I turned into the building on 77th Street and felt, for the first time in my life, a rush of pure, greedy adrenaline burst through my veins. I was on a tutor high, and the addiction was so instantaneous that I was hooked even before the doorman announced me.
The door opened before I had a chance to knock. A woman about my age was giving me the once over. She must have been the snooty-voiced woman on the phone.
“Ms. Taggert?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mrs. Carleton,” I announced, refusing to be intimidated by this strange girl.
“Of course. Let me escort you to the living room. Mrs. Carleton and Katie will join you in a moment.”
I followed the girl down a long corridor lined with very expensive-looking artwork—was that a Chagall?
“Anna?”
I whirled around to see…Oh My God! This was Cindy Crawford’s apartment! There she was, impossibly tall, in tight designer jeans, a simple white tank, and her glorious hair falling down the length of her back.
“I’m Amanda Carleton!”
LIAR!
“Oh! Has…anyone ever told you that you look a lot like—”
“Omigod, PLEASE don’t say Cindy Crawford,” a voice drawled behind the supermodel. A slightly smaller, but equally stunning girl emerged and stood next to “Amanda.” Apparently, it was Katie. Both mother and daughter were checking me out. Katie seemed particularly bothered by my scuffed Nine West pumps.
“You’re gorgeous, too! You look a bit like Jessica Alba,” Amanda Carleton declared. “Where are you from originally?”
“New Jersey,” I offered awkwardly, knowing that it would probably offend young Katie as much as Nine West.
“My old nanny was from there,” Katie announced. “And yeah, you totally do look like her.” She was starting to smile. I knew I wasn’t Randi Abrahams gorgeous, but I had lost a little over ten pounds over the summer on my teacher salary diet, and I was back into my high school jeans. I looked okay. But Amanda and Katie Carleton were clearly pleased that I passed at least one important criteria.
“Please sit down! So, how long have you been teaching at Langdon?” Amanda smiled and ran a hand through her glossy mane. She even had that famous mole on the upper corner of her lip!
I lowered myself gingerly on what looked like a throne for a French king. “I just started this year after graduating from Columbia.”
“Cool! I knew you looked young!” Katie smiled, but was now looking at me more critically than ever, as if she were giving me a makeover.
“Well, I can see you and Katie will get along very well.” Amanda beamed. When did that happen?
“Katie would like to see you on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays for an hour, with the option to see you for two hours if the workload increases. Between her voice training and media expressions class she’s not home until 5:30. Are you free?” Amanda asked, immediately getting down to business. She crossed her long legs, uncrossed her toned, tanned arms, and leaned forward. Once again, I felt as if I were being propositioned.
“I’m recording a CD,” Katie explained.
“W-wow,” I stammered. Was my student going to be the next Britney Spears?
“Awesome! Mom, can I go now?” Katie asked quickly, already getting up. It was a done deal.
“Katie, in a MOMENT!” Amanda silenced her daughter with a fierce look and then turned back to me. “Well?”
“I’d LOVE TO!” I nearly screamed, doing mental math so quickly that I wasn’t sure I would be able to walk and talk at the same time. Wait a minute…payment. What about payment?
“Shall we discuss payment?” I asked nervously.
“Oh, just write me a quick handwritten bill every week or so, and I’ll write a check,” Amanda waved her arm breezily. Apparently the hourly rate was of no concern. She joined her daughter by standing up, which was my cue to stand as well, and before I could say another word, the strange girl who had shown me in ushered me back out into the one-door hallway.
I floated down the elevator and onto Park Avenue like Peter Pan on crack. I gave the doorman a mad grin as I was leaving. He looked a little scared. Jesus. H. Christ. If I did as Francine suggested and charged $200 an hour, I would be making a minimum of $600 a week. That would be $2,400 a month. That was more than my monthly teacher salary. I could eat! I could shop! I could pay my rent on time! What had just happened? What had just fallen into my lap? Was this legal? Did other people know? Should I ask for more? I was like a mother seeing her baby for the first time: filled with awe and wonder and bliss. It was sick of me, I knew, but I felt total and complete joy. It was like the skies had opened and rained money all over me. Randi Abrahams wasn’t the enemy…she was a survivor. A genius.
16
Monday morning I sauntered into Langdon wearing an aqua terry-cloth tracksuit. I would be starting with Katie Carleton that afternoon and I had spent a glorious Sunday afternoon shopping. Jessica Landau had informed me that the place to get the newest Juicy was Henri Bendel, a veritable bastion of socially acceptable clothing for private school teens and the select group of über-cool teachers, tutors, and hot moms. I had winced at the two-hundred-dollar price tag for two pieces of towel, but judging from the approving glances I was getting from kids in the lobby, it was worth it. Besides, I could chalk up the whole purchase as one Carleton session. Not bad. I knew I needed Chanel flats to complete the casual chic look, but the $450 price had me waiting. But not for long!
“Ms. Taggert?!”
It was nanny-groping Chase van der Reedson.
“Yes, Chase?”
“Tell her! Tell her!” A group of boys at the end of the hall were grinning madly. Chase flushed with embarrassment.
“Chase?” I persisted.
“Um…my friends think, that, um…you look really…”
Chase faltered and was staring wildly at the lockers to the right of him.
“That you look MAD HOT, MS. TAGGERT!!!!!!” The boys at the end of the hallway called out in unison and then dispersed in five different directions. Chase followed as fast as his legs could carry him.
I started to dart after them, then stopped suddenly. They thought I was hot. A hot teacher. Like Randi Abrahams! And I felt hot. And cute. And very, very private school. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, and how this change was being implemented before I had even had my first tutoring session, but I was grinning when I walked into my classroom.
“Ms. Taggert, ohmigod, I love your Juicy so much!” Jessica announced as she settled into her seat and opened her glitter binder.
“Why, thank you, Jessica! I took you up on your suggestion and bought it at Bendel’s!”
“Ohmigod, did you see the new Tibi resort line there?” Charlotte jumped in.
I had my hand raised at the chalkboard and had been about to write out the homework assignment, but I found myself drawn to the table where the girls were sitting. Charlotte’s eyes widened with delight as I pulled a chair next to her.
“Actually, I did see the bikinis, but they seem really revealing…you know…”
“We know, but honestly if you try them on they’re like super flattering on the butt,” Madeline offered sagely.
“Yeah, all the boys like it when we wear them!” Blair laughed.
By now the class had entered the room and I had to get up and start the lesson. I was amazed by how reluctantly I got up from the table. There were so many more questions I had for these girls! When could I talk to them again? At lunch?
“Oh, Ms. Taggert?”
Jessica Landau was sitting up straight and raising her hand.
“Yes, Jessica?”
“I thought your assignment last night was, like, sooo fun.”
“Yeah, I did, too!” Benjamin grinned.
I looked at my students in amazement. I had not asked them to do anything spectacular—just some reading and answer some basic questions. Something was definitely happening here. They didn’t just seem to like me. They wanted to be my friend. They thought
I was hot. And well dressed. And cool. And therefore a really, really good teacher. My four years at Columbia had gotten me through the doors at Langdon Hall, but one visit to Bendel’s had launched me into superstardom.
I reached Katie’s apartment five minutes early, shockingly more nervous than I had been for my Langdon Hall interview. What if she didn’t like me? What if I got fired after one session?
“I’m in my room!” Katie shouted from the end of a long corridor, which was lined with artfully framed family portraits. Amanda Carleton was nowhere to be found, and Katie obviously saw no need to come greet me. I followed the clicking of her keyboard down the corridor and into her room. I gasped. In all my life, I had never seen a room like this. A large white canopy bed with sheer white curtains took pride of place in the middle of the room, right under an antique crystal chandelier. The shaggy white carpet was spotless, and the walls were covered in thick pink and white pinstripes. In the corner was a seating arrangement consisting of two white silk club chairs, a mirrored table, and a rock crystal lamp with an outrageous fringed lampshade. Adjacent to it was a large desk that was distressed with white and gold foliage. A vanity table with a little stool and a Venetian mirror graced another side wall. As if that weren’t enough, the entire room seemed to be under the spell of an enormous bay window draped in endless yards of silk and held back with threaded tasseled cords. The effect was nothing short of spectacular.
Katie was seated at the desk, typing furiously, eyes locked on the screen of her white iMac. Next to that her Sidekick, adorned with bejeweled stickers, glittered and buzzed with a life of its own. A lime green iPod lay forgotten under her chair. A white painted chair with a pink cushion sat empty beside her. (For me?)
“I’ll get off in like two secs, I promise,” Katie assured, not missing a beat as I sat down next to her. There wasn’t much to do but look at her computer screen. Four little boxes popped up:
Couturegrl246
Westsideplaya69
Dadyzprincess4evah
Cuteepie55
Suddenly two more boxes popped up and Katie responded to both with speed and ease. I was baffled.
“Hi, Katie!” I said brightly, hoping my first tutoring session would not begin with a battle to get my student off the computer.
“Heeeyyyyyyy….,” Katie drawled, eyes a bit glazed, but still intently focusing on the screen.
“Wow…you’re a fast typer!” Ugh. I was so pathetically chipper. But somehow I could not bring myself to stop this impish IM monster. There was something about the way Katie’s fingers flew across the keyboard that had me mesmerized. She could have been an air traffic controller. I just could not stop looking at her. Her light brown ponytail was secured with an elastic band with a little ball that read: I LOVE DIOR. Her tight T-shirt said: ANYTHING BOYS CAN DO GIRLS CAN DO BETTER. She had on the So Low stretchy pants and pink Livs (the new Uggs, according to my girls). Twenty rubber bracelets hung on each of her wrists. Encompassed in this little body, I couldn’t help but realize, was the very heart of the Upper East Side. There was something fantastic about her. I had to say something. I had to get her attention.
“I love your Dior ponytail holder.”
Katie turned and faced me, her blue eyes widening.
“I have another one I can give you!” Before I could say a word, she furiously typed GTG in all seven IM boxes, clicked off her AOL, and opened a desk drawer. In a flash, her little palm displayed a Dior elastic band identical to the one she was wearing.
“I couldn’t take that! But you’re SO sweet.”
“Take it, please!” she insisted.
“I couldn’t wear that. It seems a little young for me, don’t you think?” I was weakening, and she sensed it.
“Pleaaassssseeee? It’ll look sooooo good on you, I swear.”
“Okay, Katie, I’ll borrow it till our next session, okay?”
“Okay. Will you wear it when you come?”
“Totally. I’ll wear it to school tomorrow!”
“Ohmigod, your students will LOVE it!” Katie gushed.
I could just imagine the levels of ecstasy Blair, Charlotte, and Madeline’s clique would undergo if I walked into class wearing Dior hair accessories. I was strangely elated by the thought.
“You’re right, they will. I can’t wait to wear it. Do you want to start now?”
Katie grinned at me, I grinned back, and suddenly I was having as much fun as I had had that morning discussing fashion with the girls in my class. Somehow I had tapped into that same almost-impossible-to-hit moment when you and your student are suddenly…friends. I was sitting in a fantasy room with Katie Carleton, and all she wanted to do was become my personal stylist….
I snapped back to attention.
We HAD to work! At the end of the day, if Katie failed out of school, I would be out of this gig.
“Okay, Katie, I really want to start now,” I begged. “Can you show me your binders and school planner so I can see what you have to complete this evening?”
“No, so, wait…like, omigod, you teach seventh grade? You’re like an actual teacher, too?” Katie asked, her blue eyes wandering up to her ceiling as she tried to run through a list of names in her head. We both knew she had heard me, and we both knew that she would not be doing any work that afternoon.
“Do you know Charlotte Robertson and Max Briggman?”
“Yup. I teach both of them.”
“Ohmigod, wait, I bet I know so many more people you know…” Katie turned back to her computer and began to log on to her AOL account.
“Wait! What are you doing?” Oh, crap! I had just lost her again!
“To go through my buddy list,” Katie answered matter-of-factly. “I, like, have to tell everyone you know that I know you too. Duh!”
“Katie, listen, let’s do it later, okay? Let’s make sure we do your work together really well so your mom will be impressed, okay? Please?”
Katie paused. She clicked off AOL but didn’t look up. Did I say something wrong? Did I piss her off? Oh, my God, did she hate me?
“Katie, c’mon.” I hated that I sounded whiny. And needy. I felt like a complete loser.
What was happening? My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode out of my chest. I wanted to throttle her! Did this little brat know that on a whim she could decide whether or not I would be paying my cell phone bill this month?
“Katie?”
Nothing. I had lost her. Just like that. I had to try something else.
“Okay, Katie, listen. Do you want to start your homework in, like, fifteen minutes and just talk first?”
Apparently, those were the magic words.
Katie jumped off her seat, flew across her room to a door, and swung it open to reveal the largest walk-in closet I had ever seen, complete with a pink shag rug and another, smaller chandelier inside.
“Do you want to see my clothes?” she asked happily, causing me to wonder if she was bipolar. Still, I was willing to go with it. I was willing to go along with anything that kept me in the Carleton apartment for an hour. I felt enormously guilty because it was almost a hundred dollars, er, thirty minutes into the session, and we had accomplished absolutely nothing. Shrugging helplessly, I followed Katie into her closet and watched as she pulled each article of clothing off its hanger, draped it against herself, told me a small history of where and when the article was purchased, and then grandly dropped it onto the rug.
“I got this shirt in Palm Beach last spring break. We go to the Breakers every Christmas.
“I got these cute stretchy sweatpants from this amazing Web site called shopbop. It’s, like, the best thing ever!
“These shoes are Prada and I stole them from my mom ’cuz we have the same shoe size already!
“These are the dresses I wear to bar and bat mitzvahs. I have three a weekend at least.”
As Katie went on and on endlessly the closet went from a state of spectacular organization to total chaos.
“Katie
, this is so messy now! Your mom will be mad!” I felt completely and utterly out of control. If Amanda Carleton saw this closet she would have empirical evidence that we had done absolutely nothing during our session.
“Oh…yeah…don’t worry, Papita will clean it. Do you want to work now?”
Papita? So now she was ready to work? Mysteries I might never solve. Before I could even begin to venture a response, Katie wandered over to her desk and casually turned her Chanel tote upside down. Gum rappers, gel pens, mechanical pencils, books, binders, and an endless array of little scraps of paper poured out. Katie smiled, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes in a move so smooth that it held me oddly captivated. I forced myself to return to the task at hand.
“Should we start with this?” I took the emptied bag as a white flag. Katie was ready to allow me into her secret world, and I was dying to look at the scraps of paper. I saw my students pass them around, and even though I had done the same thing in middle school, seeing an updated note was the most compelling thing I could think of doing in that moment.
“You can read my notes if you want,” Katie graciously offered, then sat down and logged on again. Apparently I was meant to clean out her bag while she socialized online. Was the right to read her notes meant as some sort of privilege? That was not going to happen. I refused to be the Papita of the tutoring world.
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