Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  I gasped.

  The little twerp. I should’ve let Gemma hit him.

  Gemma hissed. “Don’t be rude. Just pick a place. Maman will worry if we stay out too late.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. It was already a quarter to two, and we weren’t even in a restaurant. At this rate, I’d surely miss Con Law, and that would add insult to injury: these two could nix my employment and ruin any hope of me getting an A in the class.

  “Let’s just go to that place you usually take your buddies when they ruin our house with their unfortunate presence,” Gemma suggested smartly.

  Xander pursed his lips. It was amazing how a pretty face could become so unattractive so quickly.

  “Fine. Let’s go to Mike’s.”

  MIKE’S TURNED OUT TO BE A DINER, a perfect 1950s replica of red vinyl booths, black-and-white checkered tiles, and floor-mounted stools. It smelled of garlic and deep-fried oil. A stainless steel service counter dominated much of the back, and pictures of 1950s Manhattan adorned the sunny yellow walls.

  A chirpy hostess walked us to one of the red booths. Xander sprawled on the bench seat and grumbled when Gemma made him move to make room for her. I sat opposite.

  A waiter appeared and left us with water, utensils and three plastic menus. Xander grabbed a menu and covered his face. He slouched further in the seat. His leg bumped mine. He mumbled an unintelligible apology and fixated on the selection.

  Gemma leaned against her seat, but left her menu unopened. She studied the pictures on the wall, avoiding my eyes completely.

  I figured a grilled cheese would be the safest bet. Only Lauren could mess up a grilled cheese sandwich. I snapped the menu closed and waited for the waiter.

  The waiter took our orders: for Gemma, a salad with no dressing, and for Xander, the burger deluxe, medium rare.

  Xander arched a brow when he heard my selection. Are you really gonna eat that?, his eyes mocked.

  I was tempted to kick one of his splayed legs.

  The waiter collected the menus and left.

  With nothing to read, Xander crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the ceiling.

  Great. I took a sip of water. At this rate, we’d eat in complete silence, and I didn’t think that would land me the client. We needed conversation. Xander seemed a lost cause, but there was Gemma.

  I took another sip and cleared my throat.

  “So, Gemma, how do you like school? You’re in ninth grade, right?”

  Her eyes snapped to mine, uncertain.

  “Ah, yes,” she stammered, “I’m a freshman. We’re both freshman.” She nodded at her brother, but his focus didn’t waver from the ceiling. “I’m at an all-girls school, and he goes to Harding, an all-boys academy. And I guess school is okay, though I’m having trouble with some subjects. That’s why we need a tutor.”

  Gemma paused and peered at me. Her eyes were really pretty. They had her mother’s shape and color, but were softer, friendlier.

  “And how about you,” she started up again. “Where do you go to school?”

  Startled, I realized that neither Gemma nor Xander probably knew anything about my academic background.

  “Well,” I answered, “right now I’m a second-year student at NYU Law. That’s a graduate program. Before that I attended NYU’s College of Arts and Science. And before that, I went to a specialized science and math high school in New York.”

  “Oh, and did you do well?” Gemma said while she flipped a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I mean, can you tutor in all subjects?”

  Well, well. Good for you. No one had bothered asking me that before. Not Ms. Jacobs. And not Ms. Lamont. Maybe I’d finally get a proper job interview—from a fourteen-year-old.

  “I think so.” I smiled at Gemma. This was going well. We were making a connection. I could almost see that first paycheck. “I know math up to advanced calculus, and all the basic sciences, like biology, chemistry and physics. English and history are also a go, though I can’t help you with French; I’m not too good there. But with your mom, you’re probably an expert.”

  Gemma smiled back at this.

  “So what do you do for fun?” she asked.

  “Hmm.” I paused and wiped my hands on a napkin. This line of questioning was trickier. A teenager probably expected me, a twenty-four-year-old, to have an active social life. Every cool twenty-something-year-old was supposed to have one. Should I admit I didn’t? She would think I was lame, and therefore unworthy. “With school, I don’t really have a lot of free time. But I do like to read, listen to music, and go out with my friends.”

  Gemma perked up in her seat.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Ah … ” This was sticky territory. No, I did not have a boyfriend. I hadn’t had one in the past six months. Was it my fault all law school guys were emotional disasters, interested only in sex and their future glorious careers? And Markus didn’t count, because I didn’t like him back. “Not at the moment.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” Gemma said reassuringly; she seemed ready to pat my hand. To a teenage girl, a lack of a boyfriend was probably a horrifying prospect. “I think you’d be perfect for Maman’s assistant. You’re really his type. Julian only dates tall, thin girls with long dark hair.”

  Julian? Assistant? Was she talking about Mr. GQ? Gorgeous Mr. GQ? Perfect Mr. GQ? Potentially available and straight Mr. GQ?

  “Well, I don’t know … ” I hedged when a snort cut me off.

  Gemma snapped her head around to face her brother.

  “Xander, shut up. If you’re going to sit there and say nothing, then don’t interrupt, or I’ll tell Maman.”

  “Whatever,” Xander sneered.

  “Gemma, Xander,” I began, figuring I should say something to regain some semblance of authority in Xander’s eyes. It wouldn’t do for him to think I was a loser who couldn’t get a date without the help of a fourteen-year-old. But I had no clue what to say. Luckily, the food arrived and cut off all need for further reprimands.

  The tantalizing aroma of grilled cheese and hamburger had my stomach grumbling. The day’s events must have been draining, because suddenly I was ravenous. I bit into my sandwich and grabbed for a napkin when hot, melted cheese oozed out.

  “Sorry,” I said to no one in particular as I waved a hand in front of my face to cool it off. “The sandwich is really hot.”

  After smearing ketchup all over his fries and burger, Xander gulped half of his plate down with one bite. Gemma just toyed with her salad. She nibbled on a tomato, returned most of it to her plate and repeated the process with a cucumber.

  “That’s a nice top you’re wearing,” Gemma said as she pointed her cucumber-adorned fork at my halter. “Is it Armani?”

  I fingered the shirt’s corded fabric. It felt coarse against my palm, like burlap. “Yes, how’d you know?”

  “Maman shot an ad campaign for them last year,” Gemma replied as she pushed her plate away and sipped water. “The salad’s not good here. I think I’m done. So, do you like Armani?”

  I eyed Gemma’s greens. Of course the salad wasn’t good; it didn’t have any dressing. “Do you want to share my fries?” I offered.

  “I don’t know,” Gemma said slowly as she eyed the fries. “I’m not as skinny as you and Xander. He can eat anything and not gain an ounce. You two are sooo lucky. Maman says I should watch what I eat so I don’t get any bigger. The world doesn’t give many opportunities to big girls.”

  I gaped. Again.

  Sure, Gemma wasn’t model thin. She was a healthy-looking size six teenager with curves in all the right places. She didn’t have her mother’s height or shape yet, but she was still growing. “Gemma,” I sighed, “when I was your age my body looked like yours. I grew into it eating burgers and fries and pizza. Really, a fry won’t kill you. Here.”

  I pushed the plate towards her. She picked a fry, played with it, popped it in her mouth and reached for a second.

  “Sure, I like
Armani,” I said to divert Gemma’s attention away from the food, hoping she would finish the fries without noticing. If she ate some real calories, her disposition might improve towards me. “Doesn’t everyone? He’s a genius with fabric. Though your top is really pretty, too. It’s very similar to your mother’s.”

  Gemma glanced down at her shirt. “It’s Balenciaga. Maman just got it for me. She says I’m old enough. That all proper French ladies wear Balenciaga. She doesn’t wear anything else. He’s her signature designer.”

  I contemplated the blouse. Balenciaga. The designer of European aristocrats. Should’ve figured. Armani, Gucci and their ilk paled in comparison.

  “I’m done,” Xander blurted out as he dropped his napkin on an absolutely clean plate, no fry, pickle or bun left in sight. “Can we go?”

  “Wait!” Gemma said as she wiped her mouth and fingers; the fries were all gone. “Can’t you see she’s not finished?” She pointed at my plate where half a sandwich still sat untouched.

  I flushed. Somehow I was always last to finish. My mother would say it was because my mouth did all the yapping and none of the chewing. I picked up the food and bit into the sandwich, determined to keep silent until it was gone. No way would I make us run late.

  “God, Xander,” Gemma complained. “You’re so rude.”

  We sat in silence while I ate. Gemma played with her sunglasses and Xander pulled out a phone to text what must have been his entire contact list. When my sandwich was finally gone, Gemma waved down the waiter.

  “Check, please,” she said, and as the waiter left to do her bidding she grinned at me, then Xander. “So, Tekla, do you like movies? ‘Cause Xander here is a huge film buff. He wants to be a film director, though Daddy prefers if he went into business. Isn’t that right, Xander?”

  Xander shrugged and sniffed, but put away the phone. For the first time he looked at me without derision. Obviously, Gemma had hit his sweet spot. This was my opportunity to impress. One problem, though: I was about as interested in film as in fashion. Sure, I knew enough to get by. I watched the occasional movie on television. I even liked going to the cinema. I especially liked watching old black-and-white flicks. But a film buff? Hardly.

  “Ah,” I hesitated. Time to stretch the truth. “Sure, I like movies. Who doesn’t?”

  “Yeah?” Xander stared me down, like a poker player on the lookout for a tell. “Name the last movie you’ve seen.”

  Oh God. My mind blanked. The last movie? I hadn’t been to a theater since the semester started. Wait! Lauren had dragged me to that law school film party, hosted in the dorm of her latest boyfriend. ‘Course, I had hated every minute of the experience: twenty guys, two girls, beer and a movie where limbs flew and characters bled like pigs in a slaughterhouse.

  Oh, what the hell; the movie was so gory a teenage boy had to like it. At least, all the twenty-something-year-old frat boys did.

  “Kill Bill, Volumes 1 and 2,” I said. And held my breath.

  Xander sat up in his seat.

  “Quentin Tarantino,” he said, whispering the name with almost God-like reverence. “He’s my favorite. The man’s a genius, and I want to make movies just like his. I’ve never met an older chick who actually wanted to see his films. They’re usually too squeamish. So is Maman; she makes me turn them off whenever I try to show her.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said with a grin—even though he had called me old—as I prepared to lie through my teeth. All for a good cause, I reminded myself. I could not, under any circumstances, go back to living with my parents. “I recognize genius when I see it. Even when it’s bloody.” When he said nothing more, I mentally buffed my nails. Score. Success.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE TAXI CAME to a grinding halt smack in the middle of downtown traffic.

  Brakes screeched. Horns blared. The driver cursed and gestured with his middle finger at the yellow cab that cut in front of us to make a sudden exit into a side street.

  My body lurched forward and almost flew out of its seat. There was barely enough time to brace with my palm before my face connected with the Plexiglas divider that separated the backseat from the cab driver.

  I groaned. Not again.

  The taxi had jerked and lurched like a bucking bronco for the past half hour. First, because of a stalled bus; then, crosstown traffic congestion. Finally, two closed lanes had obstructed all downtown traffic for what seemed like miles.

  We were stuck in a stampede of cabs, city buses, and passenger cars determined to make their way through the tiny island of Manhattan.

  The exhaust from all those idling engines crept into the cab like snaking smoke, slowly overpowering in its pungency. I slipped back in the seat, scrunched my nose and rolled down a window—maybe air would ventilate the stench—but rolled it back up almost immediately. Now the cab was smelly, loud and hot.

  Not too bright.

  I stared out the closed window at all the commuter madness and wanted to cry.

  Mrs. Lamont had made things sound so simple.

  “The kids like you,” she had proclaimed when Xander, Gemma and I finally returned to the house from our lunch. “So now you meet my husband. He approves all people who work with the children.”

  Oh God, I had to stop myself from cringing. Please not another meeting … not today.

  “I schedule a 3:30 appointment for you, in his office,” Mrs. Lamont had said. “You share taxi with my assistant. He has papers to give my husband, so he show you where to go, no?”

  Assistant? I had perked up at the word. As in, Mr. GQ? If Gemma was right, Mr. straight and available GQ? Suddenly, the situation had whole new possibilities. And 3:30 was doable. If I met with Mr. Lamont promptly at 3:30 p.m., I would probably be out of his office by four at the latest. Undoubtedly a busy man, he should have little time for small talk. That would give me a solid hour to get back to school.

  But it was already 3:30 p.m., and we had barely traversed four blocks since leaving Mrs. Lamont’s residence. According to Mr. GQ—Julian—we were twenty blocks away from our destination. At this rate, that would equal another two hours of stop-and-go traffic. And two hours meant I would definitely miss Constitutional Law.

  Bye-bye, any hope of getting an A.

  Not to mention that my appointment with Mr. Lamont was to have started now, at 3:30 exactly. Showing up late would not garner points in my favor, despite the fact that it was Mrs. Lamont who had insisted on the taxi. I would’ve preferred the far more reliable subway. And somehow I had the uneasy feeling that Mr. Lamont wouldn’t be interested in any excuses. He didn’t become a billionaire by waiting for his minions, even if his wife sent them. I could be out of an A and a job.

  The possibility had me fidgeting. I crossed my right leg, uncrossed it and, when the taxi still failed to move, crossed it again, my foot jiggling like Jell-O.

  “Come on, come on, change to green,” I chanted and drummed my fingernails on the cab’s upholstery. The tap-tap of my fingers or the whispered prayer must have carried because Julian, sprawled next to me, turned his head to look in my direction. He arched an eyebrow in question.

  Well, well, now—finally—he’s noticed me.

  I slowed my fingers and stared right back at him. Despite his sloppy pose, he still looked stunningly handsome. His head reclined against the cab’s backseat and his right arm lounged on the door’s armrest. Well-honed biceps peeped out from underneath the sleeve of his designer tee shirt. His hair looked just as thick, his jaw just as square and his eyes just as mesmerizing as before. Somehow, though, his cover-boy good looks were far less impressive now because, while I wanted to jump out of my own skin, he seemed wholly unconcerned with the traffic, the passing time—and me.

  He hadn’t even had the decency to flirt. There had been no crooked smiles, winking creases or charged banter during this ride. Nothing. Not even an occasional nod of acknowledgement. He hadn’t said a word to me since we got into the taxi. Instead, he had spent all of the past half hour with a cell
phone glued to his ear, taking phone calls from and making calls to a never-ending list of people.

  His side of the conversation offered a never-ending litany of: Yes, Monique. No, Monique … Hired new guy, Monique. Don’t worry, pro in the field, Monique. Flight out 6:30 tomorrow morning, Monique. Bye, Monique.

  And then: Hey James. Big shoot, man. First Vogue cover, man. Later, man.

  And so the song went, non-stop, with only minor variations. He spoke to Monique at least ten times—as if we hadn’t just left her house—and some guy at Vogue who was supposed to be an art director. After the fourth person, I lost count and interest. Granted, his calls were all business, but, really, it seemed like he spoke to everybody.

  Except me. And I was right there, under his nose. No phone necessary.

  Foolishly, I had hoped our taxi ride would be the start of something. That it would build up to an eventual exchange of numbers. Perhaps, with luck and time, we could’ve even gone on a real date. But no. Apparently I had completely misread his prior attention. He was only interested in business. I should’ve known better. I never had luck with hot men.

  I was going to miss out on Con Law and a job—and not even get the guy as compensation.

  Julian dropped his phone in his lap.

  “Something bothering you, Tekla?”

  Uhh … I averted my eyes. He had said my name. He was actually talking to me again, his voice smooth, his dark brown eyes completely riveted on me.

  Maybe I had been making too much out of the delay and just taking it out on him. After all, he was still technically working, and we were only a few minutes late.

  I pulled a strand of hair away from my shoulder and twirled it. The traffic light finally changed to green and the cab revved to life. One more block down. Eighteen to go.

  “I was just a little concerned about all this congestion, and that it’s already past 3:30. Maybe it would be better if I got out and caught the subway. I wouldn’t want Mr. Lamont to wait.”