“Anna, it’s almost the end of May.” Randy was icy. “What are you really going to do about it now? And we discussed this already. You went down this path in October. Families like the Kensingtons aren’t going to thank you if you tell them that their son writes at a fourth-grade level. They’re just going to blame you. I thought we agreed that it’s better to just play the game. Do you really want to go back to answering five hundred phone calls a night?”
“But what about Madeline’s and Michael’s parents? They should know how gifted their kids are,” I pointed out.
“Okay, call them. God. Tell them. But just leave the others alone. You’re being really stupid, Anna. The kids were right. What has gotten into you?” Shaking her head, I watched Randi reach into her new oversized Jimmy Choo bag to retrieve her vibrating cell phone.
“Hello? Yes, of course. Tonight? I’m not free till ten-thirty…what’s it on? I’d have to charge extra…”
As I watched her expertly arrange an additional tutoring session for that evening, I felt like I was looking at the person I had become. I knew all about those middle-of-the-day cell phone calls. The last-minute appointment bookings. The mothers who wouldn’t let you say no. Just last week I had told Jake Herring that under no circumstances could I see him for an additional time that week as I was booked solid. Mimsy’s call had come an hour later with the promise of an additional $1,000 for my “troubles.” I found myself incapable of saying no.
But I was saying no now.
To all of it.
Bridgette was right. If it was money I was seeking, I should have become a banker. Or a lawyer. I spent most of my days at Langdon abiding by a list of unwritten rules that I neither cared for nor respected. My evenings were a crazed blur of rushing from Park Avenue penthouse to penthouse, where I allowed myself to be manipulated into doing homework for hours at a stretch. After initial interviews, I rarely saw the parents, and often the only proof of their existence were the envelopes with my name on it that were left on foyer tables. I didn’t even know what my job was anymore. Could I even call myself a teacher? And what the hell was a tutor, anyway?
The snap of Randi’s cell phone broke my thoughts. “Look,” she said reasonably, “you’re probably just tired. Had a late night. Don’t make any rash decisions.” Rash? She didn’t know the half of it. I was almost afraid to tell her what I had done.
“I am tired,” I admitted. “And maybe what I did this morning is rash, but I’m not sorry I did it.”
“Oh, one quiz never hurt them. We’ll take them to the library tomorrow and all will be well. Although,” she laughed, “you may have to deal with some nasty phone calls tonight!”
“I’m not talking about the quiz, Randi.”
“Then what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Anna, what did you do?”
“I quit my tutoring jobs. All of them.”
There. I had said it. Her mouth dropped open.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes. I did.”
“How are you going to afford rent? And…and…other stuff?”
“Honestly, Randi, all I do in that apartment is sleep. It may as well be my old place on 84th Street. I have no time to see my friends. Or my family, for that matter. Sometimes I feel like I’m rushing around like a madwoman for…nothing. I feel like I contribute…nothing.”
“Let me get this straight,” Randi said slowly, now absolutely expressionless. “So you’re no longer tutoring. You’re moving out of the building. I guess you’re no longer doing the Hamptons thing either.”
I hadn’t thought about the Hamptons tutoring, but yes, I guess that was out too.
“Yeah. I’m finishing the year, then I’m quitting. I hate this world. I hate myself,” I replied honestly.
We both sat there quietly, not moving.
“Do you think my life is also meaningless? That I contribute nothing?” Randi asked finally.
I couldn’t answer her.
After a terrible silence, she turned and walked out of the room. I sat and listened to the sound of her Gucci stilettos clicking down the long hallway until I couldn’t hear them anymore.
30
So this was rock bottom.
I was Hester Prynne with a big, fat T branded on my chest. One by one, the families I had tutored had all managed to get back to me and inform me of what a terrible person I was. Amanda Carleton labeled my decision a “profound betrayal” and the Braxtons had threatened “to come after me with the force of all their money.” Mimsy had simply whispered, “Fuck you.” I didn’t even know if I should finish the school year. The furious look Francine had given me as I passed her in the hall Friday afternoon made me never want to go back.
I hadn’t had a weekend free in months. I didn’t even remember what I liked to do besides shopping. Trying to be optimistic, I ventured boldly outside and made a left instead of my usual right toward Madison Avenue. The thought of purchasing another handbag or shoe made me physically sick. Instead, I found myself heading to the Barnes & Noble on 86th where I spent the afternoon drinking coffee and browsing through the new releases. It dawned on me that I hadn’t read a book for pleasure—or for less than a thousand dollars—all year. Reading had always been my favorite pastime. How had I let it go so easily? Later, I wandered down Second Avenue past the restaurants and bars. All of them were packed with people sitting outside, eating and laughing. One group of three girls caught my attention. They were sitting outside Blockheads Burritos drinking margaritas. They looked to be about my age. All of them were dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts…not a label in sight. I must have been eyeing the empty chair a little too longingly because one of them suddenly looked in my direction and asked, “Can we help you?”
Embarrassed, I continued walking down the block. Could it only have been one year ago that I wanted to be a teacher more than anything else? Now here I was, contemplating walking into Dr. Blumenfeld’s office on Monday and quitting. On Friday I had called the management company—I was surprised at how gracious they were when I said I had to break my lease. Then the overly chatty saleswoman told me that a certain “Mr. Mehta” had already inquired about taking over the remainder of my one-year contract. He could move in as soon as July 1st.
“I’m only telling you because he has the same school you work at listed as his place of employment,” she said brightly. “Looks like you Langdon teachers love our building. Wow, they must be paying you good over there.”
I hung up.
Did Randi tell Ashok about the apartment? It was too depressing a question to answer. Adding to my dark mood was the fact that I hadn’t received a single e-mail from any of the families I had tutored. No expressions of remorse. Or even anger. While I was relieved to be no longer tutoring, it was going to be a little strange not seeing the students I had spent so many hours with after school. A part of me was hurt that they never bothered to write or call, and I even missed a few of them. But then again, I had been a service. Once again, easily replaced. Any relationship I had imagined to have forged with any of these children was just that: imagined. Francine had probably given all my clients to Ashok.
As I crossed Park Avenue and headed toward my building, I suddenly heard a familiar laugh.
Randi Abrahams.
I couldn’t deal with her right now, either. We had avoided each other on Thursday and Friday, and the question I had left unanswered had created an ever-widening gap in our relationship. I quickly crouched behind a Range Rover and peered through the windows. It wasn’t my finest hour.
Randi wasn’t alone. Arm in arm with Ashok, who was holding as many shopping bags as she was, she giggled and stumbled into our building.
Looked like Randi had replaced me, too.
Feeling emptier than ever, I waited another few minutes until I was sure they had gone up in the elevator before I headed toward my building.
“Good evening, Ms. Taggert.”
Even Tony’s greeting, which usually thrilled me, did nothing to cheer me
up. As I approached my door, I noticed a small Post-It someone had stuck.
Sweet Anna!
I move in July 1st, but would you mind if I left a few boxes in the apartment next week? It would be most helpful.
-Ashok
“Asshole,” I muttered, ripping off the Post-It and slamming my door shut. Alone in my apartment again, I decided to call Bridgette even though I didn’t really feel like talking to her. She wasn’t home. I desperately needed someone to talk to or else I was going to go mad. My parents. No…I was not ready to deal with them just yet. Prozac-Sarah? Tweebles-Dorothy?
Tentatively, I found myself reaching for the Langdon directory and scrolling with my index finger for the Os.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Damian,” I started awkwardly. “Hey…it’s Anna.”
“I need at least three days advance notice for a date,” he said and laughed hysterically at his own joke. To my horror, I began to sob.
“Hey…Anna? I’m kidding. Hey, are you okay?”
“N-n-no,” I managed, “I’m qu-qu-quitting L-l-langdon.”
“Meet me at the Starbucks on 88th and Lex. Ten minutes.”
The phone went dead.
Damian was sitting toward the back with two cups of iced coffee in front of him. He stood up when he saw me and gestured to the empty chair across from him.
“Talk,” he ordered, without a trace of sarcasm.
I felt the tears rush to my eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly, “just sit and take a few sips, okay? Whatever it is, we can figure it out. We’re teachers, after all.” He smiled gently and waited as I melted into the chair.
“Thank you so much,” I said, now more than a little embarrassed. “I just didn’t know who to talk to.”
He opened his mouth and then promptly shut it.
“You were going to say something about Randi, weren’t you?” I laughed bitterly. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
“You got me, Anna. But believe it or not, even I know when it’s a bad time to make a joke.”
“I’m done with it all, Damian,” I sighed. “I quit tutoring last week. I’m moving out of my fancy apartment. I’m leaving Langdon.”
“Wow…” he breathed. “That’s pretty heavy. I have to admit, though, two of those decisions sound good.”
“What do you mean?”
“The apartment and tutoring stuff are bullshit. The leaving teaching part I’m not sure about,” he replied seriously.
“Don’t you tutor?” I asked. “I mean, you’re clearly not into all the materialistic stuff, but you know the whole scene so well. You know, the game. The shortcut?”
Damian sighed and looked out onto the dark street, which was lit by one lonely streetlight.
“I say a lot of shit, sometimes,” he said finally.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, “I guess I’ve seen so much at Langdon that I shoot my mouth off. It’s true, I don’t have a lot of faith in the system or how it’s run. But I still believe in teaching.”
I didn’t know what to say. We both stared at a woman picking up her dog’s poop on the sidewalk.
“That’s how I feel,” I suddenly said. “Like one big old pooper-scooper.”
We both laughed a little, and then Damian became serious again. “I actually don’t tutor, Anna. I had a couple clients years ago, but I dropped them after only a few sessions. They literally zapped my desire to be a teacher.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” I agreed. “But how can you continue to teach at that place? Year after year? It seems like nobody’s happier than when we’re just slacking off and letting the kids run wild. You know, with trips to the library…ice creams at the Guggenheim. The minute you give them actual work and tough assignments, you come home to endless parent phone calls.”
Damian was quiet. “Not all the families are like that,” he finally said. “And not all the kids are tutored.”
“You know when I finally realized that?” I asked, leaning forward. “Just last week when I had them do an assignment in class. A couple of kids blew me away, but mostly their work depressed me. It just made me realize what I was avoiding all year. Most of the kids at Langdon are just like the kids I tutor after school. Manipulating other teachers just like me to do their work.”
Damian didn’t reply. But I could tell he was listening, and I still needed to vent.
“I would be completely happy just assessing them in class! That way I could be sure that what they did was their own work! But you should have seen the way the kids turned on me! Not to mention the mothers. It’s like I upset the private school balance. How do you handle this?”
“By doing just what you said. I assess them in class,” he answered simply.
“You do? How?” I pressed, crossing my arms. I remembered that he had won Best Teacher several times at Langdon. There was no way he was winning something like that without catering to the parents.
“Look,” he said seriously, “I’m not going to lie. I’m not perfect. I’ve had to turn a blind eye occasionally when I’m up against a parent who clearly doesn’t want to hear the truth. Sometimes I’ll get bitter around report writing and want to go back to tutoring.”
I could feel a very important “but” coming.
“But,” he continued, “it’s not like they startle you with a shitty salary. You know to expect that from the get go, so if you find that it gets to you, then you’ve lost sight of why you wanted to become a teacher in the first place. I, for one, remember my reason, and it keeps me coming back every year. Despite the fact that I’m surrounded by buffoons who should never have become teachers in the first place.”
“You mean like Randi?”
“Like Randi. And no offense, for a while that included you. I had a feeling the minute you came in that you wouldn’t last long, or that you would sell out.”
“Looks like you were right about me,” I said bitterly. “I didn’t last. So why are you here?”
“Besides the chance of a hot date at Starbucks?” Damian became serious again, a little to my disappointment. “Because apart from me, I’ve never really seen a teacher go the tutoring route and quit,” he replied honestly. “It usually sucks them up and they never come back.”
After Randi’s disapproval, Damian’s obvious regard for my decision to leave tutoring was encouraging.
“Here’s my theory,” Damian said, gesturing for me to lean forward. “Most adults work nine-to-five jobs, right? I mean, let’s exclude the overly intense investment banker or lawyer. Am I right?”
“Right.”
“Then they’re free at 5:00. To get drinks at happy-hour bars all over the country. Watch TV. Relax, unwind. Sleep.”
“Okay.” I listened intently. Where was he going with this?
“Then what gives us the right,” he said with a burst of energy, “to expect kids to work harder than adults? Think about it. Most of our students don’t go home to rest and unwind! They have after-school clubs. Sports practices. Religious school. Piano lessons. Whatever. So they get home around 6:30 or 7:00. Then they have dinner. Then they have to go back to work, in essence, and do their homework.”
“Oh please.” I rolled my eyes. “Tough life. They don’t pay bills. They don’t pay taxes. They have their summers off…”
“Yeah, they don’t have adult stress, but you’re delusional if you think they don’t have their own stresses. It may not seem serious to us, but to them it’s real,” he argued, before breaking into his familiar grin. “Even if you’re Charlotte, you still have to decide who gets blown on the party bus.”
“Damian!”
“Different stresses,” he repeated.
I remembered my conversation with Amy Greenberg in the bathroom. Okay, maybe he had a point…
“I’m listening.”
“Soooo,” Damian continued, “I figure that some of these kids are just fucking exh
austed at the end of the day. The bright and motivated ones push through and do their work. Others slack off and sometimes they fail out. Then you have the majority of Langdon students, who have parents who are both rich and willing enough to provide their children with tutors who, any way you look at it, promote a system of cheating.”
“So?” I knew all this already.
“That’s my point. Homework is bullshit.”
“So…you just teach,” I said, moving my straw around in the empty coffee cup.
“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. It takes me hours to plan my lessons. I bring in newspapers, maps, and textbooks. Hold debates. Argue with them. Tell them stories. Draw timelines. Whatever it takes. In my classroom, I teach.”
“How do you assess?” I challenged. I was starting to like what Damian said, but it sounded too utopian. “Don’t you have to grade them?”
“Oh, there are tests,” he admitted. “I tell them on the first day that at the end of every unit, there’s a short-answer test. Four a year. And they’re not easy. But no written homework. I refuse to grade work that I have no way of knowing isn’t entirely their own.”
I was beginning to warm up.
“It’s still Langdon, though,” Damian drawled, his old sarcasm returning. “They’re gonna occasionally make you treat some kid differently. Or hand out an A when they deserve a C.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Every time.”
“So why continue?” I asked both for him and myself.
“It’s like that hokey starfish story, you know?”
“What starfish story?”
“This man is walking down a beach,” Damian began, “and he notices that all these starfish have washed up ashore. It’s burning hot, and they’re drying up in the heat. Thousands of them, as far as he can see.” Damian stretched his arms out to emphasize his point. “Then he sees this little boy who’s throwing them back into the water. Slowly, one at a time. So the man shakes his head and walks up to the boy and says, ‘Give it up, little boy. What’s the difference? There’s too many. You’ll never throw them all back in.’”
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