Schooled

by Anisha Lakhani

  “We’ll get it done, won’t we, Katie?” I was a maniac. A raving maniac. The Carletons looked positively thrilled, and Katie breathed a sigh of relief.

  “We’ll leave you two be,” Amanda said happily. “Anna, we don’t know what we would do without you.”

  I followed Katie into her room like a prisoner on death row. As soon as she closed the door, I opened my mouth to start shouting, freaking out, anything to convey how I felt.

  “Before you speak!” Katie interjected. “Before you speak I want to say that I am, like, so sorry. I totally forgot about it! Ohmigod, my parents are so annoying!”

  “Katie! You just put me in the WORST position!” I didn’t know why, in that terrible moment, I started to smile. God knows I found nothing remotely funny about this situation. Maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of how a seventh-grader had managed to completely dupe her parents. Or the lengths one had to go when their boss was a seventh-grader. Katie started to smile, too, and suddenly we were struggling to muffle our laughter. I collapsed on her bed and felt the tears roll down my eyes. I think we were both just a little hysterical.

  “You’re the best, Anna,” Katie finally said, looking at me with genuine affection. It was the world’s sickest way to bond with a child, but there it was. Our moment.

  “Okay, listen, we can go to SparkNotes or GradeSaver,” I finally said, eagerly endorsing the cheat sites teachers were warned about in education programs. They featured full summaries and intelligent analyses of almost any book taught in the American school system. “Lord of the Flies has to be on them. Have you read the book at least?”

  Katie looked at me with a guilty smile and shrugged. I had my answer.

  “Just sit here, okay?” I ordered briskly, and Katie obediently sat on the chair next to the computer. I took the main seat and went directly to the SparkNotes Web site and typed in Lord of the Flies. “Get me the assignment sheet your teacher gave you on this essay thing,” I muttered, reading faster than I had ever read anything in my life. “Then come over here and read the summary so at least you have some idea of what we are doing.”

  Katie jumped to action and began pulling binders out of her bag. She finally pulled out a tattered sheet indicating that a two-to three-page double-spaced paper with an original thesis on Lord of the Flies was to be turned in last Friday. It had been assigned the first week of school. I wanted to give Katie a lecture, but the thought of getting to the Herring residence on time silenced me.

  “It’s about these stupid boys on this island,” Katie offered.

  “Shh. Just read the summary—I printed it out for you.” I began typing furiously. Katie was quiet for a few minutes, but after I finished the introductory paragraph she perked up.

  “Anna, you forgot to type my heading.”

  “I think you can manage that,” I returned sarcastically, moving on to the second body paragraph. “Go to chapter three in your book and skim until you find what page Jack taunts Piggy on,” I ordered. “We have to cite the page number.” I was now typing at such an alarming rate that Katie was staring, open-mouthed.

  “Ohmigod, you’d be like the fastest IM’er,” she breathed.

  “Just find the quote, Katie,” I ordered, still typing.

  “Anna?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t make it too good, okay? I usually get Bs.”

  I made it out of the Carleton apartment at the exact time I was supposed to be at the Herring residence. I figured if I took a cab I would be five minutes late, and five minutes was hopefully acceptable. Amanda Carleton had given me a grateful smile and slipped me an envelope as I had said good-bye.

  “We cannot thank you enough,” she had said warmly. I’m not sure what I had mumbled in my rush to get to the elevator, but now, as I sat in the back of the cab and headed up Park Avenue, I couldn’t shake the reality of what had just happened. I had done exactly what Randi Abrahams had done for Benjamin. Now I felt overwhelmingly sorry for her. Who knew what pressures had been on her to get Benjamin to complete my assignment that day at Starbucks? Tutors were the diplomats in the wars waged between parents and children, and for the sake of diplomacy I realized a certain amount of papers just had to…“get done.” By any means possible. It went with the territory. I was dying to open the envelope that Amanda had put into my bag, but the cab pulled up at the Herring building and I didn’t have a minute to spare.

  I was nervous for my interview with Jake. Clearly this was no ordinary freshman. As I walked up to the building, I noticed that the doorman from the other day was on duty. Crap. But this time I was prepared.

  “Herring,” I declared.

  He raised his eyebrows and announced me. I turned left confidently and walked down the long hall to the elevator. Edward was still in the elevator. Had Edward even left? When I reached the floor, ANOTHER maid opened the door and informed me that Mrs. Herring was “not home.” Oh, God, it was just me and Jake. Alone. Yet another maid (I was losing count) led me down the hallway into Jake’s room, and there, lying on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of Abercrombie sweatpants, was Jake. He had a remote control in his hand and was casually switching channels. He grinned at me.

  Oh, shit. Suddenly I was nostalgic for sweet seventh-grade Katie.

  “Hey,” he drawled sexily.

  “Hey,” I croaked, my mouth feeling very dry.

  “So you’re like my tutor number one thousand.” He rolled his eyes.

  I had to come up with something shocking to catch him off guard.

  “Why? Did the others just fucking suck?” I was gambling with this approach, but after Mimsy had told me that Jake had gone through six tutors, and after I had heard Katie use the word bitch with no repercussions in front of her parents, I was beginning to learn that cursing just might prove to be the golden ticket.

  It worked. Jake shut off the TV and turned to face me. I felt the same joy I experienced when Katie had logged off her AOL, like a dog who had just been given a second and unexpected liver treat. Jake got up from the bed and reached for a T-shirt, trying to be casual, but I could tell the swearing had taken him off guard. He was probably debating whether he should rat me out to his parents and enjoy watching me get fired, or accept that I might be that cool tutor he always wished for.

  “Yeah…you know…,” Jake muttered finally, shrugging his shoulders. I sauntered over to his desk as if it were my room, purposefully sat down on the second chair, and looked at him. Jake appeared to have one more trick up his sleeve.

  “Did you see this picture of me and Paris in Hawaii?” he asked nonchalantly, nodding over to the shelf with his celebrity photographs. I blessed Mimsy and her snooping because I was no longer a gawking fool.

  “She’s cute. I saw her at Barneys the other day,” I lied casually. I had never seen Paris Hilton in my life, and I had never been to Barneys.

  “So, like, you’re rich or something?” Jake eyed me curiously.

  “What?”

  “I mean, none of my teachers shops at Barneys.”

  “How do you know?” I challenged, trying to buy time.

  “C’mon. You know what I mean.”

  “I have no clue what you mean. It’s not really your business, but whatever. My dad gave me a trust fund. I just tutor because, you know, I like kids.” I could just see my father rolling on the floor and laughing at me. I had a trust fund, all right—a trust in my ability to do without a single one of his funds!

  Jake and I stared at each other. He blinked first.

  “No way,” Jake finally said, and then blessed me with a dazzling smile. “So, like, you teach and tutor for fun?”

  “Yeah, you know. I did the whole spend-money-all-day thing, but it got old.” I was starting to have fun. I was also starting to become a pathological liar.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean,” Jake commiserated.

  “So, why don’t you give me a rundown of all your classes and the work you have to do…and we’ll, uh…check that out and see what we can b
ang out in one session.” I forced myself to speak as if I had never been more bored in my life, which put Jake on the defensive. He started to stutter.

  “Well, uh, um, okay, like my parents put a lot of pressure on me? And m-my sister went to Princeton like them? And I mean, we have connections and stuff but I still need to pull my own?” Jake didn’t meet my eye as he answered my question. And whether it was because he sounded so desperate, or because I was pretty in an “exotic kind of way,” or because I had just lied and cursed like a sailor, he was letting me in! It was like when Katie gave me her Dior elastic bands. As Jake began getting out his binders and assignment pad, I couldn’t help but hope that if things went this well for a week or two Jake might introduce me to Paris Hilton. That would kill Bridgette. Before I left, Jake looked at me shyly and asked me if he could take my picture.

  “I just, like, have pictures of all my friends,” he explained. I melted. As he innocently clicked a picture with his digital camera, I smiled gamely.

  19

  I know I should have probably saved my first week of tutoring checks, but for some reason, going blonde and acquiring a Chanel handbag had jumped to the top of my to-do list. It was Saturday morning and I didn’t think twice before allowing the magical revolving door to suck me into the world of Bergdorf Goodman. Bridgette and I had browsed through the handbag displays and had lingered over the Hermès scarves in college, but I hadn’t ventured back. The memory of the $400 scarves scared me even more than the $14 Bellinis. But now, armed with Amanda Carleton’s $1,000 “thank you” check, I marched in confidently. The John Barrett Salon was the place, according to Charlotte and Blair, to get your hair cut and highlighted. Only I wasn’t going for mere highlights. I wanted the whole thing: double process, bleached, glistening, platinum blonde. I wanted to shimmer like the Langdon Hall mothers, and I wanted this accomplished before my series of lunch dates. Walking past the Valentino handbag display and the precious jewels section, I found my way to the elevators. On the way up to the ninth floor, the doors opened and closed on almost every floor, allowing me glimpses into mini-salons that read Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada. When the doors finally opened on 9 I was hardly surprised to be greeted by a lanky, doe-eyed girl holding a tray of Pellegrino in tiny green bottles with even tinier little straws.

  “Hello, welcome to John Barrett. Who is your appointment with today?” she asked brightly, offering me a drink.

  “John,” I said as casually as I could, pretending to ignore the widening of her eyes. Getting an appointment with John was absolutely impossible unless you knew someone. And now I knew someone. After mentioning my desire to get highlights to Max Briggman’s mother, she had followed up with an e-mail the next day finalizing my appointment with John. I chalked it up to one of the perks of teaching at a private school.

  “Why don’t you change into a robe and I will lead you to his seat,” she offered, now practically bowing. Two blonde women walked by, both carrying the already iconic YSL Muse bag.

  The white-haired and debonair John Barrett appeared minutes after I was seated, followed by his faithful dog, Chaser.

  “So, you want to be a blonde?”

  “How did you know?” I asked, looking at his image in the large mirror that reflected his face and all of Central Park in the background.

  “Lynn Briggman is one of my favorite people.” He waved his hand in a casual gesture. “She told me that you want to be a platinum blonde.” As I nodded, he deftly ran his fingers through my hair, called over two assistants, and fired off instructions for Ross, his master colorist. (Apparently, John did not do color. He would be giving me a cut to suit my new head of highlights.)

  “You’ll have to have two different processes today because you have dark brown hair,” he said almost to himself as he continued to lift and fuss with my hair, “but if you will be patient, you will leave here today a Bergdorf Blonde.” He grinned as he referenced the novel, which was suspended in a glass case in the entrance of the salon. Ross nodded in agreement and fired instructions to his assistant. I had lost count, but it seemed as if no less than five people would be attending to my hair today.

  I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of Pellegrino.

  I could be very patient.

  Thanks to Ross, my highlights were Jennifer Aniston–worthy, and John’s expert scissors had created bouncy waves that showed off each golden strand. I was so busy trying to catch a glimpse of myself in every mirrored surface, I hardly heard the receptionist when she gave me my bill.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nine hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Crap.

  How could a few artfully placed waves and some blonde streaks cost close to a thousand dollars?

  “I only got a haircut and some highlights…is there some mistake?”

  “Four hundred for John, and you didn’t just get highlights, Ms. Taggert. You got a double process with Ross and a deep conditioning treatment.”

  I had anticipated it costing more than the $200 my mother usually spent to cover up her gray, but this was beyond anything I was expecting. Even in my newly discovered tutoring riches, I never thought my hair could eat up all of the Carleton bonus.

  I reached for my bag when another receptionist interrupted. She gave me an obsequious smile and said airily, “Oh, Ms. Taggert. It’s been taken care of…compliments of Ms. Briggman.”

  “Oh…” I managed, looking helplessly from one receptionist to the other. There was no gray area for this one: I was accepting a bribe plain and simple. I could just imagine how disappointed my parents would be if they knew.

  “I feel terrible…” I replied weakly as if it were the receptionist at John Barrett who would be deciding my fate come Judgment Day.

  “We love Lynn,” she replied as if that was the only answer I needed. I sheepishly accepted and walked toward the elevator in a trance. My hair was bouncy and frothy and shimmery. I looked a little like a Langdon Hall mother, and I felt heads turn as I walked. And just like that my guilt evaporated. I would never be brunette again. So what if I had to return every two weeks for a touch-up? By then I would be able to afford it easily! The John Barrett Salon now owned me in a grip that was both deadly and orgasmic.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  The voice was unmistakable. Damian Oren. I had arrived at school early because I needed to check out some library books for the paper Jake needed to write that afternoon. In my rush I had forgotten that my hair was making its debut.

  “Do you like it?” I grinned a little self-consciously. Hair that glittered on a Saturday afternoon at Bergdorf’s now seemed a bit X-rated under the fluorescent lights of the school library. There’s never a dimmer switch when you need one.

  “So, you competing with them now?” He tried to act casually, but I could tell from his eyes that he was serious. And a little disappointed? I couldn’t make out.

  “Can’t a girl change her hair color?” I retorted equally casually, catching a gigantic curl glimmer from the corner of my eye. My hair really had taken on a life of its own.

  “Nice Juicys,” he shot back, and then, just like the sun coming out, he was all laughter and smiles again. Had I imagined the disappointment?

  “So, you know you’re famous, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re totally a hot commodity. It’s all over Facebook,” he answered, staring hard at me. I returned his stare blankly.

  “Wait. You’re kidding me.” Damian tilted his head back and howled. “An actual, living, breathing specimen who doesn’t know what Facebook is. I love it. I fucking love it!”

  “Okay, Oren. Don’t be such a wiseass. I know what Facebook is. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.” I was irritated. He was undeterred.

  “Nice book. Nice book on Edith Wharton. I’m sure your seventh-graders just love Wharton’s prose,” he taunted, pointing to the book under my arm. Needless to say, Jake’s paper on Edith Wharton’s Age of Innocence was due next week.

 
“Is it for Jake?” Damian asked innocently. I felt like I had been shot through the heart. What?

  “Excuse me?” I sputtered. How did he know about Jake?

  “Jake Herring, kingpin of the Upper East Side juvenile drug world? Celebrity whore, teen fucking Jake Herring?” Damian was clearly having the time of his life torturing me.

  “How the hell—”

  Damian sighed dramatically, took my arm and ushered me to a nearby computer terminal. Looking around furtively to make sure nobody was near, he logged on to Facebook. What happened next was too fast for me to keep track. Whether Damian had an account or logged in as someone else, I don’t know, but all of a sudden we were on Jake Herring’s Facebook page looking at a picture of…me!

  CHECK OUT MY HOT TUTOR his wall read. Apparently, they did.

  Snoop2D4: yo Davo you have to tap that.

  TuLegit88: nice lessons, man.

  Skaterboyz: get me her digits NOW.

  Before I could respond, Damian clicked the album SATURDAY NIGHT PICS and opened up a digital album of Jake and all his friends apparently out on a Saturday night: closeup with a girl in a cab; shot of same girl pretending to give Jake a blow job and grinning madly; shot of all the guys doing a shot in somebody’s living room; closeup of Jake smoking a joint. I opened my mouth to react, but Damian was too quick. He simply brought the cursor to the point in the picture that focused on the nameless girl’s face, and all of a sudden we were at her homepage! That’s how easy it was. Just click on someone’s face and you were at their homepage. Click. Click. Girl kissing another girl. Same girl in bra holding shot glass. Another shot of girl kissing another girl.