Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  I stopped shifting, frozen in place by Xander’s tidbit.

  It was awesome. For him. My stomach, however, took a nosedive.

  An anthology? As in, a collection of literary pieces edited by professionals and sold to and read by a public other than teachers and the occasional parent? That kind of anthology?

  I had to remind myself to breathe. To take nice, even breaths in and out.

  Because writing a school essay for him was one thing, but having my work featured in an honest-to-goodness book under Xander’s name was another entirely. $150 per hour didn’t begin to cover that service. Frankly, no amount could.

  “Mr. Dandridge said that’s a real coup.” Oblivious to any discomfort on my part, Xander kept on going. “That’s, like, really good, you know. I looked it up, you know, the ‘coup’ thing. He says that only a tiny number of high school writers get published in the anthology—like one in a million nationwide—and that I have real potential as a writer. Yo, colleges really dig that, right? Like, I’ll be like the next Ernest Hemingway applying. That’s what Mr. Dandridge said.”

  I couldn’t help it. I glared.

  Ernest Hemingway?

  Xander couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be that delusional. But his face said he was.

  Suddenly, I didn’t like him very much. I didn’t like his crooked smile, so innocent, so clueless of his words’ impact. I didn’t like his rich daddy who could—and did—pay anyone to do anything for him. I didn’t like that he would probably get into the Ivies, with or without the anthology, or that he was a legacy, the son of a trustee. I didn’t like that, in the future, he could land any job he wanted, and that he would never have to pander to the Stephen Lamonts of this world. Hell, he didn’t even have to worry about the Professor Johnsons.

  I didn’t like being his tutor. Worse, I didn’t like that no matter how much I worked, how hard I studied, how bright others thought I was, my future would never be as rosy as his.

  Most of all, I didn’t like that he took it all—took me—for granted, as his God-given due.

  How could Xander not get it? How did he not see?

  It was my work, my story.

  Not his.

  I watched Xander happily yapping away, spewing with enthusiasm over his good fortune, without really hearing him.

  I didn’t just dislike him, I realized. I hated him. Now. Today. At this very moment. I hated a fourteen-year-old boy who hadn’t really done anything to me, hadn’t done anything I didn’t agree to. And why?

  Jealousy.

  The realization almost knocked me off the stool.

  Despite my loving parents and academic accolades, I was jealous of a kid from a dysfunctional family with bad grades. I was jealous of his big house and his father’s big Bentley. I was jealous of his mother’s celebrity friends and his father’s billions. I was jealous of the private jets and the vacations with the Queen. I was especially jealous of how easily he could get his name, his work, in print. Because I was pretty sure if I tried, the response from the publishing world would be quite different. A Tekla Reznar was no Lamont.

  And I was ashamed of having this jealousy, that I could envy such meaningless, material trappings, that I could begrudge a kid his birth’s privilege.

  But the story was mine. I might have willingly penned it, knowing Xander would get the credit, but I wasn’t going to become his ghostwriter, not even if Stephen Lamont begged. I wouldn’t further aid in making Xander’s life any more idyllic, no matter the consequences.

  “But, Xander,” I murmured, interrupting him mid-sentence. “It isn’t really your story.”

  Xander frowned.

  “The story Mr. Dandridge likes so much,” I said. “You didn’t really write it. I did.”

  Xander finally became speechless for a moment.

  “You have to tell Mr. Dandridge the truth now,” I hammered away. “It can’t be printed in the anthology, because you didn’t write it. That would be plagiarism. You know what that is, right?”

  “Yes … ” Xander regarded me from underneath his furrowed brows. “But, like, you didn’t say it was plagiarism when you thought it was just for school. Like, dude, I wrote my own story, but you and Dad made me hand in this one.”

  I felt my face burn.

  Busted.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “And I was wrong. Your dad was wrong. But now you have to make it right. I’m sure if you explain to Mr. Dandridge, and show him your original story, that you really did the work, he’ll understand.”

  Even I didn’t believe the last. How could any teacher condone outright cheating?

  But as of right now, I didn’t care. My story wasn’t going to be published under Xander’s name. Not if I had anything to do with it.

  “Yeah, right,” Xander responded, mocking me—and my explanation of the consequences. “I’ll probably fail the paper, and Mr. Dandridge will definitely kick me off Horizons. And, dude, like Dad’ll be really pissed.”

  “Again, you’re probably right.” I nodded in agreement. I didn’t even want to think about Stephen Lamont. “So maybe you shouldn’t tell him just yet, not until I speak to him and explain.” Not that my talking would be much help. Stephen Lamont would definitely be pissed. “But either way, you have to tell Mr. Dandridge. Because, Xander,” I said, pitching my voice low to sound more menacing, “either you do it, or I do it for you.”

  “Okay … ” Xander shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Oh, I did. I finally did.

  CHAPTER 26

  “CAN YOU believe it? He didn’t get why I was upset. And I can just imagine what Stephen Lamont will say when he finds out I made Xander tell the teacher!”

  “Uh-huh,” responded Julian, his voice muffled as he nuzzled my neck.

  He had been nuzzling there for the past fifteen minutes. Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed his cuddling. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

  “Are you listening to me?” I demanded and pulled away from him.

  Julian sighed. “Sure.” He sat upright on the sofa, his expression halfway between a frown and a wry smile.

  We were on the couch in his flat in Williamsburg. Two glasses of red wine were standing invitingly on the coffee table before us. Julian had placed them there when I first arrived an hour before. He had suggested I come over to relax and unwind at his place when I called after my session with Xander. And after all—as he had pointed out—I had yet to see his humble abode. He would show me his home, and I could forget all about Xander, about the Lamonts.

  It made perfect sense.

  Except my idea of unwinding and Julian’s didn’t seem to mesh.

  Sure, he had dutifully showed me his spacious loft in a converted shoe factory, and I, equally as dutifully, had admired its décor.

  Actually, for a guy, the place, with its sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows, dark red living space, calm blue bedroom, sparse but well-worn furniture, black-and-white prints on the walls and miles of salvaged hardwood floor, was surprisingly beautiful—dramatic, but warm and inviting.

  “It’s all about color contrast and balance,” Julian had said when I stood there in awe.

  Who knew red walls could look good outside a bordello? That they could look rich, like a well-aged Cabernet sauvignon?

  “You need that in photography,” he had gone on, “and I guess it works out pretty well at home too.”

  Did it ever. I loved his home, and I was glad he had invited me.

  But that was where our ideas for the evening diverged.

  Julian’s centered around plentiful amounts of wine, dimmed lights, soft music, and us on the sofa.

  I wanted to talk. And I did so, now.

  “My work,” I said, “is going to be published in a real book under Xander’s name.”

  “I heard you,” Julian said as he got up to turn on the lights. “And I see you’re upset. But, really, what’s the big deal? It’s just a kid story that, what, will be published in some anthology by a bu
nch of other high school kids and will be read by maybe a few hundred people? It’s not like we’re talking about the New Yorker here.”

  I sat on the couch speechlessly.

  “Look,” Julian said, sitting back on the sofa and patting my knee, “you need to see this in a different light: as a boon, and not a curse. Think about what Stephen Lamont will do when he learns you got his son,” Julian said as he leaned into me, his voice brimming over with newfound enthusiasm, “his heir apparent, in print before he graduates from high school. Stephen couldn’t have expected that with Xander. That’s as close to a job guarantee as you’ll ever get. Stephen will never get rid of you now.”

  “Yeah, well,” I pointed out, my vocal cords strumming to life once again, “that’s not going to happen. As I said before,” I emphasized, indicating to Julian I knew he hadn’t been listening, “Xander is going to fess up to his teacher. I told him he had to. That it’s the right thing to do.”

  The words, “Are you insane?” hurled out of Julian’s mouth. For a guy who hadn’t wanted to talk, he was getting pretty heated by the subject at hand. “That’s the surest way to the unemployment line. Even you have to understand that!”

  Even me?

  My nostrils flared.

  “You have to be crazy to give up that much money, to give up the Lamonts and all they can offer.” Julian moved off the sofa to pace around the room in front of me. “And over what? A confused sense of pride? Look, Tekla,” he said in a gentler tone as he came back to the couch and to me. “Let me do you a favor and give you some free advice. You haven’t really worked much, have you? What, with school, this probably is your first real job. Am I right?”

  I stared at him, saying nothing.

  The years I had spent doing chores at my parents’ restaurant, as a makeshift busgirl, hostess, business secretary and all-around assistant came to mind, but I doubted a small Polish joint in Brooklyn would be “real” enough for Julian, so I kept the experience to myself.

  Julian took my silence as assent.

  “See, baby, sometimes in the real world, we have to make compromises for the sake of the bigger picture,” he advised me with a smile.

  I couldn’t make myself smile back, although the “baby” had my stomach jittering. It was the first time Julian called me anything besides “Tekla,” and this one was indeed an endearment.

  “So what if Xander gets credit for your story? You never would’ve done anything with it anyway. Hell, you wrote it specifically for his class. And it’s not like Xander will really benefit. Sure, he’ll be in a book. But could he ever do that again without you? He needs you. The Lamonts need you. And that gives you the upper hand.”

  Julian ran his fingers through my hair. I had left it loose on purpose, knowing he liked playing with the strands.

  “I know how you feel, believe me,” he continued, still smiling. His finger trailed from my hair, down to my neck, and up and down my collarbone. I couldn’t stop the goose bumps. “The first time I saw my picture in a magazine with Monique’s credit, I took it hard too. Who wouldn’t? My dream—under her name.”

  What?! I gaped, stunned at this last news. Julian took Monique’s photos? How could that be? That was so awfully … wrong, unethical, illegal.

  “But that was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Julian admitted, completely oblivious to my shock. “My pictures, my expertise, my style. Monique can’t exist professionally without me. And she’s willing to pay to make sure I don’t go away. All this,” he said, removing his hand from my skin only long enough to encompass our surroundings, “is thanks to her and the Lamont cash. And you can have the same—if you play it right.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I coughed out. I was having trouble focusing. Julian’s fingers were magic; they knew just the right spots to touch, tease and skim over. “I mean,” I said, trying to concentrate, because, somewhere in the fog of Julian’s caresses, I knew we were talking about something important, something vital even to our understanding of each other. But Julian’s fingers found the boundary where bare skin disappeared beneath the cotton of my shirt, and they hovered over this edge, right above my breasts—and I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or thrilled. “For all the money, you’re still the assistant, not the photographer,” was what I finally got out.

  Julian’s hand paused. His smile dropped. His eyes bore into mine. I simply could not look away from the intense brown of his irises, from his sharply sculpted nose, cheeks and jaw line. God, he was beautiful, like Michelangelo’s David.

  “No,” he denied. “Because I don’t fancy the lifestyle of the starving artist. And believe me, people like us—working class parents, public school students, anyone with no connections—we starve before we make it big, if we ever do.

  “I like where I am,” he went on, his expression not softening. “I like not having to make ends meet, not pounding the pavement, not praying or hoping someone will give me a break. I could do all that, sacrifice everything for my art, and still never see my pictures, my name, in print. That’s cold reality. Given the choice to do it over again, I would still make this one. And you should too. The Lamont billions can take you far in life. So what if you write an essay here and there, bend the rules sometimes? Think about the money, the advantages.”

  Julian’s fingers on my shirt suddenly felt like a weight pulling me under, one I had to get away from before I drowned in the sea of his cynicism. I shook my head a bit in an effort to focus. Certainly, Julian was partly right. People like us did have it harder—and that’s why I resented Xander. But with hard work, talent and brains, they did persevere. They had to, otherwise why bother?

  That was why I was in law school. And that was why Julian should do more than just “assist” Monique.

  Because money wasn’t everything. The words reverberated in my head. Money wasn’t everything. I would rather, I realized, move back to Brooklyn and bury myself in debt before I sold out as much as Julian had. I didn’t want to be him, complete with designer clothes and fancy home but no way to take pride in, and credit for, my own work. Sometimes the ultimate price for a good wage was too much to pay—and Julian had to know that. Why else did he resent Gemma and Xander? Why did he get so mad when I stuck up for them?

  So I asked him.

  Julian removed his hand from my shirt, and sat back on the couch.

  “Those two don’t deserve your pity, or your mothering,” he answered. “Use them, but don’t ever think you’re more to them than just an employee. Don’t make Lisa’s mistake of becoming emotionally involved, of thinking you’re one of them.”

  He reached for his glass of wine on the coffee table and sipped.

  “So promise me,” he asked, his smile finally back on his face, “you’ll call Xander and tell him to forget the teacher thing.” He reached for my glass and handed it to me. “Let’s drink to the two of us together, and our bright future with the Lamonts and beyond. Because, Tekla, the two of us can go far, if we’re on the same page.”

  I took the glass, but didn’t sip, too intent on the “if.” Was Julian giving me an ultimatum: do as I do, or else? The possibility made me uncomfortable because I sure as hell wasn’t going to call Xander. And, well, a Julian that cold and calculating was someone I didn’t really know or necessarily like.

  I stood up and walked away, over to the windows with their impressive view of Manhattan. I stood there, considering: was I reading too much into his comments?

  Still, the mood—my mood—was broken and I needed to get away—from Julian, from his home—to think.

  But there was no graceful way to exit without looking like a paranoid fool, so I walked back to the couch, to bide the time with idle talk until the moment was right to leave.

  “Speaking of Lisa,” I re-directed on purpose, “what exactly happened?”

  Now Julian chuckled.

  “She got fired,” he said as he took a loud gulp of the red liquid, “for breaking in and destroying the backs. She was stup
id enough to get herself caught on tape.”

  He clucked in mock displeasure.

  “Yes, I know. But don’t you think that’s strange? I mean, why would Lisa want to destroy the backs? What would be her incentive?”

  “Who knows?” Julian said, waving a hand before patting the empty space on the couch next to him. Come, come, the gesture said.

  So I went.

  He placed his arm around my shoulder, half in a hug and half in a fake headlock. A few minutes before, I would have thought the move sweet and playful, but now it was just stifling.

  “Maybe she wanted to get back at Monique. Maybe she was after me. It wouldn’t be the first time. But, again, she didn’t succeed. Good riddance,” he declared in a mocking tone.

  I pulled away from Julian by pretending to drink. “Still, just because you got her on tape entering the house doesn’t mean she actually went down to the office.”

  “You would be right, Ms. Lawyer,” Julian agreed. “Hence, no arrest. But the circumstantial evidence was enough for a pink slip. Why else would she be at the house when she wasn’t supposed to be?”

  I had wondered the same—for about a second—because the answer was obvious to anyone familiar with Lisa and her role in the Lamont household.

  “Most likely she came to snoop on Xander and Gemma and the party,” I answered. “She always had her hands in their business, and after the fiasco with Gemma and the drinking, she probably wanted to know exactly what was happening.”

  “Maybe,” Julian conceded. “But the point is moot. She’s gone. End of story … for her. Do you want more wine?”

  I looked down my still full glass, then back up at Julian. He had walked to the open kitchen and was holding a bottle of red.

  “No, thanks, I’m fine.” I watched him stroll back to us, bottle in hand. He tipped it over to fill his glass. “It’s just … there’s one thing that bothers me.”

  And it had, ever since the scene at the Lamont townhouse. As I watched Lisa cry and pack, it had nagged at me.

  “I mean, Lisa has no photography experience, right? She’s never worked for Monique?”