Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  I had to get the mass of long hair off my neck before I drowned in my own perspiration. How could Ann stand wearing a turtleneck?

  “Ann, whether I live with Lauren or not has nothing to do with the matter,” I said as I dug through my bag. The satchel was so big, and I cleaned it out so rarely, that the probability was high I would find some long-forgotten hair accessory.

  I was right. After digging out a broken mascara brush and a dried-out stick of gum, I located an old rubber band stuck between my notebook and day planner.

  “I would still owe the $2,200, even if I lived with someone else,” I pointed out as I massacred my hair by wrapping the band around it.

  Ann did not like my suitemate Lauren. The two had gone to prep school together, and Lauren proudly admitted she had teased Ann mercilessly, all the way from pre-K until grade twelve. She had given Ann her nickname of “Frumpy,” after pointing out that Ann was the only geeky girl with no taste in a school filled with little fashionistas.

  “I’m not saying anything about Lauren,” Ann bristled. “You want to live with a girl who’s only at NYU because her daddy paid off all the right people, that’s your business. I meant your parents and their house in Brooklyn. You could probably live there for free.”

  Ann was right. If I lived with my parents, rent would never be a problem. Still, everything else would be. Brooklyn was far from campus, at least a forty-five minute commute in one way. That amounted to an hour and a half on a train each day—an hour and a half less of sleep or studying or just plain watching TV, not to mention being cut off from all after-class campus activities. There would be no more spontaneous study meets, beer breaks, or unplanned midnight bar hops. I could forget camping out at the library until it closed, or hanging out in the resident lounge with other equally miserable classmates. My social life, as meager as it was, would completely disintegrate. Then, of course, there was my mother, with her list of chores, rules, and motherly advice. If I moved back to my childhood home, I could almost surely expect the usual litanies of clean up your mess, eat your dinner, and stop reading so much before you ruin your eyes. I’d be twelve all over again.

  “No,” I said to Ann as I briskly moved towards my dorm again. “I don’t think living with my parents will work. We all need our space.”

  The residence hall was just steps away now; its air-conditioned hallways beckoned with their cool air, like Greek sirens lured sailors with their treacherous voices. I stepped inside, whimpered with relief, pulled out my student ID and flashed it at Darius the doorman.

  “How’s it going, Miss Tekla,” he greeted with a smile as he waved me through. “And a hello to you too, Miss Ann.” He motioned at Ann who was busy searching her briefcase for her own ID. “Are you going up too?”

  Ann nodded.

  “Well go on up, both of you. Don’t worry about your ID, Miss Ann. If Miss Tekla’s got hers, I’m sure the school won’t mind too much if I let you up this once without seeing yours. And y’all have a nice day now.”

  Ann grinned her thanks and hopped after me to a bank of elevators.

  “Darius is such a nice guy, don’t you think?” she asked. “He’s much nicer than John from last year. John would have made me stand there and look until I found the ID, even though he saw me every day of the school year.”

  I hummed. Darius was much nicer. I would miss his smiling face when I moved—that is, unless I miraculously found a batch of money somewhere.

  The elevator doors opened in front of us and we filed in. I pressed twenty for my floor and five for Ann’s. Hopefully, she’d get the hint.

  “If you can’t live with your parents, how about asking them to lend you the cash?” Ann persisted in her relentless pursuit of a solution to my financial crisis. “They’ll probably help if you ask.”

  My parents would, if they had the money. But with a mortgage, planning for retirement, and helping both my brother and me with college tuition, my parents couldn’t sustain the additional burden of a graduate education for even one of their children on their middle-class income.

  And how could I even ask them about it, especially since my mother still had trouble understanding why I had picked expensive NYU when other schools had offered partial scholarships? She didn’t get tiers and rankings, and law firms that made hiring decisions based on a school’s prestige. She didn’t grasp the importance of making social connections with the children of politicians, hiring partners and judges. To her, school was school. Period. And any child who chose to pay more than necessary just to attend a brand-name school in Manhattan was being foolish.

  “I’m sure my parents would lend me $400 this month,” I answered Ann as the elevator jerked into motion. “But they can’t afford to subsidize a second apartment from month to month.”

  “Well then,” Ann said as she patted my arm, “I really don’t know what you’re going to do. It’s not like you can get a job. That would just completely interfere with your studying.”

  I eyed Ann’s hand. She dropped it immediately.

  A job.

  The thought of working part-time had crossed my mind before. I had scored exceptionally well on my Law School Admission Test, and figured I could always coach other wannabe lawyers to do just as well. So I had contacted a slew of test prep companies, to no avail. They paid a good hourly wage, but not so good I could work a few hours a week and cover my bills. Turns out, to make ends meet as a test-prep tutor, I would have to clock close to thirty hours a week, and NYU would almost surely frown on the prospect. The law school forbade working in the first year, and strictly limited employment activities in subsequent ones. With four daily lectures and a minimum ten-hour a week commitment to the Law Review—I was one of the few lucky students chosen for such a prestigious but non-paying job—it would be hard to balance work and law school responsibilities.

  The elevator came to a stop on the fifth floor, and Ann stepped off.

  Thank you, God.

  “Tekla, listen,” she said before the door slid closed behind her. “If you don’t get the money and need somewhere to stay, you can always crash at my place for however long you need.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured, reluctantly touched.

  Once on the twentieth floor, I pushed myself out of the car and walked to my apartment, the root of my financial crisis. I unlocked the front door, dropped my bag in the foyer, and scrutinized the visible living room. It was surprisingly uninviting. Steel shelves floated on stark white walls next to a massive flat-screen TV, and a black couch dominated what little room was left. A geometric rug clashed with bleached bamboo floors and reflected in the glass dining table. The room looked like a museum of modern design, and was completely not to my taste. Do I really want to fork up so much dough for this?

  The room’s décor had been Lauren’s idea. She had volunteered the furnishings—free of charge—in addition to the use of her television, desktop computer and printer. At the time, it had seemed like a good deal. Lauren got to decorate in her style, and I didn’t have the hassle of going to use a school computer lab for homework, or forking out money for the additional expense of more furniture. But now I wasn’t certain.

  I slipped out of my sandals and left them by the door, next to my bag. Barefoot, I headed for my bedroom where the furniture—my furniture—was more cheerful. I needed a nap. I would think about apartments and money and my lack of the latter later.

  But as I passed the kitchenette, the smell of burnt eggs changed my mind.

  Lauren was home.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  Lauren stood by our two-burner stove, a spatula in her hand and egg yolk on her surely ridiculously expensive shirt. Lauren only wore couture designers.

  “I’m trying to scramble eggs,” she complained, pointing to a frying pan, “but I’m having no luck.”

  Lauren was a petite blue-eyed blonde with an impeccable wardrobe and an even better lineage. Her father was managing partner of Fields & Jacobs, the premier law fi
rm, and her mother was related to both a Supreme Court justice and a senator. A student-housing lottery had paired us as suitemates our first year, and we had lived together since. We weren’t friends, exactly. We just got along great as suitemates; she stayed out of my way whenever possible, and I stayed out of hers. Usually.

  “How come you didn’t go to class this morning?” I strolled toward the stove to help out, desperate for a distraction.

  Lauren grimaced as she trashed the contents of the pan.

  “Because I didn’t feel like it. Maybe if I play hooky the whole semester my father will finally get the hint and let me drop out. What do you think?”

  Lauren’s father wanted her to be an attorney, but Lauren had other plans. She dreamed of going to Hollywood and producing her own independent films. She was eager and ready to battle Tinseltown. Too bad her father held all the purse strings.

  “It didn’t work last year, so I doubt it will work now,” I advised.

  Lauren had tried to force the issue back then by skipping all her finals and flunking out. Her father had personally made sure she showed up for the make-ups.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Lauren said as she dropped the pan back on the stove.

  I eyed the pan, then swiftly moved to mix up some new eggs and milk.

  “Get me some butter or oil,” I directed.

  “Butter?” Lauren demanded. “Whatever for?”

  “For the pan,” I said, “so the eggs don’t burn.”

  Lauren frowned. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. What about my diet?”

  “Lauren,” I sighed. “You can’t scramble eggs without fat. That’s why you burned the other ones.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she grimaced. “You’re Miss Tall and Skinny. Not all of us can eat like pigs and have nothing to show for it. If I eat even an ounce of butter, I look five pounds heavier. I don’t know how you do it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had some serious eating issues. It’s just not natural to eat so much and be that thin.”

  I walked to the fridge and got the butter myself.

  “Luckily, you do know better.”

  I spread the butter on the pan and poured in the eggs. When they were done, I dumped them on a plate and slammed the dish down in front of Lauren.

  My frustration over my finances was coming out in an unexpected way.

  Lauren took the plate as I stormed out of the kitchenette. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I hesitated before I sprawled out on the couch. I fished out a remote and turned on the television. “Sorry for yelling. I think I might be moving soon.”

  “Moving?” Lauren sat Indian-style on the floor next to the couch and balanced the plate on her legs. “Why? We don’t always get along, but it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not you,” I confirmed as I flipped through the channels. “They increased the rent, and I’m coming up short. If I don’t figure something out soon, I’ll have to move back with my parents.”

  Lauren forked a mouthful of eggs.

  “These are good,” she hummed and took another bite. “How short?”

  I stared at the TV, but when nothing caught my eye I flicked it off again.

  “A few hundred a month.”

  Lauren stretched her legs, leaned against the couch, and twirled the fork.

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” she said. “I’d give it to you, of course, but my father put me on a budget after my last credit card bill. He thinks I’m being spiteful. Why don’t you borrow the money from someone?”

  I glowered. All Lauren would have to do in a similar situation was call her daddy or a family friend, and the money would be there that very day.

  “I can’t. It’s too late for student loans, and no one else I know well has that sort of extra cash on hand,” I admitted.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lauren winked. “I’m sure Markus would be willing and able to give it to you.”

  I grimaced.

  Markus.

  Yes, as the heir to the Powers department store fortune, he did have the money and, yes, he would give it to me without hesitation. But that was the rub. I couldn’t ask him. Because despite my best efforts, Markus had feelings for me.

  During our first year of law school, Markus had publicly declared his undying love and devotion. He was a romantic who believed he had found his life’s one true mate, and all because my name was the numerological equivalent of his lucky number. Fate, he called it. Mumbo jumbo was more like it. Which was too bad because Markus looked decent. He was super smart. And there was all that family wealth. By anyone’s standards, he was a good catch. But it was hard dealing with a full-grown man who saw me as a cosmic goddess of perfection, especially when said goddess was anything but perfect. It was embarrassing, and annoying.

  So why, I thought as I contemplated Lauren’s suddenly stiff smile, bring up Markus? Unless …

  I flashed back to the last few times Lauren, Markus and I hung out together. She had been unusually giddy. Come to think of it, Lauren never went anywhere with me if Markus wasn’t invited. Could it be? Could Lauren have feelings for him? In a convoluted way, her crush made perfect sense. She knew he liked me and was, therefore, technically unavailable. Lauren always went for the unattainable. Case in point: her Hollywood ambitions despite her father’s objections. Feelings for Markus would be right up Lauren’s alley.

  Something to consider—later. Because right now, I had a problem Lauren wasn’t going to solve.

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice wry as I got up to leave.

  “Sorry,” Lauren puffed, and threw her plate on the couch. “Tekla, come back. Listen, I have an idea. How about getting a job?”

  “What job?” I grumbled, grabbing the plate off the couch and walking with it to the kitchenette’s sink. If I didn’t wash it, Lauren would let it dry there for weeks. “How am I going to find one that will pay me enough, but won’t require a huge time commitment? I don’t know of any. Do you?”

  “Actually,” Lauren replied, following me and dragging the word out like an emcee about to announce a surprise guest, “my aunt—my mother’s sister—owns this tutoring agency. It’s very exclusive, so it pays well—something like $150 an hour, I think. That’s good, right? She doesn’t advertise, so as not to attract the wrong type of candidates. It’s just word of mouth. It’s very difficult to get hired, but I’m sure she’d take you on if I asked her, as a favor.”

  “Tutoring?” I turned on the faucet and let the water run. “You mean like test preparation?”

  “No.” Lauren watched as I rinsed, dried and placed the plate back on the shelf. “Not that sort of tutoring. I meant private, individualized tutoring for some of the best families in New York. Like helping some rich kid out with homework a couple of hours a week. Like with me; I had a private tutor all throughout high school. It’s easy money—trust me.”

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. Mom had always warned me there was no such thing as “easy money.”

  “Oh, come on, Tekla. What’s your alternative? It’s this or moving out. What will it be?” Lauren reached for the phone and handed it to me.

  “Here’s the number. Call my aunt. What do you have to lose?”

  So I called.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE HEEL of my right shoe slid down a subway grate and lodged there.

  I tried to wrest it out without doing too much damage to the leather. The black heels were my favorites, and I didn’t want to ruin a pair of skinny stilettos that made my legs look like a showgirl’s.

  Still, I was in a hurry. It was quarter to nine on a sticky Monday morning, and I had a nine o’clock appointment with Ms. Jacobs, Lauren’s aunt and the owner of Elite Educational Services. Hopefully she’d be my future employer. I was still a ten-minute walk away from the Upper East Side office—maybe five if I speed-walked—but the shoe wasn’t budging. Like a boat about to sink, it was half-submerged in the sea of New York City Transit cross-bars, leaving me stranded in a wave of harried
pedestrians and about to be late for my appointment with the one woman who could solve all my financial woes.

  Not a good consequence.

  So I yanked hard, heel be damned. In the scheme of things, I could always buy another shoe, especially if I scored the job.

  With the extra jerk, my foot slipped out, but the shoe stayed where it was.

  My toes hovered inches above the grate. I balanced on one leg like a stork on the lookout for dinner.

  What to do? I sighed, gave in, and hoping to avoid most of the grime, gingerly stepped with my bare toe on the subway grate. With both feet somewhat stable now, I bent over to retrieve the shoe. But just as the heel began to give way, a whistle pierced my concentration.

  “Hey, baby!”

  My head turned automatically. A man was hanging out of a truck’s open window, waiting for his red light to change. His hair and sweatshirt were dotted with white paint. Probably in construction.

  “Pssst,” he hissed in my direction.

  Was he talking to me?

  “Yeah, you,” he said as he winked at me. “Nice ass.”

  I bolted straight up.

  “Jerk,” I muttered under my breath as I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen him. I intensely watched the other cars lining up behind his, too embarrassed to bend over again until he drove away.

  “That’s a mighty pretty dress you have on there,” he continued, clearly unperturbed by my complete lack of interest or response. “Red’s your color, baby.”

  I glanced down at my dress. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it. Red just invited all sorts of unwanted attention. But Lauren had insisted.

  “My aunt appreciates an attractive and young-looking tutor,” she had said as she dragged the dress out of the back of my closet. “They’re much easier to place than the staid teacher types. Teenagers don’t want to deal with boring grannies after school. And this dress is perfect. Young, hip. It screams of a successful tutor, and contrasts nicely with your dark hair. Very dramatic.”

  Uncertain what to wear, I had asked Lauren for help: Lauren was related to the boss, and had had a tutor herself, so who better? But wearing a red dress to a job interview?