“What do you mean by that?” Noah asks. He chokes down a rising nastiness in his throat.
“Well, Eliza hasn’t said anything, but Garret’s not too happy either. We go to a really good school, Noah. We all have to go to like good colleges. And his verbal is still pretty low.”
Garret has never read a book, Noah wants to say. He tries to control the urge to argue his case. Seeming defensive could sink him now. The good tutor is dedicated but carefree. Dedicated but carefree.
“Come on, Cam. Does anyone ever call you Cam? Like ‘Spam,’ only, ‘Cam’?” Noah laughs nervously.
Cameron looks at him in disdain. “Why don’t we just work?” she says, opening her notebook to a random page and hunching over it.
Noah shuffles to the subway entrance and rides in glum silence with the other hourly workers returning to Harlem. By the time he picks his way along the littered and neon-lit street to his home, it is eleven o’clock. He hopes that Olena will be there, that he can recount his day to her, share his struggles. He is desperate for her wry humor, her power to make his concerns seem gray and distant. But she has taken to studying her SAT materials late at a coffee shop near City College. Hera generally accompanies her, reading the paper and guarding her daughter from any imagined advances by men. What Noah gets instead when he returns home is Roberto.
Roberto has just stepped out of the shower, is slicking his hair back with one hand and eating a cold sausage with the other. “Noah!” he exclaims as Noah drags himself into the room. “What’s going on? Qué pasa? ”
Noah stares dumbly at Roberto for a moment. He is exhausted, and numb with concern over Tuscany, Dylan, Cameron, Garret, and Rafferty. Or, more specifically, over the question of his continued employment, of his mother and brother’s predicament, of his student loans. He can’t remember how he feels about Roberto. Angry, maybe. Jealous, some. “Not much,” he says, sitting at the table.
“Whoa,” Roberto says as he sprays body cologne on his chest. “You look like you got smashed by somethin’. What’s been goin’ down, homey?”
Noah doesn’t want to talk things over with Roberto; he is certain of that much. “Oh, not much. Hard day of work.”
“I hear you, man, I hear you,” Roberto says distractedly. He stands in the bathroom doorway and squints as he passes a razor over a few stray nipple hairs.
“Where are you off to tonight?” Noah asks.
“A party, you know, the usual shit.”
“Who’s throwing it?”
“This guy Siggy. You know him?” Roberto blows the stray hairs off the razor. They swirl to the floor.
“Yeah. We met him together at Pangaea.” Noah pauses. “So I guess he’s alive, then?”
Roberto examines his chest for strays. “Alive? Oh, you musta heard ’bout our night at that guy’s apartment. It was so fucked.”
“Why didn’t you make sure he was okay?”
“Ya know, I thought ’bout that? The next day I was like, ‘Shit.’ But right then I was just, ya know, worryin’ about Dylan’s ankle, right? He’s all yelling and everythin’. Turns out that Siggy got out okay. The key was in some bowl by the door.”
“And the guy?” Noah keeps his voice under control, barely.
“The guy? Siggy said his head had like scabbed over by the time he was gone, and he was breathing and everythin’. The guy was a fuckin’ pervert. Who the fuck cares?”
“Roberto,” Noah says slowly. Roberto, hearing the strained note in his voice, pulls on an old T-shirt and approaches the table where Noah is sitting. “Dylan Thayer is my student.”
“I know, man, I knew that before I even met the kid, right, Capitan ?”
“You can’t take him to some random guy’s apartment who gives you coke, and other drugs you don’t know what they are, and then beat the guy up and scale the outside of a building.”
“Noah, dude, chill. You were the one drinkin’ with Dylan at a club.”
“That’s totally different. Your lives were in danger.”
“No,” Roberto says flatly, flexing his arms as he crosses them over his massive chest. “They weren’t.”
“He could have OD’d. He could have fallen.”
“You’re just his tutor. He’s not your responsibility. And I like the guy. I wanted to show him what’s badass.”
“That was badass?”
“We had fun. Maybe you don’t understand that. But Dylan and I are like close now. And we have a good time. He’s a grown guy. Stop worrying! Shit!”
“He’s not a grown man. He’s seventeen.”
“You know him, man. It’s like he’s not really seventeen. There’s nothing that would surprise him.”
Noah stammers in response. He has too much to say; the words jumble on his lips.
“You used to be cool, Noah,” Roberto says. “You used to just like let everythin’ roll off your back, like you never actually cared. But now, ooh, it’s all about consequences. You’re like paralyzing yourself, man.”
Noah’s mouth hardens. “Go to your party. Man. They’ll love you. You’re great fun. Just make sure you keep it up.”
Roberto seems confused, hurt. Not angry, as Noah would have expected. “I am great fun,” he says. “Okay?”
Noah’s attention is caught by a stray, panicky tone in Roberto’s voice. He turns toward where he stands, wearing a towel and suddenly shivering, in the center of the room. “What’s wrong?” Noah asks. “Is everything okay?”
Roberto nods and starts across the room, his mouth clenched.
It is one of the rare moments of instantaneous truth, when Noah’s conception of a person crystallizes, when all the evidence that never seemed to fit together suddenly locks into a coherent image because the design, the plan behind all the contradictions, is suddenly projected over. Roberto’s over-the-top masculinity, almost a performance, the way he latched so quickly on to Noah and then Dylan, more like a crush than a slowly progressing friendship…“Rob,” Noah says softly. “That guy didn’t just suddenly come on to you, did he?”
Roberto stops in his doorway, facing away from Noah.
“Did you come on to him?”
Roberto shrugs again. Noah pauses. He doesn’t want to push Roberto too far, but he also sees how desperately he needs to talk to someone. He wouldn’t just stand there, shivering and staring, otherwise. Who else can Roberto talk to about this? Not Dylan or Siggy. “Are you attracted to men?”
Roberto stares down at his calves. Then, softly: “Fuck no.” Noah can see him only in profile.
“That’s fine, you know, right? It’s totally okay. It would be nothing to apologize for, anywhere, but especially not here. No one’s going to judge you.” Noah approaches Roberto, wants to prove to him that he’s not put off by him.
“I had a fight that night, with Gavin,” Roberto says. “That’s the guy in the apartment. He ran into me with Dylan and Siggy, and we played it like we didn’t know each other. So he sets Dylan and Siggy up in the living room, and we go into the other room, you know?”
Noah nods.
“And we’re talkin’, and then it’s like we’re not talkin’ anymore, you know? But then he tells me to stop and I do and he turns around and he’s smiling and I can tell he’s all excited and shit by Dylan bein’ in the other room. So I get pissed by what he’s, what he’s all playing, that we’re all goin’ to have some big orgy. So suddenly we’re fightin’, and I wanted out of there anyway, but I, you know, deck him.”
“So you’re not into Dylan?” Noah asks.
There is suddenly a fire in Roberto’s eyes. “Jesus, what the fuck are you, some homophobe?”
Noah shakes his head. “No way, man, I would ask the same thing if I thought a female friend was in love with one of my students. I’m just making sure.”
“I’m not.” A pause. “He doesn’t know nothing, so don’t tell.”
Noah nods.
“And so what if I was?” Roberto asks, suddenly angry again. “You couldn’t stop me.”
/>
Noah narrows his eyes. “No, I couldn’t stop you. But just don’t? Don’t give him any drugs. Don’t get him into any other dangerous situations. Just leave him alone.”
Roberto clenches his hands on his hips menacingly, as if palming a revolver. “I’m goin’ to this party, okay?”
“Hey, listen—”
Roberto whips around. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do!”
“If you do anything to get that kid in trouble—” Noah yells. The door slams. Noah wanders into their room and stares blankly at the Anna Kournikova poster on the wall. His eyes scan the rip in the corner over and over until he hears Roberto leave. Then he sits on his cot and blankly surveys the room. His belongings all sit neatly in the corner. The rest of the room is all Roberto’s, littered with his sweaty, synthetic clothes and full of his musky scent. Noah lies down and scrunches his eyes shut. He will take a nap, he decides, and wake up when Olena gets home. They can take a walk around Harlem if they feel brave, or just sit in the living room and talk. He imagines her eyes on his, the ferocity of her gaze. He stares at the phosphorescence of the overhead light shining through his eyelids and concentrates on her, wills her to return home.
But when Noah wakes up, daylight is streaming in his window. His dress shirt has rumpled and twisted beneath his arms during the night. His crotch is sweaty beneath his dress pants. He stands and glances at the clock: 7:50 A.M . He has half an hour to get to the Thayers’. He throws open the bedroom door.
Olena, showered and dressed, is working on an SAT as she sits on the worn tweed couch. She is surrounded by highlighters and pens. One of the highlighters has leaked a pink stain on her slender forearm. She looks up at Noah and smiles, relieved. “Noah! I was concerned for you. You did not get up for our session.” She laughs. “I was beginning to fear that, you know, you had perished.”
“I’m so sorry,” Noah says, blinking in the bright sunlight. He rubs his face. “I meant to just take a nap. I really wanted to talk to you last night, to see how you were doing.”
“I am fine, thank you. But I sense that you are not.”
Noah lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not. And I missed our session. We’ll work extra hard tomorrow, okay?”
“Of course, Noah. You can make it up to me right now, even, by defining elegiac. ”
Noah does, and dashes into the shower. Olena has toasted him a thick slice of bread and hands it to him as he races out the door.
Yellow cabs aren’t often found in Harlem, so Noah hails a gypsy cab. He and the driver agree on $20 for the trip and then they are off down Riverside. Noah sits back in the vinyl seat of the unmarked car, concentrating on the blue glints of the Hudson, trying to focus enough to think of what he will teach Tuscany today. He vaguely remembers having given her a French translation to do for homework; they can begin by reviewing that.
He powers on his cell phone—two new voicemails. He hates the morning messages, generally from parents who have concocted some fresh hellish concern as they slept. And indeed, the first message is from a parent:
Oh, hello, Noah? This is Mrs. Leinzler, mother of Cameron. I hope all’s well with you. I have a little issue to speak to you about. I was talking to Cam yesterday, and she’s really concerned about her progress. I tried to ring you then, but your phone was off, and I guess I wanted to talk to someone sooner rather than later, so I called the office. I spoke to a very nice man there, Nicholas, I think his name is, and he tried to reassure me. But, well, after I got off the phone with him, I realized that it doesn’t look too good for you that I called them. Sorry. I just wanted to let you know, in case they call you. Regardless, I wanted to thank you for your services so far. Nicholas and I are going to work out something today, and he’ll probably let you know. Sorry for the long message! Have a good one!
Noah has no time to think about the implications before the second message begins. It is from Nicholas. Noah leans his head against the cab window.
Hi, Noah. Look, we’ve got a little issue here. I just got a call from a Mrs. Leinzler. Cameron Leinzler’s mom? And she was pretty upset. Apparently Cameron’s not happy with her progress, and her mom’s worried about her. I looked at the scores, and tried to reassure her that Cameron’s progress is good, but she’s still concerned. Apparently Cameron wants another tutor. Now, this happens all the time, people requesting tutor switches…but there have been some other calls about your performance this week, and…look, you’re going to have to call me as soon as you can. Okay, Noah? Don’t worry, but call me as soon as you get this.
Noah closes the phone and holds it tight in his fist. He continues to stare at the river. He is losing his job. He has $900 in the bank. His monthly loan withdrawal will come in a few days. He will have no money in the space of a week. He opens the phone again and dials the agency, tries to smile into the phone. The whole company operates on voicemail rather than actual conversations: he leaves Nicholas a message and, while Noah rides through a tunnel, Nicholas leaves him a message in return:
Hi, Noah, good morning. You got my message, huh? Well, Mrs. Leinzler is worked up. I’ve tried to encourage her that everything’s fine, and I think she’s okay. But she does want to look into other tutors. I told her it’s extremely late in the process, but so be it. I’ll try to dissuade her. If I were in your shoes I wouldn’t sweat it—normally. But we’ve had a phone call from a Mrs. Zeigler, and a Mr. Lipton. Rafferty isn’t doing so hot, huh? And Eliza is doing well, but is panicked because she heard from Cameron and Rafferty that they weren’t doing well. And apparently one parent in particular has been calling the others, getting them riled up. So it’s an odd case. You’re doing a good job with these kids, with the one exception of Rafferty—and one student didn’t go up right away, that’s okay—but since I had so many complaints I had to call Hannah. And she’s decided to put you on lock, which basically means she’s investigating. She’s going to call all your families and make sure that everything’s okay. But until she finishes, unfortunately we have to put your appointments on hold. We just hired a bunch of new tutors. We’ll field your kids out to them. Don’t worry, they’ll be taken care of.
The cab has arrived at the Thayers’ building. Still clutching the phone between jaw and shoulder, Noah numbly pays the driver and steps out onto the street. He stands under the awning of 949 Fifth Avenue, staring at its gold supports, seeing nothing. Nicholas’s message continues.
…anyway, Noah, try not to worry about it. There’s nothing you can do now. Just sit tight, enjoy your time off.
Noah snaps his phone closed. The doormen are staring at him. Noah nods at them, smiling hollowly. He enters the building and calls the elevator.
As he rides up Noah feels as if floating in the cube, like a fish in a tank. Fuen lets him in and he glides past her. He stops halfway up the stairwell. He is in a complete daze of preoccupation, concerned by nothing except the bleak enormity of his predicament. The glossy banister feels unreal under his grip, and the pristine walls of the Thayer apartment look artificially unblemished, as if digitally rendered. He can’t think of where he is supposed to meet Tuscany. Has the dining room refurbishing been completed? Is he even supposed to meet with Tuscany this morning? Or is it Dylan? Dylan is at school; Tuscany must be his student. And upstairs. He takes a step up.
Dr. Thayer’s bedroom is at the head of the stairs. Noah sees her brittle form, swaddled in green silk, emerge from the dark chamber and turn the corner into the bathroom. The silvered door closes. He feels just like her, that he embodies the same glassiness. He always assumed that she was under the dulling influence of some narcotic, but perhaps she has just perpetually been what he is now—chronically preoccupied. Her mind is perhaps simply too active. Every conversation she has with her family, with Noah, is overshadowed by some tumultuous decision-making process raging in the back of her consciousness. There is always some grander worry, some unfulfilled need monopolizing Dr. Thayer, and she is only able to devote a fraction of her thoughts to the people around
her. Noah wonders what her grand worries are. Or if her constant air of preoccupation is indeed just the result of too much Valium. Valium. Might be nice.
Noah sits on the stairs, hugs his knees to his chest. He thought his Fieldston students really liked him. But they have worked themselves into a hysteria the likes of which only a group of competitive and gossipy teenagers could achieve. If only Rafferty had confided in him, rather than spent the year acting as if everything were fine and then finally throwing an angry fit. Cameron, he imagines, might be joining the frenzy just for the drama of it, to find some way to compete with the exaggerated craziness of the Thayers—Noah should never have confided in her about them. And Eliza—well, once the other two start spending all lunchtime discussing how Noah might be going wrong, she doesn’t want to be the one stuck with the dud tutor. But they have all called the office now: he has been shut down. There is nothing he can do.
Tuscany’s door opens. Noah glances up, startled. He wills himself to stand, but feels unable. Dressed in a fluorescent tank top and pajama bottoms, with headphones in her ears, she dances down the hallway, past the point of the landing directly above Noah’s huddled form, and disappears into her own bathroom. She hasn’t noticed him, and Noah is once again alone on the stairs.
He has to get up. He has to teach Tuscany. She is in the bathroom, so he has a few minutes to collect himself. He leans his head against a faux Grecian column on the banister. He can’t ask his mother for money; she doesn’t have any. Neither, of course, do Hera and Olena. Even though he doesn’t have to help support his brother anymore, he is still recovering from Kent’s counseling costs—his account is nearly empty. He will have to call his credit card company to raise his limit. He wonders how long the agency will keep him on hold. But he knows that’s not the real point. Once there is the appearance of bad tutoring, the damage is done. He’s already effectively been fired. His students have been reassigned to other tutors; he won’t get them back. And the office will be reluctant to assign new students, knowing that he has had a series of complaints. He’ll be lucky to get even one student next year.
Glamorous Disasters Page 25