Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  But, alas, there was no new mail, aside from a host of messages from Xander. And those had come in droves. Apparently Xander now fancied himself a writer because my mailbox was simply deluged with the latest drafts of his ever-expanding story.

  Hey Tekla, he wrote on all of them, here’s another paragraph. I think you’ll really like it.

  And, initially, I had. After all, what was there not to like about an excited Xander willingly doing his own homework, a Xander eager about writing? Especially since the paragraphs really weren’t bad. Sure, they had his usual grammar mistakes. But those were easily fixed. More important was the fact that Xander’s story had a plot and character development: There was the dog Dior who was always busy with work; Dior’s wife Coco who constantly traveled; and the two puppies left behind at home who acted out to get their attention. I was thrilled with his insight—until Xander’s story took a turn. A mean one. And then another. And another.

  “Did you read his stupid story?” Gemma had screamed at me a few days prior, just as I arrived at the Lamont house. She’d shoved a piece of paper in my face before I could step foot through the door.

  I had scanned the sheet.

  The twins were one boy and one girl. The boy puppy is alright but the girl puppy her name is Gem she was a little shall we say slutty, she likes every dog in her school even if they bark bad things about her she still will go with them if they tell her to.

  I’d thought, Oh Lord, and returned the paper to Gemma.

  “Well!” she had shrieked. “What are you going to do about this? He’s e-mailed this to like everybody in his school and mine, and they’re all laughing. Everyone knows it’s about me!”

  I’d wanted to scream back; after all, what did she expect me to do about it? I wasn’t Monique or Stephen Lamont. I couldn’t make him do anything, not if he didn’t want to.

  Instead I’d turned away from Gemma, walked into the house, and called out, “Xander!”

  Xander had ambled down the stairs immediately, almost as if he’d been waiting for my call. “Tekla, wuz up?”

  “What is this?” I’d pointed to the now crumpled sheet in Gemma’s hand.

  “My story?” he’d snickered.

  “Yes,” I’d shot out through clenched teeth. The boy was actually going to act dumb. “Your story. Why are you purposefully badmouthing and goading your sister?”

  “That’s not about her,” Xander had said as he grinned and shoved his hands in his pant pockets. “It’s fiction. Any similarities are purely coincidental.”

  “Liar … ,” Gemma had burst out.

  “Oh come on. A girl puppy named Gem? That’s cutting it close, don’t you think?” I’d argued.

  “Literary license,” Xander had shrugged. Literary license, my ass, I’d thought. Where did the boy come up with this stuff?

  “You said I could write about anything I wanted,” Xander had gone on, eyeing me like a cat eyeing a mouse. “That ‘a made-up story can have some basis in fact.’ Actually, you said ‘most great fiction is rooted in fact, even when those facts make others uncomfortable.’ And that ‘brutal honesty is the only way to create a truly great masterpiece.’ That ‘it’s a writer’s job to force the truth on others even when they don’t want to see it themselves.’”

  My mouth had dropped open. Sure, I might’ve said something just that stupid. Not that I ever expected Xander to listen, let alone apply it.

  “So I’m just being honest,” Xander had continued. “And if Gemma doesn’t like it, she can write her own stuff. By the way,” he’d beamed at me, “how did you like my use of the word ‘bark’ instead of ‘say’? You know,” he’d added at my blank stare, “when I write that the dogs ‘bark’ bad things about her, I’m trying to stay in character. Dog character. That’s good, right?” He’d nodded, all eager for accolades to be sent his way.

  “Ehh!” Gemma had screeched—and then turned on me before I could utter a single word back. “You had better fix this,” she’d threatened, glaring at me so hard I could hardly make out her irises against the black of her pupils. “You better make him stop, or I’ll tell Daddy.” Then she had run up the stairs, the slam of her bedroom door ringing a not-so-silent warning.

  But I hadn’t been able to make Xander stop. His Gemma tales had become more outrageous with each new paragraph. He’d written about “Gem’s” drinking binge and her hook-ups with other puppy dogs. He’d gleefully mailed the stories to anybody willing to read them. And the more I’d urged, no begged, him to stop, the more Gemma had screamed and cried, the more Stephen Lamont had threatened me—because Gemma had told “Daddy”—the more determined Xander had become to be true to his art.

  So I’d tried reverse psychology. I hadn’t encouraged him, exactly; I just pretended Xander’s paragraphs didn’t exist. Yup. As long as he wrote about Gemma, there was no story.

  I had ignored his voluminous messages, refused to make any corrections. Hopefully, eventually, as the deadline for submission approached and my help was anything but forthcoming, he’d get the message.

  And—I logged out of my account, Xander’s latest e-mail still left unread—I decided I’d stick to my guns until the bitter end. Xander had to fold eventually. He just had to.

  Of course, keeping to my resolve created stress, so I uploaded The New York Times homepage. I’d skim the latest world developments, then get back to work. Really.

  I stared at the page. All the articles looked familiar.

  Damn. Even the headlines hadn’t changed. And none of them were uplifting.

  So I jumped to the home and garden section. Then to the wedding announcements, to boost my spirits and attention. There, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the details of the romantic courtship between John Prescott III and his fiancée Candy. He was fifty-three, and she was to be his second wife at the tender age of twenty-seven.

  “Tekla,” a voice whispered in my ear. “Yoo-hoo, Tekla, what are you doing?”

  “Huh? Oh, hey Markus,” I responded, closing the Times page faster than a teenage boy shutting down a porn site when caught by a parent.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I bolted up from the computer. “Just taking a break. You know, working away on that Law Review. Oh, hey Lauren,” I said, spotting my roommate behind Markus’s back. Well, well. Interesting. “So, what are you two up to?”

  “Oh,” Markus answered vaguely, shooting Lauren a glance and shrugging. “We just finished working on the brief. Lauren asked for some help. Nothing major. She was almost done anyway.” Markus frowned. “I thought you might also be in the library, so we came looking. And here you are.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled. Here I was.

  With all three of us standing there though, I felt like an intruder barging in on a private date. Lauren was pouting, but Markus seemed not to notice.

  “So,” I said, walking around him, “I better get back to work. Lots of footnotes to go, you know. You two enjoy yourselves,” I invited, my voice so sweet it could give cavities. “And congratulations on finishing up your briefs.”

  Markus stepped in front of me and blocked my progress.

  “I thought you might need some help too, you know, with the Law Review or the brief, whatever.”

  I shook my head so hard I was amazed it didn’t snap right off. “No, no, I have everything under control, really.” Really, I just didn’t want to step on any more toes. I didn’t need more people pissed at me, especially my roommate.

  But Markus wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “How many footnotes have you done?” he demanded.

  I flicked my eyes away from his scowling face. “103.”

  “How many more do you have to complete?”

  “231.”

  “And have you even started the brief?”

  “No.”

  Markus sighed. “How are you ever going to finish all these footnotes in a couple of days and do the brief in time, hmm? You need help. Admit it. And I’m here offering it.”
He waved a hand behind him. “With Lauren, of course.”

  Yeah, right. How could he be so dense about Lauren? I ground my teeth.

  But, shit, I did need the help. No point denying the obvious. The timing was tight, and my motivation was lacking. Working with someone would at least curtail the breaks. Yeah, I desperately needed the help. But not like this. Not at Lauren’s expense.

  “Really, you guys,” I said, nodding at both of them, “I appreciate the offer, but I created this mess and I have to fix it myself.” This, at least, was the absolute truth. “And it’s not like you two could do much anyway. I have to write the brief and I have to sign-off on every footnote. So there’s no point in you two wasting a lovely day on my behalf. Go somewhere and enjoy the time off. I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

  I hoped Lauren got the message that I wasn’t trying to ruin her game plan.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Markus snapped back. “We can help you organize books, find page numbers, whatever. Simply doing that takes a lot of time. And it’s not like we were planning anything specific anyway. Listen,” Markus pleaded, “you wouldn’t let me lend you the money, so at least let me help you with this. And Lauren wants to help too.” He turned an expectant face towards her. “Right, Lauren?”

  The look on Lauren’s face was brooding.

  “Right,” she finally said.

  BY THE TIME I COLLAPSED IN BED, I had completed sixty-seven additional footnotes—with the help of Markus and Lauren. Better still, Markus had promised to help some more tomorrow. At this rate, with his input, I actually stood a chance.

  I closed my eyes—that Markus really was something else—and lay immobile on the bed, too tired to bother with my jeans, shoes and sweatshirt or the books I had scattered all over the floor. I’d deal with them later. Much later.

  I lay that way, fully dressed, for who knows how long. When my lids finally cracked a peek the room was pitch black. I sat up in the bed and rubbed my face. I must’ve fallen asleep.

  I forced my body off the bed and switched on the light.

  Big mistake, my head shouted as the light assaulted my eyes. I hit the switch off and on again and tried to adjust to the room’s newfound brightness.

  And that was when I heard the house intercom. Its sound must’ve woken me.

  “Hello?” I croaked into the box.

  “Hello, Miss Tekla,” Darius the doorman chirped back at me. “There’s a gentleman downstairs to see you.”

  I frowned at the intercom. A gentleman? It could only be one person. Every other man I knew didn’t know my exact address, already lived in the dorm or was a blood relative. And family never dropped by unannounced—I glanced at my watch—at ten o’clock at night. But why was he here?

  I shrugged and lumbered to the door, passing a mirror along the way. Whatever. I didn’t care. I was done trying to figure out his motives. The man was nothing if not rude. I wouldn’t even worry about my disheveled hair, less-than-fresh shirt or complete lack of makeup. If he chose to show up with no warning, he could very well deal with the consequences.

  I headed to the elevators and sighted him in the lobby. He stood there in a black body-hugging Polo shirt and khaki slacks, a crooked smile on his face and a bunch of white roses hanging from his left hand.

  I couldn’t stop the sigh.

  “Hi,” I said as I walked towards Julian.

  “Hi,” he offered as he came to meet me halfway. He extended the flowers towards me. “These are for you. A peace offering. In apology. For being a jerk. For not appreciating the position I was putting you in. I’m sorry, I never considered that I was putting your job in jeopardy.”

  I reached for the flowers, brought the bunch to my face and sniffed. Don’t fall for it, my rational head warned. He had been a jerk, a class-A one, yelling at me over Xander and Gemma as if somehow I had been at fault for ruining the digital backs, and then jumping ship when I needed him most.

  I sniffed the flowers again. I was a sucker for white roses, especially when they came from a good-looking man.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  His smile widened. The dimples winked. “So you forgive me?” He fixed a strand of hair behind my ear. Goosebumps crawled up my neck and made me want to giggle. I nodded back.

  “Good,” Julian pulled at another strand, twirled it around his finger. “I know you’re busy with school, so I won’t bother you for long. But I missed you. You look good, Tekla.”

  Then he leaned in to kiss me.

  “See you soon,” he promised.

  CHAPTER 21

  WHEN AMY SMITH arrived at Elementary School 1 on the morning of September 1st, 2003, she could hardly imagine that one new idea, and her decision to pursue it, would alter the course of her entire life, or that of the school that employed her. Miss Smith was a third-grade teacher at the school, and had been one for more than five years. Her work primarily focused on teaching the children how to read. In that capacity, she actively utilized the school’s small library for reading material. Unfortunately, she found most of the books to be dated and had trouble getting her students interested in what they were reading, primarily because many of the students at the urban elementary school couldn’t relate to the lives of the fictional suburban and usually middle-class characters. Frustrated, Miss Smith decided to work on a “project” to address the problem, with the students’ help: she would write her own story—about a boy who lived in a magical underground city at the center of the earth—and the students would give her feedback as she went along. (Smith Deposition at 11.) The project was completely outside the scope of Miss Smith’s contractually specified responsibilities as a teacher. Those responsibilities never required, or even encouraged, her to create any original reading material. Consequently, not wanting the project to interfere with her primary duties as a teacher, Miss Smith wrote most of her story during her free time at home or during breaks while at the school. She used classroom time in the development of her project only at the very end of weekly “out loud” reading sessions. When students had completed reading their assigned books, Miss Smith read chapters of her story to the class. Students then gave her their opinions and suggestions on the story’s development. This took about five to ten minutes of classroom time, once a week, for approximately three months. Id. Miss Smith completed the bulk of the work on the story, which included hours of intense writing each day, outside the classroom setting. She rarely used any school computers or supplies in completing the work.

  At the end of three months, Miss Smith had finished 150 pages. She printed copies of her manuscript and had thirty bound into book format, all at her own expense. She distributed the copies to her students, as gifts, and donated one to the school’s library. For two years nothing else happened with the book—Miss Smith never thought to submit her “little project” to any publishers—until one fortuitous incident changed that fact. Elementary School 1 gained a donor willing to finance the expansion of its meager library. The donor visited the school to look over the school’s reading collection, and Miss Smith’s self-published book caught his attention. He passed the book along to an editor friend of his, who immediately contacted Miss Smith to work out a deal for the book’s national publication. Miss Smith happily agreed. No one, not the donor, the editor, or the book’s publisher, thought it necessary to seek out the school’s permission. Surprisingly, Miss Smith’s little book became a major children’s literary success …

  “Who’s going out for beer?” a male voice boomed outside my door and had me stopping smack in the middle of my statement of facts. “Meeting place downstairs!”

  Excited screams followed. Doors slammed. Feet rushed. Someone else put on music—Abba’s ultimate hit collection—and joyfully sang along. Apparently, my whole dorm floor had completed Professor Johnson’s brief and was intent on celebrating the fact, loudly.

  I covered my ears and tried to refocus on the text. I had three days—a whole weekend with no classes—to complete the brief and I was goin
g to do it, if it killed me. No way did I get this far only to fail now, because I—Tekla Reznar—had actually finished my Law Review assignment in time. The very idea still made me smile, as did the memory of me, in the Law Review office, handing off the work that very morning.

  I owed Markus big time. True to his word, he’d lugged around books and journals, flipped through hundreds of pages, and skimmed thousands of lines of legal jargon for five days straight, with no benefit to himself. More importantly, he didn’t let me slack. No more e-mail breaks or useless web surfing.

  The man was a saint.

  “Hey, Tekla,” someone slammed a fist into my bedroom door, “party in Jason’s room. You coming?”

  “No!” I shouted back. “I’m working.”

  But not here. I needed a quiet place. So I collected my laptop and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Lauren, a drink in hand and a new guy at her side, called after me from a neighboring dorm’s hallway, music blaring behind her back.

  “The library.”

  “OH MY GOD, WITH THE BRIEF DONE, I like have nothing else to do for the whole weekend. Can you believe it?” a blonde chuckled to a group of other blondes standing around my study table.

  I glared at them to be quiet, but they didn’t notice.

  “Did you hear, Tara and Jonathon hooked up at a party last night? But get this, he was so wasted he doesn’t remember a thing! Serves her right,” the same blonde yakked on.

  I searched around for another table, and found none empty. Clusters of students stood, sat or hovered around every table, talking and laughing. It was as if the study lounge had morphed itself into a den of gossip and idle chatter.

  The library was definitely out. I dug out my cell phone. Desperate times …

  “Hi, Mom. Can I come over? Yes, to Brooklyn.”