Glamorous Disasters

by Eliot Schrefer

  Cameron shrugs. “Okay, fine, whatever you say. Wait, why have you finished with them? Dylan has to take the SAT again like next month.”

  Noah looks at her, confused. “No, he’s done. Dylan and I have finished.”

  “I heard his mom tried to pay someone to take it for him, but it didn’t happen. Is that true?”

  Noah carefully considers his answer. “It didn’t happen.”

  “And my friend Isabelle”—she points to one of five blonde girls holding hands in a snapshot mounted on the mirror—“went out with Dylan like last week. They talked for like hours, and he’s definitely still working on his SAT. Weren’t you tutoring him?”

  “Just for the writing part. I think he’s already fine for math and verbal.” Noah’s mind is racing. Dylan only needed help with writing, right? That’s what Dr. Thayer told him.

  “Um, you think ?” Cameron laughs. “You’re totally supposed to know these things.”

  “His family hasn’t told me anything about it. So I guess they have something arranged.” Noah feels a rising anger, that he has been obscurely betrayed. He can think of two possibilities—either Dr. Thayer has secretly gotten Dylan a new tutor, or she is still searching for someone she can pay to take the test for Dylan. Either possibility makes Noah uneasy.

  After he finishes his session with Cameron, Noah walks up Broadway, peering in store windows, unwilling to return right away to the narrow room he shares with Roberto. He drinks a coffee in a Starbucks, gazes into the darkened displays of a closed Banana Republic across the street. He checks his cell phone—a message from Tab giving some encouraging feedback on his application essays, but nothing from Dr. Thayer. Of course not.

  The call comes six weeks later. He turns on his phone after leaving a session, and hears the unmistakable rasp of Dr. Thayer’s voice. But the message is not about Dylan, it is about Tuscany: she got into Choate, began the spring semester, and was removed from classes three days in for reasons Dr. Thayer is “not at liberty to name.” She wonders: would Noah be available to teach her until they can find another school?

  Chapter

  5

  Dr. Thayer’s message insists that Noah contact her at his convenience. He calls her immediately.

  “Hi, Dr. Thayer? This is Noah.” He stands in a crowd waiting for the walk light to turn at Central Park West, holding his phone tightly against his ear to make out her urgent rasp.

  “Oh, thank God. I thought you would never call.”

  “Is this an okay time?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Good.”

  A pause. Noah halts on the corner as the crowd surges across the street. He is unsure of how to segue into the issue of Tuscany’s getting kicked out. “So. Tell me about Tuscany,” Noah says.

  “Well, yes, plans have changed a little there. I suppose I’m wondering: do you have any free time during the day? It turns out that Choate won’t be happening after all, and, well, Tuscany wants to keep up with her studies while she’s between schools.”

  The first question that springs to Noah’s mind— What the hell did she do? —seems unsuitable, so he just holds his breath.

  “Well, she still has riding lessons Tuesday and Thursday, and ballet on Wednesday and piano on Monday. So afternoons are shot. Could you come from, say, nine to two each day? That would give you five hours to work. She’s got, let’s see, she’ll know her classes better than me, but I think she’s taking chemistry, and some history, and God, she’s bound to be taking French too…hold on a moment. Tuscany! Tussy !”

  Noah hears Dr. Thayer’s continued shrieks, then a thudding as someone heavy approaches the phone.

  It is Dylan’s voice: “Noah! Did you hear what happened? Aha! Can you—”

  Then Tuscany, from a distance: “You asshole!” Noah smiles to hear her squeal as she wrestles the phone away from her brother. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Tuscany, it’s Noah.”

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. So I’m taking chemistry, world history, French IV, geometry, and English—”

  “What are you reading in English?”

  “Somerset something, I don’t know. So do you think you’re going to be able to come?” She sounds so hopeful, like a nine-year-old throwing a birthday party. She really, genuinely likes him. Noah smiles goofily into the phone; he has really missed her.

  “I think so. But you have to put your mother back on for a second.” He hears a squabble of static as the phone switches hands.

  “Hi, so what do you think?” Dr. Thayer’s words come at a clipped pace; she is rushing to get somewhere.

  It all seems so nineteenth century, the bored young man responsible for the intellectual upbringing of a bright but reluctant noblewoman. Of course there are the extra twenty-five hours of work a week, which will solve his financial problems. His mind races.

  “I’d be happy to. Of course, I’ll have plenty of questions before I start.”

  “Wonderful. Of course you do. But I’ve got to run. Why don’t you just come by tomorrow at nine? Get whatever books you need. We’ll reimburse you, of course. We’ll talk tomorrow, see you tomorrow, ’bye!”

  Noah is left standing at the corner listening to a dead phone, wondering how to become a real teacher within twenty-four hours. He has done academic tutoring twice before—but both students were nerdy types who wanted to stay at the top of their class. Tuscany Thayer promises to be a different case entirely. How thrilling! He will be her sole intellectual guidance. He can do anything with her: if she takes an interest in factoring binomials, they can investigate higher theories of…binomial mathematical…discrete…abstract…something. Christ, he thinks as he swings idly around a light pole, it’s been a long time since high school, since he studied science or history at all.

  He stops at Barnes & Noble on the way home. He knows of no bookstores anywhere within Harlem, so he has to go to the Columbia University bookstore on 115th Street. The “Study Aids” section is all cheat-books, a massive wall full of course outlines and textbook summaries, made by a plethora of companies. Princeton Review, Kaplan, Spark-Notes, REA, Barron’s, Peterson’s…each publishes its guides in a different gaudy color, and the wall is a riot of loud paperbacks, a circus of education. He opens one and flips through the pages of cartoons and “hot tips”—he can’t teach from this. It is an abbreviation of knowledge, designed to replace the complexity of an original source with the reductive bare bones.

  He stands at the corner with empty hands but a full head, dreaming of ways to broaden Tuscany, to explore together worlds foreign to her own. He remembers her blithe ignorance of the distinction between African Americans and Native Americans, of what a pueblo is. He imagines a unit on Native Americans in which they will make dioramas and imagine what their lives involved.

  When he gets off the subway he has a voicemail from Roberto: Does Noah want to get a beer? Yes, Noah wants to get a beer.

  Roberto and Noah drive downtown and double-park the Datsun outside Charlie’s. It’s Roberto’s favorite place, the only bar in Manhattan with the bland catchall atmosphere of a suburban chain restaurant. The waiters wear buttons. Roberto and Noah plant themselves at a corner of the bar.

  “So we hooked up that night, after we all ate dinner? And shit, it was hot, I mean, she was grabbing me right here”—Noah doesn’t bother to look where Roberto is pointing—“and I was grabbing her, like right under there, and she has this like tiny room and her feet were hitting the wall and we were like all sweaty and shit.”

  Roberto looks at Noah expectantly, a huge smile on his face.

  “And you liked that?” Noah dutifully replies.

  “Uh, yah! And she liked it too. But they always do, man. If there’s one thing I do right, it’s the like bed play, you know? But I fuck up everything else.” Roberto laughs and shakes his beer in the air ruefully. “How’s like your love life?” he asks.

  “Um, kind of nonexistent,” Noah says. “I just don�
��t fall in love too often. When I do, it’s strong, but it just doesn’t happen every day.”

  “But you must hook up with plenty of hotties. But it never goes anywhere? I guess you’re like, what word is it? Really choosy?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Noah has a distaste for the word choosy. It makes him feel like a snotty cheerleader, or a spinster with a pearl necklace and a poodle.

  “What about the bitch from the magazine, that Tuscany girl?”

  “She’s my student, Rob. And she’s fifteen. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Yeah, but—” Roberto makes a lewd gesture the likes of which Noah hasn’t seen since eighties teen movies. A couple of guys at the other end of the bar chuckle and roll their eyes.

  “You don’t know how wrong that is,” Noah says.

  “And you don’t know how damn laced up you are. Just do things, don’t worry about what’s gonna happen, you know?”

  Roberto goes on to enumerate Noah’s options, which include sticking his hand in Tuscany’s pants, and if that doesn’t work kissing her first. Noah laughs despite himself. This is why he enjoys Roberto’s company: he is such a stark contrast, the opposite of Noah himself.

  “Yeah, I’ll admit I could go crazy more often. Just not with my students.”

  “Have you ever gone to any of those hot clubs Dylan or Tuscany go to? Have you ever at least, you know, hit the town with them?”

  “I don’t think that would be too professional.”

  Roberto cracks his fist on top of Noah’s head. “God, I got lots of work to do on you, man.”

  Noah downs the rest of his beer. He can party with his friends, he reminds himself. He doesn’t need Tuscany and Dylan to become his social life.

  “Truth is, Noah, man,” Roberto says, “I really want to check out the hot bitches at one of those clubs. And you are going to get us on the guest list.”

  Noah laughs. But Roberto is just staring at him with earnest eyes. How strange to see him sincere and desirous. Noah bounces his cardboard coaster against the wood of the bar, presses the empty beer bottle to his lips, and then puts it down. A night with celebrities at an ultra-hip bar. Could be fantastic. Could be awful. Would certainly be out of the ordinary.

  “Okay,” Noah pledges. “I’ll get us on the list.”

  Roberto stands, hugs Noah, lifts him off the barstool, shakes him once, and puts him back down. “All right! You’re a cool kid, Noah. And now everyone’s gonna see it.”

  Roberto orders them another round, and as Noah pays the bartender Roberto declares: “Pangaea Wednesday. ‘Rich Bitch Wednesday.’ That’s the one I want. You got two days to get us in.”

  The next morning Noah arrives at the Thayer apartment clutching a stack of texts. Although he has been there dozens of times, he knows he has a big job to begin today: he feels as nervous as he did at first. He has worn a dress shirt for the occasion. He stayed up late preparing lessons, and his eyes prick with lack of sleep. Roberto had locked himself into the bathroom that morning to get ready for work, so Noah styled his hair at the kitchen sink. He used too much gel, and his hair has fallen against his head in slick lines. He clicks his pen nervously. With his concerned air and his creased white dress shirt he feels a bit like a salesman, or a Mormon missionary.

  Fuen answers the door.

  “Hello,” Noah says. “Good morning.”

  Fuen retreats into the apartment. Noah follows her. He scans the foyer and the adjoining rooms, but Fuen has disappeared.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he hears from the kitchen. It is Dylan. His hair is in disarray (clearly unplanned this time, rather than the usual carefully constructed chaos), and he staggers to his feet from a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

  “Hey, Dylan,” Noah says. “Late for school?”

  “Fuck, fuck. Did you see a car service out front when you came?”

  “There were a few cars out there. I don’t know who they were for.”

  “Fuck.” Dylan picks up a small handful of pills from the kitchen counter and downs them with milk slurped from his remaining cereal. Cornflakes stick to his chin. He lurches out the front door.

  Almost as soon as it closes, the front door opens again. Dylan’s hand reaches in, grabs his backpack, and withdraws. The door is left hanging open. Noah closes it. It gives a solid click. He slowly walks upstairs toward Tuscany’s bedroom. The ebony of the stairwell walls has been recently polished, and the glints of morning light admitted through the heavily curtained windows make feeble, ephemeral designs upon it.

  “Noah?” comes a groggy voice from Dr. Thayer’s bedroom.

  He enters. Dr. Thayer has wrapped herself in her silk covers. Only her head emerges from the duvet, and rests between two black satin pillows as if disembodied, cradled in emptiness. A pale and ensconced reading lamp is the only light in the room, and it illuminates her haggard face dramatically, giving it the elaborate shadows of a museum display. She must spend half the day in the bed, drugged and unmoving.

  Noah stands at the entrance to the bedroom, nervously fingering the buttons of his shirt. It is as though he has entered the inner sanctum of a forgotten queen. As always in Dr. Thayer’s bedroom, his very life seems to hang in the balance, could be snuffed out with a snap of Dr. Thayer’s fingers.

  “What time is it?” Dr. Thayer’s head moans.

  “About ten to nine.”

  “You were supposed to come at nine, no?”

  There is a vague, groggy accusation in her tone, but Noah finds it hard to imagine that he has inconvenienced her, that she would have been up and ready for him had he arrived ten minutes later. “Well, I wanted to make sure to be here on time. It’s hard to gauge the commute.”

  He was about to add from Harlem, but decides against it. He doesn’t know whether his neighborhood would add charm or taint to his image in Dr. Thayer’s eyes, and chooses not to risk it.

  Dr. Thayer rises slightly in the bed. The two white lacy straps of her nightdress emerge from the satin. She places a pair of broad golden reading glasses over her large eyes. “Early’s just as bad as late, or so they say! I’m sorry not to be more ready, but I suppose you know what to do, don’t need my guidance. It hasn’t been too long since you were studying this material yourself, right?”

  Noah blinks, trying to follow the rapid twist of Dr. Thayer’s words. “Not too long, really. Well, a number of years, but still.”

  She sits up further, and more white lace emerges from the satin. “You know, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Since this is not, strictly speaking, tutoring, seeing as we’re not preparing for a test, I think it’s only fair that we do this just between us, and not through your agency.”

  Noah has predicted this tack—parents frequently balk at the high rates, and ask to arrange something under the table. He has always declined. But in this case he is not sure. He is not really tutoring here; he is teaching, right? It’s as if he’s doing an entirely different job. And how much more quickly would he be able to get out of his $81,000 of debt if the agency didn’t take two-thirds of his pay?

  “I’d be willing to arrange something like that,” he says. “Some of the sessions through the agency, some between us, maybe.”

  Dr. Thayer squints under the light and her mouth pulls tighter. “Fantastic. What rates do you normally charge?”

  Noah has precalculated this—Dr. Thayer is charged $395 by the agency, but has no idea what percentage Noah actually makes. Thus he should ask for something significantly lower than the $395 Dr. Thayer is billed, but higher than the $100 he actually makes. “I think two hundred twenty-five an hour would be customary.”

  Customary. Two hundred twenty-five! In three hours he would earn what his teachers in high school made in a week. And they were in their fifties, bespectacled, respected. He’s just a kid from Princeton in Adidas sneakers, paid to be liked by fifteen-year-olds.

  “Two twenty-five?” Dr. Thayer says. She puts her hands to her hair and pulls the dry blond mass be
hind her head, leaning back and pinning it against the headboard. “Let’s go with that for now. I’m going to ask a few of my friends what is normal in these situations, but I need you, so I guess I’ll pay it anyway!”

  She emits a choked little laugh. It becomes clear to Noah that he could have asked for $1,025 an hour instead, if other tutors did the same—what matters to Dr. Thayer is not the amount of money she spends, but that she isn’t taken.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but—” Noah begins.

  “I’d rather you didn’t ask Tuscany what happened there,” Dr. Thayer says. “We’re still dealing with the repercussions. Suffice it to say that she’s going to be here for some time, until we can get her into another school for the fall semester.”

  “She can’t just go back to Moore-Pike?”

  “No,” Dr. Thayer says wearily. “I’d push it, but Tuscany refuses to go back anyway. But I don’t want her to feel left behind, so all I really need for you to do is keep her busy, keep her happy and out of my hair.”

  “Have you looked at Rothman? It’s a school down in the sixties on the East Side, and they have a tutorial system and specialize in”—Noah was about to say dropouts —“cases like Tuscany’s.”

  Dr. Thayer eyes Noah suspiciously. “We’re looking into Rothman.” She crosses her arms, as if dubious that Noah could actually put Tuscany’s education ahead of getting paid. “But for now it’s all on you.”

  “Is Tuscany awake?” Noah asks. He is nervous about entering the bedroom of a sleeping hot fifteen-year-old.

  “Agnès will get her up. Have you met Agnès? I suppose not, she’s only here during the day. She’s the kids’ personal assistant. She’ll be the one to get you your check at the end of the week.”

  “Okay, great,” Noah says. He wonders if Agnès lives somewhere in the cavernous apartment, if they have been stepping around each other the whole time and just haven’t happened to cross paths. He starts from the room.

  “One last thing,” Dr. Thayer says. Noah halts and cringes inwardly. One-last-things are Dr. Thayer’s vicious specialty. He suspects she plans them ahead of time, waits breathlessly throughout the conversation for the chance to make her parting shot at his back.