Schooled

by Anisha Lakhani

  “Who may I say is calling?” he asked, looking terribly, terribly bored.

  “Um, Ms. Taggert,” I mumbled, not looking him in the eye. Why was this stupid doorman doing this to me??!

  “Who?” Bastard. He totally heard me!

  “Anna Taggert,” I answered more firmly this time. With a look both disapproving and suspicious, he announced me. After a moment he gave me a withering glance and told me to go right up.

  As I started down the lobby, he called out:

  “Do you know the way?” His tone was clear. I had no right, absolutely no right at all, to be in this building.

  “Yes,” I responded curtly and swept up the imperious lobby as if had lived there my entire life. I could feel him watching me disdainfully from behind.

  “Actually,” he called, “it’s the other way.”

  I mustered up the dignity to sweep past him one more time. I hated him. I really hated him.

  There was another elderly man in white gloves and a green suit in the elevator. Edward, according to the brass name tag on his breast pocket. Edward didn’t ask me where I was going. Turned out he knew. The doorman situation was as cryptic a system as Laura’s tutoring agency, and I was just going to have to get used to it. He pressed a button and then turned and faced the elevator door as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. He didn’t even make small talk about the weather. I hated Edward, too.

  The elevator opened into a beautiful little hallway. A Baccarat chandelier hung from the molded ceiling and a Venetian glass mirror rested above a dark cherry console table. These items were simply hallway decoration. I hadn’t even entered the Herring apartment. Before I could knock, the door was opened by a young woman who was wearing the same French maid’s costume I had worn for my fifth-grade Halloween party.

  “Missus Herring eez in the libraree,” she politely informed me, ushering me down a long foyer lined with two more chandeliers and into an impressive library with wood moldings from floor to ceiling. I thought I was alone in the room until I saw one of the sofa cushions appear to move. It was Mrs. Herring. She blended into the room so perfectly that it was impossible to discern where the couch ended and she began. She was wearing a cream, sleeveless shift dress and sitting with her legs elegantly crossed on a cream couch flanked with gold and cream cushions, her perfectly bronzed legs poured into creamy heels. I imagined that even their money must be cream, minted, perhaps, at a dairy farm.

  “Hello, dear, why don’t you have a seat?” Mrs. Herring whispered.

  “Okay,” I whispered back, and lowered myself into a chair that looked like a throne for someone named Louis or Napoleon or Henry.

  “Of course I know all about you, so I want to begin by telling you all about my son, Jake,” Mrs. Herring whispered again. Was she really, really affected or was something seriously wrong with her?

  “All good things, I hope!” I smiled warmly.

  “That you come very highly recommended by Laura Brandeis, and she selects only the best tutors to work for her. All my friends call her when they want only the best for their children,” Mrs. Herring confided.

  “Mrs. Herring—”

  “Mimsy, please.”

  Mimsy?

  “Oh…okay, thank you. Mimsy, I would love to hear more about Jake.” I gave up. Laura’s cover was airtight. Mimsy Herring’s eyes became watery. I wondered if she was going to cry.

  “Well, I want to begin by telling you that he is a beautiful boy.”

  Jesus Christ. She paused and tucked a stray piece of pin-straight cream hair behind her ear. A diamond stud the size of a golf ball was exposed. “Sensitive, thoughtful, and very, very sweet,” Mimsy continued.

  “Wonderful!” Apparently I was back to wonderful.

  “And smart. Jake is very, very smart. He just struggles a bit to harness that intelligence and focus it, if you know what I mean.” Mimsy began to tear. I felt like rolling my eyes, but instead I forced myself to nod sagely. If I was going to get this second job, which would bring me into a completely new tax bracket, I would have to start thinking differently. I was an Ivy League Tutor. I worked for Laura Brandeis, a woman I knew for some reason I would never meet but was sure I would work very hard for.

  “Wonderful! I’d love to meet him!”

  Mimsy looked aghast. Although honestly I wasn’t sure what expression she was after. Her face was so botoxed that it was difficult to distinguish aghast from merely surprised.

  “Oh, no! He’s not home, of course. Jake is with his learning specialist right now. Besides, I had hoped to give you some more information before he interviewed you,” Mimsy whispered.

  Before he interviewed me? I briefly wondered whether I should charge for interview time. And what did a learning specialist do? More importantly, did they make more money than a tutor? At that exact moment, a beep sounded in the room and Mimsy calmly pressed a button on a cream phone next to her. She listened for a moment and then whispered, “Just a club soda with a slice of lime, dear. Can I have Conchita bring you anything?” She turned expectantly to me. Oh. People in this apartment called each other from different rooms. On phones.

  “I’d love a glass of water,” I offered. I felt as if Mimsy wanted Conchita to bring me something. I was in a total trance. Mimsy gave the instructions to Conchita, who I guessed was the uniformed maid who let me into the apartment. She then turned to me, winked, and leaned over.

  “Let’s have a look at Jake’s room, shall we?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just a quick snoop. Come, come!” Suddenly Mimsy got up and floated off her chair, gave me another wink, and exited the library like a cream-colored Casper the not-so-friendly ghost. I followed her down a long hallway and into Jake’s room. Already prepared to be amazed after my experience with Katie’s room, I suddenly felt old and experienced. But when the door to Jake’s room was opened, I realized that no amount of experience could prepare anyone for a room like that. Sunlight poured in from the gigantic window overlooking Park Avenue. A queen-size bed that was clearly not made by Jake ( judging from the showroom-perfect bedding and arrangement of cushions) rested grandly in the center of the room. Just like Katie’s room. Every sports star that had ever lived had apparently given Jake a picture of himself, and had taken the time to sign it. These personalized, autographed photographs covered the walls. They all read, “Dear Jake,” followed by a personal message that suggested that Jake was not just a starry-eyed fan clamoring for an autograph, but someone the star clearly wanted to please.

  “Jake, you’re the man! Live the dream!”—Michael Jordan

  “Jake, you sexy beast!”—Lindsay Lohan

  “You’re my genie in a bottle, Jake.”—Christina Aguilera

  Besides a built-in desk with two chairs neatly pushed in (two chairs…just like in Katie’s room!) there was a flat screen TV hooked up to surround sound and a TiVo. But Jake’s room had an additional surprise. On a shelf above the huge flat screen TV were a series of photos of him with Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson, Kelly Ripa and all her kids,…and (gasp!) Paris Hilton. All these photographs were taken on beaches in exotic locations, and judging from the scantily clad celebrities laughing with their arms happily around Jake, after the picture was taken, they probably took a dive into the hotel pool with Jake, actually hung out with Jake, and then exchanged cell phone numbers with Jake. Who was this kid?!

  “Oh, those,” Mimsy laughed. “I’m afraid my son is a bit of a ladies’ man.”

  A bit of a ladies’ man? This was ridiculous. And Jake did not look like a ninth grader. Jake was gorgeous. He had obviously inherited his mother’s thick, creamy blonde hair, and his eyes were a startling green. From the photographs, he looked like he was easily over six feet. His abs were—

  I was sick! What was I doing? I could not comment on his abs! But there they were, in photograph upon photograph! Six-pack after six-pack.

  “I told you he was a beautiful, beautiful child.” Mimsy smiled proudly, actually seemi
ng to bask in the fact that her son’s future tutor was gawking at his shirtless photographs. Jake looked more like a twenty-year-old Calvin Klein model than the pimply ninth grader I had expected. Mimsy led the way to Jake’s desk and opened a neat binder.

  “See, he is really very organized. He just needs a bit of help staying on task.”

  The binder was a work of art. Jake had even taken the time to type out the labels for each of the sections, and he clearly took thorough notes in class. What an unexpected treat! It looked like Jake might be an easy child. Bless Laura Brandeis! I looked at the ghostly woman beside me with growing affection. I could see the beginning of a very perfect, symbiotic relationship.

  “Can Jake interview you tomorrow afternoon at 4:45?” Mimsy asked suddenly. I realized the snooping session had come to a close. (Who scheduled children in forty-five-minute increments?)

  “Wonderful!”

  “I should warn you, though…Jake has been through six tutors. He’s very, very sweet, but he accepts only the best,” Mimsy informed, her whisper becoming even softer.

  SIX tutors?

  “But he’ll love you. You’re gorgeous in an exotic kind of way. Boys find that so sexy these days.” Mimsy smiled kindly and I swallowed. EXOTIC? I let it go. She was beaming at me as if she had just given me an Oscar. I had a feeling that “gorgeous in an exotic kind of way” roughly translated to: My son will find you sexy and therefore he will flirt with you instead of fighting with you. He will look forward to studying and then he will leave me alone. You will help him do his homework in the same way Conchita brings me my sparkling water. Blinking back my outrage, I smiled politely at Mimsy, accepted the glass of water Conchita brought, and penciled Jake into my planner. Mimsy gave me a creamy smile and graciously allowed Conchita to show me out. The minute I got out of the building I went straight to Bendel’s to buy the new skinny Sass & Bide jeans Jessica and Charlotte were talking about in class. It was time to celebrate my new job. My cell phone rang nonstop with calls from the mothers, but since I was still on my tutoring high, I chirped merrily about lunches and coffee dates as I shopped. The teachers didn’t want to be my friends, so what was stopping me from befriending the mothers, who so obviously liked and appreciated all my hard work?

  18

  The crisp November air was a welcome change, and I was enjoying the looks of envy I was getting as I marched up Park Avenue to school. The Sass & Bide jeans did cling pretty low on my waist, and the saleswoman at Bendel’s had assured me that they were sold out all over the city. Walking past the horde of Nightingale, Chapin, Brearley, and Spence girls (all distinguishable by the patterns on the über short skirts of their uniforms), I had a wild impulse to carry a sign that read: NEED A TUTOR? CALL ME AT (212) 555-8290. How else would I get these kids? I was tutoring Katie and Jake that afternoon, but that was only two hours. I could take at least two more clients easily. As I approached Langdon, I passed a group of Spence girls who went quiet as they eyed me up and down. If they were focused on the label on my ass, I was even more focused on their quilted Chanel schoolbags. Chanel as a schoolbag. How impossibly chic. I swung my Kate Spade tote (a gift from my mother for getting the Langdon job) to my right side so the girls wouldn’t see it. I felt dimly guilty that I was competing with fifteen-year-olds; still, it took all of my willpower to teach my class when all I wanted to do was run to Chanel and charge the bag on my credit card.

  Lynn Briggman and Maxine Landau beamed at me as I approached. Both were wearing tight yoga pants and carrying identical Louis Vuitton yoga mat holders as totes.

  “Anna!” Lynn smiled, her Fendi sunglasses sparkling against her honey highlights. She was holding up an envelope that was half the size of the imposing French doors. “I wanted to give you the invite in person!” Maxine’s eyes narrowed and she looked positively evil for a split second, then her face smoothed into a serene smile.

  “You must come to Jessica’s as well. It’s in December,” she urged, her white-blonde ponytail bouncing like a fifth-grader’s. Jessica Landau: Mother is a lesbian. Ran away with Core Fusion teacher when Jessica was in the fourth grade. Was Maxine going to meet her lover at core fusion class after she dropped Jessica off at school? I shook my head and forced myself to focus.

  “You’re both too kind.” I grinned broadly, thrilled to see that Dr. Blumenfeld was watching me intently from the lobby. Maxine had simply welcomed me and begged me to “keep social tabs” on Jessica because “Charlotte and Blair can be so cruel and exclusive.”

  Standing in front of Langdon Hall and chatting with Lynn and Maxine, I felt a sense of belonging to this school, to these people, to this world. That letter of complaint had been a mere bump in the road. Now these women really liked me (I had lost count of all the coffee and lunch invitations I had been offered) and my next three weekends were filled not only with bar mitzvahs at the city’s most exclusive venues, but with lunch and coffee dates at Fred’s, La Goulue, and Le Bilboquet. I had never been to any of these places, but the thought of going to them as the guest of some of the city’s most beautiful and influential women was thrilling to me.

  “I really have to go,” I finally said, giving both women an apologetic smile. They immediately leaned in for air kisses (air kisses with Langdon Hall Friends in front of old Blumenfeld!) and I delightedly air kissed them back. Blumenfeld pretended not to notice me as I walked past her in the lobby, but I watched her dart out of the building and give both mothers a warm hug. It seemed like I wasn’t the only one who had memorized the first few pages of the “Langdon Hall Friends” booklet.

  As I rode up the elevator to my class, I couldn’t help thinking about my favorite 80s movie, Working Girl. Trade in the shoulder pads for Juicy and skinny jeans, and I was Melanie Griffith. In September I had moved into a fifth-floor walkup and was staying up all hours of the night trying to come up with interesting lesson plans. Now I was wearing three-hundred-dollar designer jeans and making enough money to reschedule another dinner with Bridgette. This time I would drink as many fourteen-dollar Bellinis as I wanted! Admittedly the quality of my lessons had started to slip, but my students seemed to adore me even more. In fact, every immoral step I made at this school brought me respect and adulation from my students and their parents. That’s why I hadn’t even given it a second thought last night when I put a big fat A in red ink on the top of another Benjamin-Randi paper.

  I hopped, skipped, and jumped to the Carletons that evening, unaware that my tutoring session might as well have been on the Titanic. Right when it hit the iceberg.

  I was the Titanic.

  I was greeted (confronted was more like it) by both Amanda and her husband. I could see Katie in the background, sitting in the living room with her eyes all red and puffy.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked weakly, knowing full well that everything was obviously not okay. Maybe this was it. The pin that would prick the crazy bubble I had been floating in for the last few weeks.

  “Anna, Katie received a Friday report,” Mr. Carleton said gravely, looking at me dead on. What the hell was a Friday report?

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, hoping for further clarification.

  “A Friday report!” Amanda cried, and then whipped around and glared at Katie. The Carletons walked toward the living room where their daughter was sitting, and I followed mutely behind them. Dare I ask what a Friday report was?

  “It turns out that Katie did not hand in her Lord of the Flies paper,” Mr. Carleton finally said. Ahh. Friday reports were probably like the alert forms we sent home if a student didn’t turn something in or was in danger of failing. At any rate, how much trouble could I be in? Katie had never even told me about this paper.

  “YES, I DID!” Katie suddenly screamed, and we all jumped. “I WORKED ON IT WITH ANNA LAST TIME. REMEMBER, ANNA?” Katie was hysterical. The Carletons turned to face me, and I caught a glimpse of Katie’s pleading face behind their backs. Please she mouthed to me. While I preferred to take the honest route and just tell ever
yone that I had no idea what was going on and that Katie was a freaking LIAR, I knew that alienating her could result in losing this tutoring job. After all, wasn’t Katie sort of my boss? I was so screwed.

  “What happened to it?” I asked Katie calmly, and then gestured a bit more wildly at her when I was sure both her parents were focused on her face. What the fuck? I mouthed back. I felt no remorse for swearing at a twelve-year-old equipped with fully matured manipulative abilities.

  “I e-mailed it to myself and now I can’t find it. Ms. Hyatt is such a freakin’ bitch!” I winced as Katie cursed out loud, and braced myself for the yelling that never came. Neither Carleton seemed in the least bit fazed that Katie had just called her teacher a bitch.

  “We need this resolved, Anna. I am going to believe my daughter because I know Katie does not lie. But she does need to write another paper,” Mr. Carleton said firmly.

  “Apparently if it is not turned in tomorrow it gets lowered a grade. We figured that since you helped her with it, you could, ah, just help her more than you normally might just so she gets it done,” Amanda said in a strange voice.

  “More than I normally would?” I echoed. This lie had gone so far that even I was beginning to recollect writing this phantom paper with Katie.

  “Well, not write it per se,” Amanda said quickly, “but just help more than usual. You probably remember most of it anyway, so writing whatever you remember will just make it a little easier for our daughter to get it completed.”

  “Or Katie could dictate and you could type,” Mr. Carleton suggested. “We have an important family dinner with friends tonight, and I really would like the paper completed before you leave. Obviously charge us for however many hours you are here.”

  All three Carletons stared at me as I tried to take in what was going on. First, I needed to basically write a paper. Second, the paper had to be done by this evening, and done well or else I might be deemed an incompetent tutor. Third, apparently we had already written the paper in our last session so rewriting from memory should only be a breeze. I was seeing Jake Herring for the first time in two hours. I had figured that I wouldn’t be with Katie for more than an hour and a half, and had generously budgeted thirty minutes to walk over to Jake’s and maybe even get a Starbucks in between. I didn’t even have the Herring number in my cell phone. Fuck and double fuck. And then I heard a voice that sounded exactly like mine: