“Unless you are a building resident posing as a doorman, I suggest you do your job and let Bettina know I am here,” I retorted icily, refusing to budge.
“Anna?”
The voice came from behind me and all of a sudden the doorman’s sneer vanished. I turned to face a petite woman in frayed jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. She was smiling hopefully at me while balancing two grocery bags from Eli’s. Her mousy brown hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail held by a scrunchy (yes, a scrunchy) and her lips were chapped. Now this was a candidate for the service elevator! How did she know my name?
“Let me get your bags, Mrs. LaVera,” the doorman gushed. Both men jumped to attention and I stood speechlessly as they took her bags and opened the golden vault.
“You’re…Bettina?” I asked weakly, now feeling awkward and overdressed. With a Fifth Avenue address and a name like Bettina LaVera I had been expecting a Botoxed yoga goddess clad in cashmere and stilettos. Not Ugly Betty!
“I’m so happy to meet you,” she replied warmly, grabbing my limp hand and shaking it vigorously. “It took forever to catch a cab and I was so nervous I’d be late for our appointment! Let’s go in.”
Still furious at the doorman, I shook my head with feigned awkwardness and looked toward my latest archnemesis. “I think he…,” I paused and glanced at him pointedly, “wants me to use the service entrance.”
“Oh, Anna, don’t be silly! Last I checked I lived in this building and Hector was the doorman,” Bettina dismissed, barely glancing at the now scowling Hector as she ushered me into the lobby. I gave him a triumphant smile and followed Bettina into the elevator.
Prepared for an apartment that was as shabby as its owner, I was stunned when the elevator doors opened directly into a grand marble foyer. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and two tastefully upholstered benches graced the ends of the room. It reminded me of an entrance to one of the Newport mansions. Bettina casually kicked off her sneakers and padded down one corridor, gesturing for me to follow. I trailed after her, cringing at the sound my heels made against her floor. Should I have taken them off? Before I could ask, we were both standing in the living room.
I gasped.
Enormous French doors opened into an expansive patio overlooking the Met. On the opposite side of the room a grand piano stretched luxuriously behind an oversized plush couch flanked by two brocade love seats. Similar seating arrangements were repeated throughout the vast room while coffee tables and armoires boasted impressive china and crystal collections. Beneath us was the largest Persian rug I had ever seen. The room looked like it was straight out of Architectural Digest.
“Your apartment is amazing,” I said honestly, looking around in wonder. “Believe me, I see so many apartments but this is truly breathtaking.”
“You have no idea what that means to me, Anna!” Bettina replied proudly, looking around the room with me. “I decorated it myself—picked each and every fabric—and I have to say I love it, too. As long as we are giving compliments, let me tell you that I feel like a frumpy housewife compared to you! What a gorgeous suit!”
“Thanks so much,” I replied awkwardly, still feeling overdressed. I watched her walk over to the couch and gesture for me to join her. She surprised me once again by putting both feet up and crossing her legs Indian style. I lowered myself gingerly into an armchair, unable to figure out how this woman could decorate her apartment so stylishly and look the way she did. As soon as I sat down, Bettina jumped up and slapped her forehead.
“I’m so rude, Anna! Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
I looked around the room for signs of a maid. It was so huge that it was entirely possible one had entered without my noticing.
“Water would be great,” I replied, still craning my neck to see beyond the piano. Where was she?
“Just give me a sec, I’ll be right back.”
I watched in growing wonderment as the shoeless Bettina padded out of the room briskly and returned moments later with two bottles of Fiji water.
“Catch,” she said cheerfully, tossing me a bottle. It flew dangerously near a crystal figurine and I lunged for it. How could this woman be so casual in a room like this? Unaffected, Bettina flopped back on the couch and took a long swig of water.
“Ahhh,” she breathed happily. “Feels good to finally sit down. I’ve been running errands all afternoon! How was your day?”
“My day?” I had never been asked this before in an interview.
“At school,” she clarified, tugging at her scrunchy and running one hand through her hair. The ends were unkempt and greasy. “I can imagine how much work goes into being a teacher!”
“My day was…wonderful,” I replied, reverting to my favorite interview adjective. “I love teaching.”
“That’s so great to hear,” she enthused. “From some of the stories my Vanessa tells me, my husband and I sometimes wonder why anyone would want to teach in a Manhattan private school!” Bettina’s eyes were now wide and she was shaking her head in commiseration. “Just last week she was telling us how one of the girls in her class actually told their English teacher that her parents paid for his salary so he essentially worked for them. Can you imagine? And the girl didn’t even get in trouble!”
“Many of the students don’t seem to have respect for teachers,” I agreed sympathetically, secretly thrilled that my students would never dare say something like that to me. As long as my tutoring checks afforded me a wardrobe envied by even the Langdon mothers, they could never speak to me like that. I felt a renewed love for my Jil Sander suit.
“It’s such a shame,” Bettina went on. “My husband and I literally cringe when we hear how disrespectful the kids can be. The worst part is that so many of Vanessa’s friends have parents who enable this behavior. Would you believe that this morning three mothers called me and wanted to start a petition to stop the science teacher from giving a quiz on Monday!”
“Why?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.
“Because it’s someone’s bar mitzvah party on Sunday night!” Bettina exclaimed, pulling her hair back again, this time into a tight, messy bun. “Here we were, telling Vanessa she had to leave Sunday’s party early so she could come home and study! I’m telling you, Anna, sometimes I’m not sure I can tell the difference between the kids and their par—”
“Wow, that’s too bad,” I interrupted abruptly, eager to change the subject. It was making me a little uncomfortable to hear her voice so many of the frustrations I had felt in my first few weeks at Langdon. I thought this was a tutoring interview! What kind of dirty trick was she playing?
“I know! I just keeping wishing that someone would stand up and say—” She had to be stopped. This was going too far.
“What kind of tutoring help does Vanessa need?” I interrupted again, making sure to emphasize the word tutoring. Had she forgotten that was why I was here in the first place?
“Help?” Bettina looked confused.
“In our future tutoring sessions,” I reminded her, beginning to think that she might be a little loony.
“Oh!” Bettina slapped her forehead again and gave me a how-could-I-be-so-out-of-it look. “I’m so sorry, Anna. When you’re up at six trying to get the kids and the hubby out the door in time, we mothers start to lose it a little by midafternoon!”
I was convinced at that moment that the Langdon mothers could, if given the opportunity, devour Bettina LaVera for lunch. What kind of private school mother was she? Why was she dressed like a suburban soccer mom? And more importantly, where were her maids? There was no way she was from Manhattan.
“The truth is,” she went on, sitting up a bit straighter, “Vanessa does not actually need any help. She’s a terrific student. At least she was in her old school before we moved here…”
Aha! I knew this family was not from here!
“Where did you move from?” I asked, back on solid ground.
“We just moved a year ago from Pl
easantville,” Bettina explained, “from Westchester. ’Ness was doing so well academically that we figured she’d have no problem adjusting to a new school, and living in Manhattan just made more sense since my husband’s law firm is located here.”
“The standards in Manhattan private schools are quite high,” I affirmed gently, getting up and walking over to the couch. Sitting down next to Bettina, I looked sympathetically into her eyes. “The adjustment can be so hard. I can help Vanessa catch up.”
“Oh, no! You misunderstand me.” Bettina chuckled grimly. “If only that were true! The public school ’Ness attended had incredibly high standards, and the work they are expected to do here is comparable. What she is struggling with is—”
“Being the new girl,” I finished expertly. “Navigating the private-school world can be tricky. We’ve all seen Mean Girls!” I began to laugh knowingly, but stopped when I realized Bettina was not joining me.
“Anna, I’m going to be very frank with you,” she said slowly, her voice becoming low and serious. “Vanessa’s father and I do not believe in tutors. We have always taught her to work independently. If she ever needed help we were here for her, but we always encouraged her to seek out her teachers as well. We figured that’s what they were there for. You know, to teach.”
“I see,” I replied curtly, looking at my watch. What a waste of time! “I guess there was a misunderstanding. When we spoke on the phone you mentioned that you wanted to interview me as a potential tutor for Vanessa.” I was unexpectedly nostalgic for Mimsy Herring and her fervent belief in the necessity of tutors.
“I don’t want a tutor for my child,” Bettina corrected earnestly, “but we need one in order to level the playing field. Anna, almost every child in her class has a tutor. So, no matter how much effort our daughter puts into a homework assignment, or how impressive her writing may be, Vanessa can’t…” Bettina’s voice cracked, “compete.”
“Against who?”
“Against all the students in her class with tutors! It doesn’t matter how capable my child is, Anna. At the end of the day she is thirteen years old. Anyone in her class who works with a tutor on the same assignment has a clear advantage. We tried to convince ’Ness that as long as she worked hard the grades didn’t matter. But now we’re getting letters from the school telling us she’s not turning in work. When we confronted her, she told us there’s no…” Bettina’s eyes started to tear, “no point. No matter how hard she works nothing she does compares with her friends’ work. She’s calling us cheap. Saying we’re too cheap to hire a tutor.” She looked around the room and laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you what’s cheap. Hiring a tutor and teaching your child that even homework has a price.”
I didn’t know what to say. Selfishly I couldn’t help but think that Vanessa sounded like an ideal client: bright, capable, and just in need of a little guidance. As a teacher, however, I knew that Bettina was right. The few homework assignments I had my students turn in were suspiciously devoid of any errors. But what was I supposed to do? Tell them they had to do their homework by themselves and risk the wrath of the Langdon mothers? I could just hear Lara Kensington saying, “Benjamin has trouble with beginnings. His tutor helps him find his true voice. How dare you suggest that we endorse cheating in our household?” I shivered at the thought of such a confrontation, suddenly irritated that my interview with Bettina LaVera was turning into a moral crusade that was threatening the very source of my newfound wealth.
“So Vanessa needs someone to help her just polish her assignments?” I asked brightly, determined to play dumb. I could not afford to waste another minute philosophizing about the evils of the tutoring industry. If it was so bad, why didn’t all the private schools just ban it?
“Just polish,” Bettina echoed, looking a bit defeated.
“I charge $250 an hour,” I stated flatly. “I could see her twice a week on Mondays and Wednesdays from seven to eight.”
“Money’s not a problem,” Bettina responded evenly, her voice matching my businesslike tone. “Vanessa will be thrilled.”
Randi could barely conceal her jealousy when I told her about my new tutoring client. She wasn’t even surprised when I told her how reluctant Bettina LaVera had been to hire me in the first place.
“Those are the best ones,” she argued. “All you have to do is some basic editing and then sprinkle in some sophisticated ideas. They do most of the work. God, Annie, you’re so lucky.”
“But you should have heard this woman,” I pressed. “Part of me didn’t even want to take the job! She kept going on and on about how she had no choice but to hire me and that she and her husband didn’t believe in tutors…”
“Like I said,” Randi was now grinning broadly, “those parents are the best. You know what it means for us if even the parents with bright kids are desperate for tutors?”
“What?” I asked, playing along. I couldn’t help but start smiling as Randi began to do a little dance in the middle of the classroom like a Fendi-clad Rumpelstiltskin.
“Every parent feels compelled to hire a tutor!” she exclaimed with glee, clapping her hands together. “And there’s only so many of us! Which means we, my dear Anna, can charge whatever we want!” Randi’s face was flushed with enthusiasm and I longed to be as swept away as she was. I just had one lingering question that I couldn’t ignore.
“But then none of our students are doing their own homework, are they?” I noticed a shadow flicker briefly across Randi’s face, but seconds later she was beaming triumphantly.
“If the parents don’t care, then why should the teachers?”
A week later I found myself in Randi’s classroom, so exhausted I was barely able to keep my eyes open.
“Just have them come to your house,” she advised after I shared the horrific details of my schedule with her. “That transition time you have blocked in is just stupid.”
“I don’t want them in my apartment,” I argued. “Isn’t it better just to keep them a little removed?”
“Sure,” Randi responded, shrugging. “But the thirty-minute transition times you have scheduled in there amount to two hours. That’s two hours of schlepping around in cabs or walking up and down Park Avenue. You could be making five hundred bucks instead.”
“So, you have them all come to you? At our building? Back to back?”
“Exactly. If they’re late, you’re still on the clock. And if they’re not done, the next student is at the door so there’s no drama about them begging you to stay later. It’s clean, it’s easy, and you can just sit in one place. These are Manhattan kids. They take cabs. They have drivers. Trust me, they are extremely mobile.”
“And what if the parents refuse? I’m afraid some of my new parents prefer that I come to them,” I argued.
“Just get them hooked then. Go to their place for a month or so, and when their children find that they can’t do without you, that’s when you call the shots. Lay down the law. Raise your prices. The key is to get them hooked.”
Randi was making sense, but once again I was a little appalled by how mercenary she could be. This did seem like the only logical solution, but boy, she really did have this system down pat. She was clearly Super Tutor, and had both Langdon and the tutoring world spun around her little pinky finger.
“I feel bad sometimes,” I admitted, heaving myself on the ledge that ran around her classroom.
“About what?” Randi was expertly putting great big stars in a red magic marker on a stack of assignments. I noticed that she barely glanced at the contents of the papers.
“Like that, for instance,” I replied, pointing to the papers she was supposedly grading. “I barely have time to read what the kids write anymore. I haven’t planned a real lesson in weeks. Sometimes I miss it. Yeah, the money is awesome, but I don’t even have time to spend it. I’m so fried by the time I get home each night. My friend Bridgette keeps asking me to dinner and I keep turning her down. I can’t believe that I’m working till eleven
each night, and she’s the banker.”
Once again, that same look of irritation darkened Randi’s perfect face. She put her marker down and sighed. “Anna, remember, this is always your choice. You were the one who wanted more clients. It’s not like you have to tutor. You can go back to just being a teacher,” wrinkling her nose at the word. “You’re making me feel like I’m a bad influence or something. Don’t make me feel guilty.”
“No no!” I cried quickly. “Are you kidding? I don’t know what I would do without you! And honestly, it seems like the less I teach the happier everyone is. The kids and the parents, that is. It’s just that…,” I trailed off, searching for the right words.
“Just that what?” Randi pressed, glaring at me.
“It’s just that I never imagined it would be like this,” I said softly, looking down at the Dior pumps I had purchased last week. They were worth three tutoring sessions. I was calculating everything in tutoring sessions lately. The rent was twelve sessions of tutoring. My Prada blazer was four sessions. A week’s worth of cab rides and all the Starbucks I could drink was one session. For the last week I had found myself tutoring like a madwoman, often way past eleven at night. Every morning I had slept through the alarm clock and had ended up running to school and arriving late. Although Randi and I had made up for all our hard work with a Saturday afternoon shopping spree on Madison Avenue.
“Just think of this Saturday and many more to come,” Randi said as if reading my mind. “Let’s face it, nobody likes to work. We’d all like to be millionaires who sleep in late every day and spend their days doing whatever. But can you honestly tell me that when we lunch at Barneys and walk up and down Madison buying whatever we please that you don’t feel like it’s all worth it?”
“I guess,” I replied, still not fully convinced. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. “Forget it, I’m just feeling down today.” Maybe I needed some of Sarah Waters’s Prozac.
“Anna, it’s fucking boring and annoying to sit and do homework for hours on end with these kids. Believe me, it’s not like I’m having a blast. But personally, I get to forget all about it for a day and a half every week, and I certainly make the most of it. And wait till the summer…then it’ll really be worth it!”
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