Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  I had never been in the Lamont townhouse without one of the twins present. Where did Xander imagine I would pass the time until Gemma showed up? He wouldn’t appreciate me hanging around his room, his teenage sanctuary of privacy, without him, and I couldn’t just march into Gemma’s room, for the very same reason.

  Xander paused at the top of the stair landing.

  “She’ll be back soon.”

  “Yeah, but where am I supposed to wait until then? In your room?”

  Xander looked horrified at the prospect.

  “No way … wait in the living room,” he shouted and disappeared.

  “Great,” I mumbled and walked down the stairs to the empty living space. It was as stark as always. I eyed the white sofa and decided to chance it, cursing my lack of foresight in not bringing something to read with me, because there was absolutely nothing to do in the living room except stare at the four white walls—no television to watch or magazines to flip through. Of course, there was also the painting of Monique. The incredibly large painting seemed to grow larger with each passing minute. Her image hovered over the room like the ghost of a long-lost family relative.

  Gemma, where are you?

  I got off the sofa and paced the room—I couldn’t look at Monique for a second longer. I finally paused in front of a door that blended almost perfectly with one of the walls.

  It had to be the door that led to Monique’s office. Julian had walked in and out of it that first day.

  I had never been to the office, the hub of Monique’s—and Julian’s—photographic life in New York, and I was curious. I reached for the knob, only to discover the door opened to another staircase. I looked down the stairs. What now? I couldn’t very well march down the flight and into the office. What would I say if somebody saw me? And if the office were empty, what would I do then? Gawk like an idiot? Either possibility didn’t appeal, so I just stood staring. And I would have stood there for God knows how long, except for the undeniable sound of footsteps heading my way.

  “Shit.” I gently closed the door behind me and lunged for the safety of the sofa, like a child about to be caught in the middle of a naughty act and desperately trying to prevent the possibility.

  I plopped on the seat as the door opened again.

  Julian sauntered in.

  I gaped. Somehow I hadn’t entertained the possibility it might be him. But I should have. After all, Monique was back in New York—and where Monique went, Julian followed.

  I gaped some more as he closed the door and walked in my direction. He had yet to notice me.

  The jerk looked amazing. A white tee shirt clung to his runner’s frame and made a stark contrast with the olive of his skin. A five-o’clock shadow gave him that European flair.

  Mr. Gentleman’s Quarterly, indeed. Why was life so unfair?

  “Tekla,” Julian said, startled, when he finally saw me. “What are you doing here?”

  I wished I could lounge back on the sofa and ever so gently cross my legs, like a true sophisticate—like Monique probably would. Then I could pout—no, no, smile like the Mona Lisa—and murmur, Why, what could I possibly be doing here? I work here, remember?

  But I didn’t. Instead, I stammered, “W-w-waiting. For Gemma.”

  Julian grinned. His dimples came to life in their full seductive glory.

  “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise.”

  I gulped a little as he moved closer to me.

  “I was planning to call you today, and here you are. Right out of my thoughts.”

  Lucky me. He sat on the sofa.

  “Actually,” Julian said as he propped his arm on the seat’s back, almost behind me, “I e-mailed you, but you never replied. I guess you didn’t get the message.”

  I shifted to the sofa’s edge, away from Julian. The jerk was so conceited he didn’t even consider the possibility I might have not replied on purpose. The nerve!

  I sure got your message, buddy, I wanted to yell. Loud and clear.

  “But, anyway,” Julian said, “I’m back in the city for a few days and thought it would be nice if we could meet up somewhere, so I could make it up to you for last time.”

  My mouth slacked. Another date with Julian? What to say, what to say? On the one hand, the answer should have been obvious: he blew me off—for Monique, no less—then didn’t even have the common courtesy to call and apologize.

  But on the other, this was Julian. Gorgeous Julian. Sexy Julian. And I was so single.

  “Er, I guess … ” I heard myself agreeing.

  Fortunately, Gemma chose that very moment to reappear.

  “Oh, my gosh, Tekla!” she chirped.

  Julian and I jumped off the sofa like two teenagers caught necking.

  “I’m sooo sorry,” she trilled, then stopped short at the sight of us, together. “Oh, hey, Julian. What are you guys doing here all alone?”

  She eyed us slyly.

  “Nothing,” I said and walked towards Gemma. Her hair was styled and she looked like someone had professionally done her makeup. “I was waiting for you, and Julian came up from the office. We were talking to pass the time. But since you’re here, we can go up now.”

  Gemma hesitated, reluctant to turn away and leave.

  “Come on.” I motioned toward the stairs leading to her room. “It’s really late. I have to leave soon. I have lots of my own schoolwork. You look very nice, by the way.”

  Gemma finally looked at me.

  “You think?” she smiled.

  I stomped down a wave of guilt at using her insecurities to distract her. After all, she did look nice.

  “Yeah, definitely. And by the way, Julian, thanks for the company.”

  “Sure, anytime,” Julian called after us as we both headed for the stairs. “I’ll call you later and we’ll talk some more.”

  Yeah, sure, I nodded. You do that.

  “So, Gemma,” I said while we climbed the stairs to Gemma’s bedroom, “Xander said you had to see me. Do you have lots of homework?”

  “No,” Gemma admitted as she danced into her room. “But I so have to talk to you. You won’t believe what happened! Maman is taking me to this huge party tonight. That’s why we went to the spa. She says, like, everyone will be there, even Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Can you imagine! I’ll get to meet Brad Pitt! Of course, he is just an actor and I’m so not into that—and, like, Jennifer Aniston’s better anyway—but still. All the girls in school will just die when they find out. Oh my gosh, you have to help me pick out an outfit.”

  Great. I sighed and sat on Gemma’s bed while she pirouetted around the room. Should’ve figured. All the unread pages of my own schoolwork flashed in my head while Gemma gushed, full of teenage drama.

  I closed my eyes, anticipating the all-nighter ahead of me.

  It would be my penance for trying to help Xander learn to write.

  CHAPTER 11

  “SOMETHING WRONG, Gemma?”

  Gemma’s body was unmoving. She sat completely still in her rocking chair, her eyes fixed on some point above my head. She hadn’t said a word—not “oh my gosh,” “like, totally,” or “I know, as if”—since I arrived today. She just handed over her homework—a math take-home test—and stared.

  Coco and Dior were asleep on her bed, their dog snores the only sound in an otherwise silent room.

  “No.”

  Gemma mumbled the word without looking at me.

  I arched a brow at her answer. Miss Usually-Prattles-Without-A-Break continued staring, unfazed, refusing to say anything else. She hadn’t regaled me with a single Prince William fantasy, and she expected me to believe nothing was the matter.

  As if …

  She probably got a bad grade on something and was now pouting.

  I bolted straight up in my seat. A bad grade with my help …

  “Did you fail something in school?” I asked, desperately trying to remember if I had drawn the right cell division diagram on Gemma’s lab report.

  �
�No.”

  “Did you get a bad grade?”

  “No.”

  I slouched back in my seat. No F. No D. Gemma’s funk couldn’t have anything to do with schoolwork, therefore I was in the clear.

  I hesitated before asking the next question. Really, anything outside of Gemma’s schoolwork was none of my business. But …

  “Did something else happen in school?” A fight with a friend, perhaps?

  Gemma finally looked at me. Too bad her look resembled more of a glare.

  “No. Nothing happened in school,” she snapped. “I told you, I’m fine. God. Can everyone just get off my case! I have homework, you know.” She pointed to the math sheet in my hand. “Can we get back to that?”

  “Fine,” I snapped back and glanced down at the take-home. Fractions again. I groaned. How long would I be plagued by fractions? “You have to multiply and divide fractions,” I began. “Problem one asks you to multiply two-thirds by three-halves. Any idea what you need to do first?”

  But Gemma wasn’t listening. She was off staring again, her head leaning against the wall.

  “Gemma?”

  “What?” she sighed and closed her eyes, a damsel in full distress. I clenched my hands.

  “You have to multiply two-thirds by three-halves. What do you think you need to do first?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes remained closed.

  “Yes, you do,” I tapped her rocking chair with my foot. It rocked forward, then back. Gemma’s lids fluttered open. “Come on, concentrate.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, gazing straight through me.

  “Okay.” I silently counted to ten, then to twenty for good measure. “I’ll give you a hint. You can solve the problem in one of two ways. One would be to just multiply straight across, both the numerator and the denominator, and then to simplify your answer to get the least common terms. That sounds easy, and it is, if you have relatively small numbers. Things can get a bit trickier when the numbers are bigger because it might be difficult to simplify the product. If that happens, you should try method two, where you simplify the fractions before you multiply them. Remember you can also simplify by cross-multiplying. So which method do you want to try?”

  Gemma shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “In that case, pick one and try the problem,” I advised.

  “You pick.”

  Gemma fiddled with her skirt, folding and unfolding the fabric into a makeshift fan.

  “Fine.” My eyes followed every new crease of the fabric. “We’ll try both ways, and you tell me which one you like best.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Great. ‘Whatever,’” I mimicked. I so yearned to roll my eyes to the back of my head; Gemma would surely understand the gesture. “We’ll do the straight multiplication first then. Two-thirds multiplied by three-halves. Let’s deal with the numerator first. What’s two times three?”

  Please, please, let her answer.

  Silence.

  Gemma continued folding pleat after pleat.

  “Gemma!” I burst out, unable to tolerate her indifference much longer. “What’s two times three? I know you know basic multiplication!”

  Oh please, know basic multiplication!

  Gemma straightened out the pleats and looked at me.

  “Six.”

  “Good.” I forced a smile. “And now for the denominator. What’s three times two?”

  “Six.”

  “Awesome. So what does that leave us with?” I held my breath. Come on …

  But Gemma gave nothing but a blank stare.

  “You have six as the numerator,” I prodded, my smile fading and teeth clenching as I enunciated each word. “And six as the denominator. Six over six. What does that equal?”

  No reply.

  “Six divided by six, Gemma,” I glowered, abandoning all pretense of understanding. “What’s the answer?”

  Gemma glowered back. We must have resembled two dueling gunmen, waiting to see who pulled the trigger first. And who knows how long we would have sat there, silent, waiting, if Xander hadn’t barged in.

  “Dude,” he snickered at Gemma, “that’s so easy. One, you idiot. You have to pardon her,” he said as he turned towards me. “She belongs in retard math, but we all pretend she’s normal so she doesn’t feel bad.”

  “Xander!” Gemma shrieked and jumped out of her seat. “Get out of my room!” she hurled out as she lunged at him.

  I found myself momentarily stunned by her reaction. This wasn’t the first time Xander had interrupted one of our sessions with an inappropriate comment. Gemma usually got mad, but never physical.

  “No!” I shouted as I regained my ability to move and jumped after her, in a vain effort to block what she surely intended as a tackle.

  Luckily, Xander sidestepped her efforts without my intervention.

  He laughed, oblivious or indifferent to any potential physical danger. “You missed.”

  Coco and Dior, startled out of their sleep, leapt off Gemma’s bed and headed for the door. Fast.

  Lucky dogs.

  “Xander, stop bothering your sister,” I instructed, grabbing hold of Gemma’s arm before it connected with Xander’s laughing face. “And you too, Gemma. Please stop. Ignore him and he’ll go away. Xander, leave before someone really gets hurt.”

  “Yeah, leave, you ass,” Gemma cursed as she extricated her arm from my grasp. “This is my room, and I don’t want you here. You’re also interrupting my hour with Tekla. Get out, or I’ll tell Maman!”

  Tears lodged in the corners of her eyelids. She swiped at them with the back of her palm.

  I scrutinized her face. Why the strong reaction? It was only Xander.

  “Ooh, Gemma’s in a bad mood,” Xander continued, still laughing. “Poor baby.” He puckered his lips in mock sympathy and looked straight at me. “Could it be because her whole school is laughing at her?”

  My mouth dropped open. That would certainly explain things.

  “Xander, shut up!” Gemma shrieked even louder.

  “Why? Don’t you want Tekla to know what happened?”

  I knew I shouldn’t have—it would only make things worse—but I couldn’t help myself: “What happened?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Gemma wailed, tears now rolling freely down her face. She slumped back to the desk and collapsed in her seat, sobbing.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Xander mused, shoving his hands in his pant pockets and strolling around the room. “I wouldn’t call everyone making fun of you nothing.”

  He paused next to me.

  “You know that party Maman said she would take her to? That party she was all excited about and wouldn’t stop blabbing about to anyone who’d listen?”

  I nodded. Oh no. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. A really bad feeling.

  “Well,” Xander resumed his pacing. “The retard here told the whole school that she was going to meet Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, even though I warned her not to. That Maman never does what she promises. But did she listen? Noooo. Off she went bragging and rubbing it into everybody’s face. ‘I’ll meet Brad Pitt,’” Xander shrilled, pitching his voice in imitation-Gemma. “‘I’ll touch Brad Pitt.’ ‘I’ll get a picture with Brad Pitt.’ But guess what?”

  “What?” The word rolled off my tongue before I could stop it.

  “It didn’t happen!”

  Xander paused in the center of the room, a stage actor making his grand finale. All that was missing was the spotlight. I stared, riveted by the performance.

  “Nope. No Brad Pitt,” he specified. “No Angelina Jolie. No bragging rights in school. Just total social embarrassment. Because Maman took Dad instead!”

  Xander’s last sentence reverberated in the room like a boom from a cannon.

  “Oh, Gemma!” I turned away from Xander, and walked towards her. “I’m so sorry,” I sympathized.

  “No! Don’t be, because I don’t care,” Gemma cried. “I’m happy
Maman went with Daddy.” Her voice cracked. “They were fighting, and they made up. That’s why they went together. And that’s good. I want my parents to be happy. And who cares about what people in school say anyway? I’ll get Brad Pitt’s picture next time. Maman promised. Besides, she said I could go with Pam to Kelly’s party tomorrow night, even though she said I couldn’t before, just to make it up to me. So, see, I’m not upset!”

  I nodded. I’d believe whatever Gemma wanted.

  “Yeah,” Xander snickered back. “And don’t forget the iPhone from Dad as a payoff.”

  Obviously, Xander didn’t feel the same compunction I did.

  Gemma turned on Xander like a lioness protecting her cubs. “You’re just jealous because he got me a new phone, and not you. I got one, and you got nothing! So, hah, hah! Laugh all you want.”

  New phone? That tidbit shouldn’t have particularly stood out from the rest of Gemma’s rantings, but it did.

  “Is your number still the same?” I interrupted, because if it wasn’t, I might be dialing up a dead end the next time Gemma or Xander didn’t hear the downstairs doorbell. Not a pleasant possibility.

  “What? Why?” Gemma halted mid-rant. “No. It’s different.”

  “Can you give it to me, in case I need to call you?”

  “Yeah, fine,” she quickly agreed and scrawled it down before refocusing her ire back on Xander. “So I am NOT upset. Everything is FINE. So can everyone just please stop asking!”

  I looked at Gemma’s angry, tear-stained face.

  Boy, if only that were the case.

  TWO HOURS LATER—two long hours of Xander refusing to leave Gemma’s room, then leaving, then Gemma sulking that I hadn’t made Xander leave soon enough, and finally Xander sulking while I was in his room because I did make him leave—I headed for the door, and the promise of peace and quiet of law school.

  Except the door—my gateway to sanity—was blocked. By Julian.

  I paused on the grand Lamont staircase.

  He wore jeans and a tee shirt again. Nothing extraordinary, really. Just faded denim and white cotton. He also hadn’t shaved in days. On any other man, the clothes and the stubble would have looked unkempt, sloppy even.