“Oh, Jake, yes!” I heard a squeaky voice call. “Yes, yes, yes!”
I knocked even louder.
Silence. Shuffling. A piece of paper was slipped under the door. Wordlessly I bent down and opened it. It was his assignment sheet for The Age of Innocence term paper!
“Jake!” I screamed, now banging on the door. “I am NOT writing this paper. Now, either you open this door this minute or I’m calling your mother. I mean it!”
“Chill…chill,” Jake muttered, opening the door in his trademark boxer shorts. I looked around the room for signs of the thin little blonde who had been attached to him just moments ago.
“Alison’s in the bathroom,” he offered.
“Alison needs to go home,” I retorted.
“Yeah, she will, give her a break. She’s just washing up,” Jake replied, wandering over to his bed casually. Lying down, he reached over to his drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I watched with mouth open as he expertly lit one up and blew a perfect circle of smoke out of his mouth.
“Jake!” I exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, Anna. Where are my manners? Would you care for a smoke?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. This was out of some bad movie. I had a half-naked man-child of a student lying on his bed smoking after he had just made out (had sex?!) with his girlfriend (friend with benefits?!) who was still in the bathroom “washing up.”
“No, I DO NOT want a smoke,” I snapped. “I want you to get dressed. I want Alison to go home. I want you to be seated at your desk or I will not explain this book to you,” I said flatly. No amount of money in the world was worth this.
Jake put both his hands up in mock surrender and took one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out.
“Hey, Allie,” he called out, “I need to use the bathroom, too. You almost done?”
“Coming, baby!” a voice squeaked, and I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down.
“Hey, Anna, don’t get mad. I’ll be, like, three seconds, and then I swear I’m going to be such a good boy you’ll fall in love with me,” Jake promised smoothly.
I kept my eyes shut.
A minute later Jake was in the bathroom and I was alone with Allie.
“Um, are you Ms. Taggert?” she squeaked again. I opened my eyes and found myself face to face with the source of Jake’s entertainment. Now dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark, cashmere hoodie, she looked like a pretty and angelic high school student. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was staring at me with big blue eyes that did not appear to be in the least bit embarrassed.
“Yes. Who are you?” I had no intentions of being kind or friendly with this little slut.
“I’m Charlotte’s older sister, Alison Robertson,” she replied. “I’m on break from Penn for the winter holidays. Charlotte adores you!”
Ahh. Of course this made sense. Charlotte gave blow jobs in party buses, so clearly her sister Alison had sex in the afternoon with high school boys.
“Are you Jake’s girlfriend?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Jake? Oh no,” Alison laughed casually. “We’re just good friends. I mean, sometimes we kiss a little, but otherwise he’s like a brother to me.”
“How nice,” I replied sarcastically.
“I know, he’s so sweet,” Alison gushed, the sarcasm clearly over her head. “I’ll tell Charlotte I saw you! She’ll be so excited!”
Grabbing her purse, Alison blew me a kiss and exited the room with her ponytail bouncing. Not missing a beat, Jake entered in sweatpants and a U of Penn sweatshirt. Still grinning, he sat Indian style on his bed and faced the desk.
“Can we compromise? If I sit up on my bed, can you just teach me from over there?” he asked sweetly.
Giving up, I pulled out the copy of The Age of Innocence that I had “preread.” What I really wanted to do was preslap him.
“So, how do you want to do this?” I asked, a bit confused. “Do I just tell you what it’s about?”
“Yup.”
“Just curious, but there are Web sites, you know…like SparkNotes and GradeSaver that do the same thing. Why have your parents pay so much to have someone do what is already available for free on the Web?”
“Those fucking summaries are, like, as long as the book,” Jake complained. “I like to listen.”
“Let me guess. You’re an auditory learner.”
“Exactly! How’d you know?”
There was nothing I could say to someone who could actually complain with a straight face that reading SparkNotes was too much effort. I began to relay the story. Since I had read it so recently, I was able to go into the details and found myself almost enjoying talking about the book. Every now and then I would pose questions and share what I enjoyed most. Jake was shockingly engaged. I found him incredibly interested, and I was thrilled by the way he would jump in with questions and insights.
“It’s incredible how a country founded on the principles of, like, meritocracy could, on so many levels, like, mimic the very class-conscious world it, like, totally strove so hard to totally break free from, you know?” Jake mused at one point. “I should, like, write my paper on that. Whaddaya think, Anna?”
“I think you should have read the book if you’re that smart,” I shot back, shaking my head in disbelief. This kid never ceased to shock me. Beyond the string of “likes” and “totallys,” Jake had actually made an intelligent point. “But I have to go. I’ll finish the summary on Thursday, and then we can get started on the paper over the weekend, okay?” It was 5:15, and I had to be at Katie’s apartment at 5:30.
“Wait, no!” Jake howled. “I’m really, like, into it now…can’t you stay for another hour and just finish it?”
“I told you that I had someone else after you, Jake,” I reminded him. “And remember that we had a bumpy start to the session.”
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned, allowing himself to lie back on his bed. “Okay, we’ll finish on Thursday. But you should, like, allow more time between your clients in case we need you for longer,” Jake advised. “And there’s an envelope for you in the foyer. Mom told me to remind you.”
“Where is your mother, by the way?” I asked curiously.
“No clue. See ya, Anna.” Jake lit up another cigarette as he simultaneously reached for his BlackBerry. I was clearly dismissed. Sure enough, on the way out was a thick envelope with my name scrawled on it. I was dying to open it in the elevator, but Edward was peering over my shoulder as if he, too, were burning with desire to see just how much Mimsy had left me.
Alone outside the apartment building, I quickly tore it open.
Dear Anna,
What a lifesaver you are to our son! Thank you for reading the book. Enclosed is the reading fee, and a little extra thank you. I realize that Laura Brandeis does all the billing at All Ivy Tutoring, but we can keep this between us.
Big kiss,
Mimsy
Enclosed in the note were so many hundred-dollar bills that I was afraid to count them on the street. My hands shaking, I hailed a cab to the Carleton apartment and began counting in the backseat. One, two, three…five…seven…twelve…fifteen…twenty! Twenty hundred-dollar bills. I wanted to find Jake’s English teacher and kiss her feet for assigning such a big fat book. At the same time, I just couldn’t figure out this world I was now so immersed in. On the one hand, the schools and the parent bodies found every possible way to keep the teachers miserable and underpaid. After school, however, they fought tooth and nail to seduce these very same people with massive sums of money and bribes. Did they honestly think we wouldn’t catch on?
The afternoon before Christmas break I was standing in the faculty lounge for our “holiday party.” Cheap little decorations from Duane Reade were stapled to the bulletin boards, and cups of Minute Maid fruit punch and cookies rested on a stainless steel cart. Damian Oren was walking around with a Santa hat tilted on the side of his head, holding a mug of creamy liquid that
smelled suspiciously like heavily jacked eggnog.
“Merry Christmas,” he slurred to me. “Or in Langdon tradition, I should also say, Happy Hanukkah…and a big fat Happy Kwanzaa, too.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked curiously, certain he was not drinking the fruit punch.
“Shhhh.” He grinned, putting a finger to his lips. “Where’s your best friend?”
“Randi didn’t want to come,” I responded defensively. Damian had the completely wrong idea about Randi. Without her I would never have survived Langdon for so long!
“Faculty! Gather round! I have a surprise for you!”
We all looked toward the entrance of the lounge. Dr. Blumenfeld had just entered, wearing a plain red skirt suit with enormous pearls. She was smiling graciously and beckoned for all of us to find seats near her.
“I want to thank you all for the hard work you all put in this semester! Now, as you know, Langdon does not allow its parent body to give gifts. It’s our progressive way of showing that what we do comes from our hearts!” She beamed.
What? No gifts?
“But that doesn’t mean we don’t have holiday spirit! I have gift certificates for all of you!”
I relaxed. That was a really nice touch. Not that, after the generous “gift” I had received from Mimsy Herring the other day, I was in need of anything, but still, we teachers did deserve some recognition.
“Now I want you all to line up,” Dr. Blumenfeld ordered, as if she were talking to a second-grade class. “When you come up and receive your gift, we will cross your name off the list. We don’t want anyone getting a gift twice,” she joked, and a few teachers laughed uncomfortably at the insult. The line started to form, and Damian made a beeline for me.
“Ah, the bread lines of St. Petersburg…,” he breathed into my ear. I shrugged him off, irritated. Poor Blumenfeld was trying to be nice for a change. He whistled annoyingly as we stood in line, and when my turn came, he whispered, “Alms for the poor, alms for the poor.”
“Thank you, Anna. I’m so happy you have made such a turnaround and become such a beloved member of our faculty.” Dr. Blumenfeld smiled at me and handed me an envelope.
“Thank you,” I replied, overwhelmed by her public compliment.
Holding the card in my hand, I walked out of the lounge with a light heart.
Until I opened the card.
A twenty-dollar Barnes & Noble gift certificate.
Not even enough for a hardcover. Or a single pearl from Blumenfeld’s necklace.
Alms for the poor indeed.
The desk in my classroom, however, revealed a completely different story. It was piled high with shopping bags from Barneys, Bergdorf’s, and Hermès. Boxes of all shapes and sizes were covered with elaborate wrapping paper with coordinating ribbons. This was all for…me?
“In case the Barnes & Noble certificate doesn’t cut it,” Randi said behind me. “I’d gather those up pretty quickly before Blumenfeld sees. Those are your real gifts.”
“I can’t even carry these home, Randi,” I replied, still shocked. I reached for an orange Hermès bag.
“ANNA! Empty the gifts into this,” Randi ordered, holding up a Hefty bag. “Open them when you get home. Hurry!”
“But why can’t we—”
“We’re not supposed to get gifts, Anna. And trust me, not all teachers get this treatment. If you want to keep them, just do as I say. Once freakin’ Dorothy Steeple walks by and sees the display, she’ll sic Blumenfeld on you like a rabid dog.”
In a panic, I began emptying the endless array of bags into the Hefty bag until it looked like Santa’s pouch on Christmas Eve.
“Merry Christmas,” she winked. “Let’s get out of here. Call me when you open everything and we’ll talk about what we got.” I noticed another big black Hefty bag at the entrance of my classroom. I smiled in understanding and then we both dragged our loot down the hallway toward the elevator.
“Cleaning out the rooms, hey?” Harold Warner smiled knowingly as we passed him in the hall.
“They get so messy!” Randi replied without skipping a beat.
Two hours later my bedroom was littered with Prada bags and Hermès scarves, Chanel wallets and Gucci clutches. Many of the gifts, I knew, cost more than one month’s rent. The little cards that accompanied each other were tiny and simply had innocuous little messages like HAPPY HOLIDAYS, WITH LOVE THE BRIGGMANS or JUST A SMALL THANK YOU FROM THE ROBERTSONS! Of course I called Randi immediately.
“I just got the new Chanel clutch!” she screamed without even bothering to say hello.
“Me, too! From the Roberstons!” I shouted back, delirious.
“Oh.” She was temporarily deflated. “Weird they gave us the same thing.”
“Randi!” I exclaimed. “We just won’t wear it at the same time when we go out!”
“You’re right,” she replied, brightening. “What else did you get?” We spent the next twenty minutes gushing about every gift we received until a thought occurred to me.
“Does every teacher at Langdon get these gifts?”
“Yeah, right,” Randi scoffed. “I’m willing to bet we’re the only two. I mean, maybe Sarah Waters gets some good stuff, but really we’re a select breed, you and I.”
I marveled at the notion that in four months, I had become part of a “select breed.”
“Now come meet me at the shoe section at Barneys to celebrate. I’m sure the Worthingtons got you a nice little gift certificate from there?”
“I’m already out the door.”
When I arrived at the second floor of Barneys, Randi was already surrounded by a pile of shoe boxes. She waved me over happily.
“After this let’s eat,” she suggested. “So where should we go for the best Mexican, Rosa Mexicano or Dos Caminos?”
“I’m hardly the expert, either one.” I shrugged, watching as she slipped her foot into the new Prada stilletos.
Randi looked up at me curiously.
“Um, Anna? Aren’t you like a quarter Mexican or something?”
There it was again! And this time I was NOT letting it go.
“Okay, we have enough secrets between us that I can ask you something, right? Something you won’t breathe a word about?”
“Anna, of course,” Randi laughed. “If you don’t like margaritas just tell me!” We both paused for a minute, momentarily distracted as a salesman brought me a pair of Marni pumps to try on.
“No, Randi, it’s not that,” I replied, admiring the shoes. They fit perfectly. “Since the first minute I entered Langdon, people have been going on and on about my Mexican heritage. Blumenfeld even alluded to it during the interview. Only I’m not Mexican whatsoever, so what the fuck?”
I noddedly absently to the salesman and gave him my credit card. I wanted the shoes and an explanation. Randi was grinning from ear to ear.
“No shit!” she exclaimed.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re really not Mexican?!”
“No!” I yelled a little too loudly, ignoring the curious looks I was getting from the other shoppers.
“My, my, my,” Randi laughed, extending her leg to admire the knee-high suede Marc Jacobs boots she was trying on, “What a shocker.”
“Randi,” I asked seriously, sitting on the soft couch next to her, “I’m not fucking around. I really need to figure this out. Please tell me what’s going on? Whenever I felt the impulse to tell the truth, everyone always seemed so thrilled that I was Mexican that I just shut up. The truth is, I have no idea how they got the idea or why they’re so happy about it.”
“You really don’t know?” Randi asked, unzipping the boots and finally turning to face me. “After all this time? You still don’t get it?”
“Randi!” I exclaimed. “Just tell me!”
“Langdon is like a corporation,” she said finally. “They’re selling a product. And that product is entry into an Ivy League college. Or an equally prestigious university. Parents will pa
y thirty grand a year for their child from kindergarten to twelfth grade if they have some level of assurance that their child is going to go to an Ivy League school.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “So they need Mexicans to help them do that?” I failed to see how Randi’s explanation was going to lead to my supposed ethnicity.
“And Ivy League schools are all into this affirmative action thing,” Randi went on. “So Harvard is not likely to take twenty white Jewish kids from Langdon Hall. But…”
“They’ll take a bunch more from one school if they have various ethnicities?” I asked, catching on.
“Exactly. So by bragging about a diverse faculty, Blumenfeld hopes to attract a more diverse parent body. All in the pursuit of being able to say that Langdon sent more students to Ivies than the other private schools. Which, in turn, keeps applications to Langdon high enough so that the school can have the luxury of accepting only the families they want.”
I signed for my new Marni pumps in wonderment.
“Just look at every private school in Manhattan,” Randi went on callously. “Why is it that in the last two years almost all of them put a person of color in a leadership position? Or how come they’re so hell-bent on hiring teachers from diversity conferences?”
“You really think that’s why?” Was it really that…calculating?
“But what’s even better,” Randi rattled on, focusing in on a pair of purple Gucci loafers across the room, “is that they’re all still run by very old and very racist white people. But that’s just my opinion.”
“But how did Blumenfeld make the leap and assume I’m Mexican?”
“I don’t know…,” Randi shrugged. “Your complexion is a little on the dark side, and your hair was dark brown. Maybe she confused your résumé with the ones from the diversity conference. Mabye it was just wishful thinking on her part.”
There was only one appropriate response.
“My people prefer Rosa Mexicano.”
Laura Brandeis called at 9:30 P.M. that night. I had just gotten home from dinner at Rosa Mexicano with Randi, and was preparing to pack. My mother was picking me up the next morning and giving me a ride back home. For once, I was going to shower her with expensive gifts!
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