers and more time perusing for Prince Charming on the dance floor. Eleanor Goldberg is a private tutor and freelance writer.