“I know, I can’t wait,” I confessed. “Three blissful months of no tutoring.” Randi spit back the coffee she had just sipped and started laughing.
“No tutoring? No, babe! Much more tutoring! But a different kind of tutoring…and a different location,” she added mysteriously.
Oh God. Not the college kids again?
“Hamptons tutoring. Actually, I meant to bring this up with you because we need to jump on the timeshare thing pretty quickly. I was thinking a two-bedroom in Southampton?”
“Whhhaaatt?” I stared at her in disbelief. “The Hamptons?”
Randi was suddenly glowing with excitement.
“Yup! I learned all about it from Lillian Summers. You’ve never heard of her?”
“Noo…” From the way Randi said her name, this Lillian Summers sounded like her role model. Was it possible that somebody else was the reigning queen of tutors in Manhattan?
“Lillian Summers owns the Hamptons tutoring scene. She’s so good she quit her teaching position at Chapin. Now she barely even has to tutor during the year because she makes so much in the summer. She’s actually my idol,” Randi admitted, her pupils widening in excitement. “I met her last year at a cocktail party the Kensingtons throw at the end of the school year, and we had a very interesting conversation. She rents a beautiful house in Southampton every summer and tutors all the kids whose families summer there. Manhattan families. Celebrity families, you name it. She drives around in a little navy blue coupe, and basically spends the summer tutoring, but she also treats herself to daily private tennis lessons, massages, and sickening shopping sprees. And come fall,” Randi was now flushed with excitement, “she only keeps a few select clients just to have a little extra cash.”
Now I was also in awe of the mighty Lillian.
“So she really doesn’t teach anymore?” I persisted, suddenly very envious. “I thought people only paid the big bucks for private-school teachers.”
“Oh, you put in the time,” Randi dismissed, running her hand through her freshly highlighted mane. “I still have a few years to go, and you should consider staying at Langdon for at least two more years. But once you have your clientele and a solid reputation, you can just leave. Tutor full-time.”
“But what is she teaching in the summer? Summer school? I don’t get it,” I pressed, now dying to meet this Lillian Summers. With a last name like that, she was clearly destined for her infamous role as the Hamptons Tutoring Madame.
“Summer tutors are like fancy babysitters for the rich,” Randi explained. “Parents want their free time, and along with horseback riding and tennis lessons, they also book tutoring sessions. Since these kids aren’t at school, Lillian says you can basically make up your lessons. Read books with them. Practice writing. You know, whatever.”
“Have you ever done this?” I was wide-eyed. I had never been to the Hamptons before. In fact, it was only this year that I had learned why the word was plural. It was Madeline who had provided the lesson. “But Ms. Taggert,” she had scolded, “there are only two that are acceptable. South and East. That’s it. Like, Amy’s family just bought a place in West. Ugh.”
“Nope, but we’re doing it this year!” Randi exclaimed, paper-clipping the papers she had “graded.” “That is, if you’re game?”
“Where are we getting these fancy and famous clients?”
“You’d be surprised how many of your yearly clients will jump when you mention you’re available for summer tutoring,” Randi replied. “And I’ve been doing some networking at Core Fusion with this.” With a flourish, Randi reached into her wallet and pulled out a tasteful-looking cream card that looked exactly like the one David had presented to me on the first day of school. Good card stock, I couldn’t help but notice. Only this one read as follows.
Randi Abrahams
Reading and Writing Specialist
Hamptons
[email protected]
I stared at it in amazement. She was handing this out at Core Fusion? The same workout spot that Charlotte’s mother met her lesbian partner?
“Core Fusion is private school mother mecca. It’s the greatest place to get clients,” Randi swooned. “I have to take you. You just lie down and basically do a million little crunches and leg lifts, and then in the locker rooms it’s network city! I see Katie Couric there all the time!”
“So you already have clients, then?” I had never wanted to take an exercise class so badly.
“I have too many,” Randi grinned. “That’s why I’m asking you. I’ll give you half of them. Who wants a summer timeshare without her best girlfriend?”
Her last two words erased all the caution and guilt I had been feeling earlier in our conversation. Randi had called me her best girlfriend! I was going to the Hamptons! (Thankfully “South!”) And I was going to meet this Lillian Summers, who would clearly be someone else I could bond with about the tutoring world.
“I’m sold,” I replied, laughing happily as Randi jumped up to hug me.
That afternoon I had my first interview at the home of Randi’s referral, Jennifer Parker. It began like all the others: Townhouse, check. Elevator, check. Flawless furnishings, check. Uniformed maid, check. Impossibly thin, blonde, and tanned mother, check.
“Mrs. Parker, I’m Anna Taggert,” I said smoothly. Gone were my days of spurting out monosyllables and repeated “wonderfuls.” I was surfing the tutoring wave now, and this was just another crest I had to skim before I rushed to the other clients I had that evening.
“Anna, it’s so lovely to meet you in person! Diana Parker, but you can call me Dottie. Won’t you sit down?” She smiled, gesturing to the couch. In stark contrast to the room, “Dottie” was wearing a bubblegum pink Lilly Pulitzer dress with white polka dots. She looked like a fourth-grader with a fondness for Botox.
“As we discussed on the phone, I have an eighth-grader at the Spence School. I just wanted to make sure she has access to all the resources possible so that she can reach her potential. That’s why, when Ms. Abrahams quit so unexpectedly, I was desperate to get in touch with you.”
“Did Ra—I mean, Ms. Abrahams give any reason for leaving?”
“Not really…she just said she was busy with teaching and that she was slowing down on her tutoring after school.”
I struggled to keep my expression neutral. Something was fishy here. Randi would not just drop a well-paying client for no apparent reason.
“What was Ms. Abrahams helping her with?” I pressed, hoping for some clue to the puzzle.
“Anna, can I be frank with you?” Dottie asked, leaning forward at her desk and looking at me square in the face. “My daughter has always been an excellent student. Straight As, in fact! Until this year, and then only in one class. Unfortunately she got the worst English teacher in the school, and there simply isn’t anything we can do. Her grades have been dropping dramatically!”
“Didn’t working with Ms. Abrahams help?” I asked, secretly hoping to hear that Randi was not the perfect tutor she touted herself to be.
“Actually, and this is a bit awkward as I know she is your colleague,” Dottie paused, clearly searching for a tactful response. I was thrilled. Finally, a crack in Randi’s seemingly flawless tutoring armor.
“Ms. Abrahams is clearly very talented and obviously brilliant. I mean, you have to be if you’re hired by a school like Langdon Hall. And she’s been with us for years! But for some reason, Jennifer’s grade in English was simply not going up this year. One little bit. I mean, Jennifer adored Ms. Abrahams, but my husband and I have a sneaking suspicion that Ms. Abrahams gracefully stepped down when she saw that her help wasn’t…paying off. When she mentioned that you are actually an English teacher, it just made us feel so much more comfortable.”
I was certain something had to be wrong with little Jennifer Parker. Even the most incapable students I worked with saw a rise in their grades simply by the homework I was able to help them “polish.” The word, admittedly, had become
a personal favorite in my vocabulary. It was an all-purpose word, something of a Swiss Army knife capable of replacing all sorts of words, such as do, write, create, and especially finish.
“Does Jennifer have any learning issues?” I asked expertly, donning my best concerned expression. Eight months at Langdon and I could talk endlessly about ADD, Ritalin, Concerta, dyslexia, and spatial issues, the latter of which was code for nothing-is-wrong-we-just-need-something-that-sounds-good. “Some visual, spatial issues, perhaps?”
Dottie shook her head. “We went over this with Ms. Abrahams. Jennifer was recently tested and she appears to have no learning disorders. My husband and I are convinced it’s the fault of the teacher, Mr. Richards.”
“Have you complained to the board?” I asked sympathetically. “Remember, the teachers work for you. It’s not right when they hinder your child’s ability to learn and excel.” Sitting there in my Lanvin belted dress and Gucci stilettos, I felt very much on the side of the mothers. Who did this Mr. Richards think he was?
“Many of us have!” Dottie cried, now getting excited. “We’ve written endless letters signed by all the class parents! But they do nothing. I’m sure Langdon would never ignore such a bold statement from its parent body.”
“Never,” I agreed vehemently, willing myself to forget my own little “incident” not too long ago in Dr. Blumenfeld’s office.
“Unfortunately,” Dottie continued, “this man has been there for ages, and truthfully he doesn’t seem to assign too much homework or give us anything concrete to complain about. Anytime we do complain, he brings in essays written by our children that are, admittedly, quite poorly done. We just don’t understand how his class is the only class children perform so poorly in. It’s quite maddening,” she complained, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Believe me, if he was a high school teacher and the grades he gave actually got reported to college, we would be up in arms. But it’s eighth grade…you know the middle-school years don’t really count. Still, we just don’t want Jennifer’s self-esteem to suffer, you know?”
I bristled slightly at the “middle school years don’t really count” comment, but there was nothing to do but agree with Dottie.
“I will do my best,” I promised. “Shall we say Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday for an hour and a half?”
“That would be perfect,” Dottie beamed. “We’ll see you this Sunday. And you’re adorable just like Ms. Abrahams. One hates to be…superficial, but you know it’s important with these young girls to have a, what do they call it, cool tutor?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment!” I laughed, enjoying Dottie’s double take as I stood up and smoothed out my dress.
“Is that Lanvin?” she asked curiously.
“I think so,” I replied as casually as I could, and then allowed the maid to escort me to the elevator. I could feel Dottie’s eyes curiously boring into my back as I exited the room. Lanvin trumped Lilly any day of the week.
Sunday afternoon found Jennifer Parker sprawled on her carpet, arms propping her head up. Her terry-cloth pants had JUICY PRINCESS written in huge pink letters across her tiny butt, and of course she was wearing the matching hoodie in a deep, chocolate brown.
“What’ya reading?” I asked casually by way of introduction. I joined her on the floor and sat Indian style.
“US Weekly,” she mumbled reverently, not looking up. “It’s like, my Bible.”
“Oooh, is it the new one?” I asked, peering over her head.
Clearly the magic question. Jennifer sat up and gave me a huge smile. “Yup! I get it on my way home from school every Wednesday. I’m obsessed with Lindsay Lohan.”
“Mean Girls is one of my favorite movies!” I exclaimed.
“OHMIGOD shut up. No it isn’t!” Jennifer cried, sitting up. “Shut up!”
“I swear!” I laughed, then held out my hand. “I’m Anna, by the way. Your new tutor.”
“Thank God you’re cool! Randi said you’d be cool. I was, like, so pissed when she quit because she was, like, my best friend!”
“Why did she quit?” I asked, hoping for a more honest explanation.
“I’m not sure,” she answered, lowering her eyes. “I mean, she said it was because she needed more time for grading and stuff, but I hear she still tutors a bunch of my friends. I think my parents, especially my dad, were putting some pressure on her about my English grade.”
“Your mom was telling me a little about Mr. Richards,” I said carefully, not wanting to get too serious. “Since this is our first session we can just hang and talk, you know, bond? Whatever you want to do, Jennifer.”
“Oh, God, call me Jennie. Only my parents insist on calling me Jennifer. And yeah, I wish we could just hang, but my dad will go through the roof if I don’t raise my English grade. He cares about stupid stuff like that.” While she was talking, I watched as Jennie reluctantly closed the magazine and slumped toward her desk.
“Should we start?”
Wow.
This was new. No talking? No long, drawn-out bonding session? No wasting time? Whoever this Mr. Richards was, he had clearly instilled the fear of God into little Jennie Parker. I pulled up the chair from her vanity table and joined her at the desk. She shuffled through her quilted Chanel schoolbag and finally emerged with a copy of Romeo and Juliet.
“I just taught that last semester!” I exclaimed. Score! I wouldn’t even have to prep or put a minute’s effort into my tutoring sessions with her. I knew that play backward! Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, Miss Jennifer.” The same maid who had escorted me up and down the elevator was standing at the door. “Your mom want me to bring snack.”
“Thanks, Maryella! Love you!” I smiled as Jennie stood up and planted a kiss on the older woman’s wrinkled cheek as she set down a silver tray on the desk. It had two glasses of milk and Oreo cookies. Maryella looked pleased and ruffled Jennie’s hair with obvious affection. She smiled at me and then quietly retreated.
“Maryella’s been with me since I was a baby,” Jennie explained, returning to the desk. “She still brings me milk and cookies. I hate milk and I can’t have the Oreos, but you should totally help yourself.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t had an Oreo in…years. Out of habit, I broke it in two and began licking the cream. It was heavenly. “Why can’t you have them?”
“You’re such a kid!” Jennie accused as I blissfully licked the cookie, but she looked pleased. “Are you kidding? I’m on a diet. I’m such a chunky monkey.” She promptly lifted her hoodie and attempted to grab a handful of flesh from her tiny stomach. I was horrified. The girl could not have been more than ninety pounds.
“Sweetie, you can’t pinch an inch. Your stomach is absolutely flat. Just have a cookie.” I dangled a cookie in her face. “And besides, one of the kids I tutor, Jake Herring, said just the other day that boys hate girls who try to be stick thin.” That was a necessary white lie. I hated to invoke someone who, I was sure, would one day wind up on “To Catch a Predator,” but Jake’s reputation cast a wide net, and this was important. What Jake had really said was that he hated skinny girls because they had no boobs.
“You tutor Jake Herring?” Jennie asked, her eyes widening.
“I’m only talking if you eat a cookie,” I replied with mock seriousness. Jennie relented and stuffed one in her face.
“Mmm,” she closed her eyes in delight. “I haven’t had a cookie in months. So, tell me about Jake. I mean, all the girls at my school think he’s the hottest boy in Manhattan. We all kind of have a crush on him.”
“He’s charming, I suppose,” I replied neutrally. “Do you know any kids at Langdon?” I reached for another cookie and leaned back in my chair. This was more like it. But once again, Jennie Parker surprised me.
“Can we talk about that next time? I really really need to do my English with you.”
Aha! That word do! Mr. Richards probably assigned huge sums of homework and Jennie
just wanted to find a way to get me to do most of it!
“Let’s see the assignment before we read,” I suggested.
“The assignment is to read the prologue,” Jennie replied simply. “We just started it today.”
Wait a minute.
“Just the prologue?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s only fourteen lines. That will take five minutes,” I said flatly. “Why are you so nervous?”
“Because Mr. Richards doesn’t give homework,” Jennie grimaced. “He gives schoolwork.”
“I don’t understand,” I pressed. “He gives no homework?”
“Well, yeah, he gives us reading to do, but never anything that we turn in the next day,” Jennie explained. “I hate him! He doesn’t understand that I work so much better at home!”
“So you actually have to know this prologue pretty well, then, huh? Because you’ll do the assignment in class tomorrow?” I was in completely new territory.
“Yeah,” Jennie said glumly. “So we can’t just read it, okay? You have to help me understand what every line means. And even then I have no way of knowing what he’s gonna ask tomorrow.”
For the next hour, Jennie and I pored over the prologue. We read and reread it until both of us had memorized it perfectly. Then, line by line, I led Jennie through the translation.
“‘Two households, both alike in dignity,’” she read slowly.
“So what does that mean?” I urged.
“So there are, like, two houses, and they’re both equal?” Jennie shrugged.
“Pretty good,” I nodded encouragingly. “But he’s not just talking about houses. He uses the word households. How does that change the meaning?”
“Oh, so there’re, like, a lot of people in the two houses?”
“Close,” I smiled. “He’s actually referring to two large families. These households can include relations beyond the basic family unit, like aunts, uncles, cousins, and even servants. So there are two households that comprise many individuals, and what they have in common is that they are absolutely equal. Now, that word alike is loaded. What do you think it means?”
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