“Okay. Go. Teach. But we’re not helping you out one bit. Pay your rent. Buy your food. Ha—even more hilarious—pay your bills. Go have fun. We just wish you had told us you were going to take a Columbia University education and go teach. We wouldn’t have bothered paying for it.”
That did it. My parents were officially the most unreasonable people alive. Any desire to rationalize with these people was gone. They were mercenaries. Republicans. Supporters of the system that kept the working man (me) from ever getting a break.
“Fine!”
“Fine.”
“FINE!”
I stormed out of the kitchen, brushed past my brother who had been eavesdropping in the hall, and went straight to my room. In a blur of tears and frustration I zipped open a duffel bag and crammed in as many clothes as I could, throwing my cell phone charger on top. I knew my parents were downstairs talking about me, but I was beyond caring. I was against everything they stood for. I didn’t need them or their money. I would be fine on my own. I would make my own way. Okay, I guess that I would have to drive their BMW to the train station, but that would be the absolute last time I would drive a luxury car that promoted the evil empire. After that I would make my own way.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how mean my parents were. Or how noble I was. If it weren’t for people like me, the children of the world would never be educated. There would never be a cure for cancer, a car that would get six miles to the gallon, or a poet laureate to usher in the country’s first female, African American president. I felt lonely, abandoned, and completely misunderstood. I had never had such a fierce argument with my parents, had never before left my house vowing never to look back. Well, actually, there was that one other time in the first grade when I had huffed my favorite Barbie chair all the way to the end of the driveway, sitting and stewing there till lunchtime because my parents had, in my wise opinion, favored my brother a little too much over breakfast. It was the smell of grilled cheese that had lured me back in that day. But there was nothing—nothing!—that could change my mind this time. I just knew I was right.
By the time I reached Grand Central, I was drained and homeless with only fifteen hundred dollars in the bank (an accumulation of graduation gifts) to last me for the summer. Or maybe a lifetime. Who else to turn to but Bridgette?
Bridgette Meyers was my best friend and sorority sister from Columbia. We had been suitemates in Carmen Hall—“suite” being Columbia’s charming euphemism for a multi-occupancy cinder block cell—before upgrading into the Delta Gamma brownstone. Now Bridge had upgraded once more, and was living in a gorgeous doorman building in the East Seventies. She was an analyst at Morgan Stanley and was already making enough money to have decorated her entire space in subtle shades of sleek gray. I had visited her once over the summer, and even though I secretly felt like she had re-created a Maurice Villency showroom, complete with low couches, shag rug, and lighting fixtures that looked just like little spaceships, her apartment was definitely grown-up. Bridgette had been working part-time at the firm for the last semester; the week after graduation she moved to full-time. I really hadn’t given much thought to what that had meant until she opened the door to her apartment. Almost overnight, Bridgette appeared to have aged a decade, but in that very sexy twentysomething way. She had just gotten home from work and was wearing a black pencil skirt, a fitted silk shirt, and what looked suspiciously like Jimmy Choo heels. Suddenly I was very conscious of my jeans and T-shirt.
“Hey, sis,” she said warmly, opening her arms and engulfing me in a big hug. “Are you okay?” One look at her I’m-so-sorry-you-have-a-blue-collar-job expression and I was dangerously close to bursting into tears. Seemed like the whole world was either mad at me or felt sorry for me.
“Bridgette, I am seriously going to be out of here before you know it,” I promised, and I meant it.
“Sweetie, are you kidding? What are sisters for? But seriously, are you sure this is what you want to do?” Bridgette looked sadly at my one lonely duffel, then directed me to the fold-out couch. “I mean, all the Delta Gamma sisters thought you were just messing around. Nobody thought you actually wanted to teach.”
“Why is everyone acting like I have a disease or something?” I cried. “This is a normal career. Teaching. Normal. Some parents are actually happy when their children take this path! And Langdon is the most prestigious school in Manhattan. Do you know how lucky I am that I got this job?”
“I guess,” Bridgette responded vaguely. “But Langdon is a place people go. It’s not like a place where you work…. Listen, there’s this thing tonight. Do you wanna go? You aren’t going to start at Langdon till the end of August anyway. Come, it’ll get your mind off…stuff.”
Stuff. That’s what my dreams had been reduced to.
“Where?” I was suspicious, and just a little resentful that a few weeks after graduation my best friend from college wore designer clothes, lived in a designer apartment, and had a “thing” she was invited to in Manhattan.
“Just this Morgan Stanley summer analyst thing at Bungalow 8. They like, I don’t know…rent clubs and stuff. It’s so lame, but lame fun, you know?” Rent out clubs? For summer analysts straight out of college? I may have gone to college in New York City, but my Manhattan had ended at Tom’s Diner on 112th Street—fraternity and sorority parties on campus and nearby bars had erased my need to venture downtown. I was definitely not a New Yorker and the fact that Bridgette had beat me to it irrated me more than I was willing to admit.
“Downtown is too…far,” I finished lamely. “They’re just trying to impress you.”
“Anna, listen, this is just how it is. In the i-banking world, first-year analysts work their butts off, but yeah, the hard work we do is appreciated. That’s where the free dinners at Nobu and parties at Bungalow come in. Also, we’re working so hard that it’s only at these events that we can just hang and get to know each other!”
I shook my head in disbelief. How naïve could she be?
“Bridge, they’re doing that stuff for you like a crack dealer gives out free shit to first-time clients! They want you to become addicted to this life so that they can use you. Once you taste how good a $400 meal at Nobu is, you’ll be willing to put in whatever hours are necessary to be able to afford more dinners like that!”
It was all becoming so clear to me. I felt like I had been under a rock for twenty-two years. We were living in a society so blinded with fancy labels and exclusive restaurants that we were losing all sense of morality. What about happiness? Having time with your friends and family? Bridgette would be grinding away trying to raise millions for a company that might never know her name just so she could have a piece of ninety-dollar sushi and sashay her hips in a dark nightclub? Still, jobs like Bridgette’s were rewarded with juicy salaries and addictive bonuses, whereas my role as teacher of America’s youth would barely cover one month’s rent.
We were replacing students with sushi.
“Okay, Anna, SERIOUSLY, you’re taking this workers-of-the-world-unite thing too far. You want to teach. I get it. But are you coming with me or what? You’ll love Bungalow.” Bridgette gave me the same look I had seen on my mother’s face: you’re-going-through-a-phase-and-I’m-not-buying-into-it.
“No. You go.” I pouted.
“Annie, at least teaching gives you the summer off. Come have fun with me…it’ll be like old times,” Bridgette pressed, clearly unconvinced that I had abandoned the old me who would have been out the door five minutes ago. I glared back at her, not even bothering to hide my resentment.
Bridgette sighed and came over to the couch to sit beside me. I crossed my legs defensively and stared at her blank plasma screen. If she gave me a sympathetic hug I was certain I would explode.
It came.
Ugh.
“Just go! I don’t want your pity!” I shouted, jumping and grabbing my duffel. I could take anything but the pity hug. “This was a mistake. I’ll find somewhere else to live.�
��
“ANNA!” Bridgette ran to her door and blocked the entrance. “Okay. I get it. You’re going to teach…I can’t say that I don’t respect someone who actually wants to go to work every morning.”
Aha! The crack I had been waiting for!
“So you don’t want to go to work every morning?” I challenged.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you implied it.”
“No, I—”
“Bridgette! This is me,” I pleaded. “Since when did you have to impress me? I don’t even recognize you with all this…this Jetsons furniture and analyst bullshit. Come down to earth, please?” Bridgette began twirling a piece of hair nervously, her eyes focused on a bizarre standing lamp that arched over her entire couch.
“The sound of my alarm clock every morning has already become…a…noose that seems to be tightening every day.”
Her voice cracked when she said “noose,” and there in front of me, finally, was a glimpse of my best friend from college. I almost wept with relief. After months of robotic “I love i-banking!” declarations, here was the lovable, lazy Bridgette I knew and adored. The girl who got herself through Lit Hum class at Columbia solely through SparkNotes and had her chicken cutlet sandwiches and Broadway milk shakes delivered from Tom’s Diner even though our sorority house was around the corner.
“I can’t go out because I’m flat-out broke,” I admitted, but was starting to grin.
“The majority of my life is spent in a fucking cubicle,” she shot back, grinning even wider.
“I’ve only been poor for a day and I hate it,” I challenged.
“I don’t even know what crunching numbers means,” Bridgette retorted. “And I’m just waiting for someone to realize that I actually suck at math.”
“You do suck at math.”
“Well, you suck for implying I’m Judy Jetson!” Bridgette shoved me playfully.
She was back in full force. Beaming, I dropped my bags and lay down on her creamy shag carpet.
“Snow angels?” Bridgette dropped on the carpet a few feet away, and we both began to flap our arms and legs wildly as if we were lying in snow making actual snow angels. The tradition had started during our freshman winter at Columbia following a night of binge drinking at the West End. As we stumbled to our dorms, Bridgette had come up with the brilliant idea of making snow angels next to Alma Mater.
“Like a gift,” she had slurred. “Angels for Alma Mater.” Giggling madly, we ran up the steps toward Low Library and lay down on either side of Alma Mater, flapping our arms and legs and laughing so loudly that we didn’t even notice campus security until they towered above us. After that, it was Bridgette who thought it would be funny to make snow angels while lying in the hallway of our dorm. Somewhere between sophomore and junior years she had managed to convince me that it was a hilarious activity.
Watching Bridgette from the corner of my eye as we both flapped, I was flooded with a sense of warmth. Her intimidating black pencil skirt had ridden up to her thighs, revealing an ugly pair of beige Spanx.
“You wear SPANX!” I screamed, sitting up and pointing an accusing finger at the secret of her apparent slimness. Undeterred, Bridgette kept on hooting and flapping.
“I’m a Spanx-wearin’ snow angel and I’m proud of it,” she declared.
I looked over at Bridgette with affection. With all the stress I had endured from my parents, I hadn’t given much thought to how Bridgette really felt about her new job. I might be broke, but at least I wasn’t stuck in a cubicle twelve terrifying hours a day doing a job I wasn’t even sure I knew how to do. Maybe this was the first time she had laughed in months? I had been a terrible friend and vowed that minute to make up for it. I sat up and poked her.
“Even though I’m broke, I’m going to splurge on pizza for us. It’ll be like my last supper before a lifetime of ramen noodles,” I offered grandly. All we needed to make the rest of the evening perfect was Bridgette’s Clueless DVD. Bridgette stopped flapping.
“Um, actually I think I am going to go out….”
Huh?
She hoisted herself up abruptly and smoothed her skirt back down, avoiding my eyes. Like the Spanx, my best friend was suddenly out of sight. Awkwardly she reached over to lay a hand on my shoulder.
The hand was even worse than the hug.
“There are just, like, people I promised that I would meet from my analyst class. Is that…cool? Anna, don’t be mad.”
Bridgette had disappeared.
“It’s cool,” I lied, smiling thinly and forcing myself to shrug. “I’m pretty tired anyway.”
“I’m just so glad we had this time to bond,” Bridgette said in her I-love-i-banking voice, and was suddenly engaged in such a flurry of activity that I couldn’t help but wonder if she was annoyed with me for making her late. I watched her make a barrage of cell phone calls to new friends I had never heard of, and thirty minutes later all I saw of her as she walked out the door were the tassels of her obviously new Balenciaga bag.
It was going to be a long summer.
2
My interview at Langdon had been terrifying. All I had known about the school was that it was the breeding ground for everyone who had ever intimidated me at Columbia. Could I really belong here? The students had just been let out for spring break and the school was almost empty—just a few stragglers trailing around to say their good-byes to friends, only these stragglers wore low-riding designer jeans with $400 cashmere sweaters wrapped artfully around their shoulders. They sported casual hats worn backward over sun-ripened hair, and tans left over from a Presidents’ Day weekend spent in Anguilla. Clearly these were not children whose lives were ruled by the weather.
“Bruce, I forgot my ID but can I please run up and get my BlackBerry?” I turned and watched as two high school girls holding Starbucks cups walked in through the front doors.
Blowing the security guard a flirtatious kiss, the owner of the husky voice added, “We always go together,” and nodded in the direction of her girlfriend. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It was as if Mischa Barton and Rachel Bilson had wandered off the set of The O.C. in search of a couple of caramel macchiatos.
Mischa was wearing a slim, casually shredded jeans skirt that I knew was Chloé (I had seen it on the cover of Elle) and Rachel was wearing a Marni dress with an oversized pair of Chanel sunglasses perched atop her head. As they waited for the elevator I was uncomfortably aware that the girls were eyeing me too. Rachel looked at my pumps and mouthed Ann Taylor to Mischa. They both shook their heads sadly.
The elevator arrived and we rode up in awkward silence until the doors opened on my designated floor. I stepped out and the girls immediately started whispering; it was all I could do not to mutter a heartfelt, “Bitches.” Thankfully, I managed to stop myself. These weren’t the girls who had intimidated me at Columbia. These were children I was here to mold and teach the ways of the world. These weren’t bitches. They were sad, misunderstood girls who didn’t know better. I was clearly in private-school territory.
If the students at Langdon had come from the set of The O.C., its headmistress came from Turner Classic Movies. With her gray, upswept hair, her heavy eyebrows, and deep red lips, Dr. Blumenfeld bore a striking resemblance to Joan Crawford. (Or was it Bette Davis?) She was intimidating and she knew it.
“Ms. Taggert,” she stated coolly, extending a limp hand in my direction.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Blumenfeld. You have no idea how grateful I am to have this opportunity to speak with you,” I gushed. She appraised me evenly.
“You’re very young,” she said.
I took a deep breath and launched into the speech I had perfected in front of my bathroom mirror:
“I realize this, I assure you. But as I look forward to finishing my senior year at Columbia, teaching is the only career I see for myself. I am looking for a school that will give me a chance, and I will be loyal and true and absolutely dedicated.”
&nbs
p; Shit.
I sounded like a demented Girl Scout. The words had tumbled out too quickly, and I knew immediately from Dr. Blumenfeld’s arched brow that she found it rehearsed, too. Nervously I looked down at my shoes, feeling like I had been sent to the principal’s office and was now awaiting punishment. After a few painfully silent minutes (which she appeared to relish), Dr. Blumenfeld decided to speak again.
“We have a brilliant student body at the Langdon Hall School, and they all come from demanding households. I balk, Ms. Taggert, at the idea of giving you a full-time position at Langdon Hall without your having so much as one year of teaching experience.”
Balk? That wasn’t good.
I sat silently, staring back at her pastel twin-set and massive pearls. There was nothing for me to say, and Dr. Blumenfeld was obviously not finished.
“However, it is close to the end of the school year and a faculty member quit unexpectedly. I would like a replacement. I have never done this before, but your cover letter convinced me of your passion. Your education is immaculate. And I can see that you have a fire in your belly.”
“Dr. Blumenfeld you have no idea—”
“I do, actually.” She smiled a bit more kindly and took her glasses off. “Ms. Taggert, it was something you wrote in your cover letter. You said that teaching is your chosen path for life. That when you teach, and I quote,” she paused and reached for my cover letter, “‘I feel closest to my dreams.’”
A surge of courage rushed through my veins. It was true. I never felt more creative, energetic, or eager than when I stood in front of a class. Yes, I was intimidated by Langdon Hall and Dr. Blumenfeld, but I didn’t walk into the building or this interview empty-handed. I knew I had much to learn about the profession, but if I could convince her to give me one shot, I would prove myself. Sitting up in my chair, I looked into her watery blue eyes and said simply, “It’s true.”
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