Work for Hire (29 page)

“Yes, well,” I responded, not sure about the “bright star” part. “Mr. Lamont is
demanding
I write Xander’s essay for him, by tonight, or else he’ll
fire
me.” I paused, waiting for Ms. Jacobs’s response.

It never came.

I had expected one full of shock. Outrage, maybe. But not silence.

Perhaps I hadn’t sufficiently stressed the gravity of the situation, and she didn’t understand that Stephen Lamont had ordered me to break fundamental academic principles.

“I mean,” I tried again, “Xander wrote his own story—it’s quite good, by the way—but Mr. Lamont doesn’t like it. He says
I
need to write something else. And
you
said I should call you whenever parents cross the line and expect tutors to do all the work,” I pointed out. “Well, the line has been crossed.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Ms. Jacobs finally commiserated. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. These parents can sometimes be awful, just awful. Now you know what I handle on a daily basis—these unrealistic expectations—just because the parents pay a teeny bit of money. They think they can buy everything. But you said Xander actually wrote a story of his own; is that right?”

“Yes,” I replied carefully, not exactly sure where this was heading.

“Good,” Ms. Jacobs said. “So, really, Xander did his own work on the assignment, and your writing something else would just be appeasing a fussy parent. Isn’t that right, dear?”

I choked on my own spit.
What
? My voice caught in my throat.

“And, really,” Ms. Jacobs chugged on, “where’s the harm in that? Xander learns, Mr. Lamont is happy and you have peace. Everybody wins. But let me do something for you, Tekla. Let me call Mr. Lamont on Monday and have a little chat with him about this incident, about him threatening to fire you. Really, you should never have to hear something like that. If a parent has issues with one of my tutors, he should call me. And, Tekla,
you
call me with anything else you need. I’m always here for you. You’re such a superstar. Listen, I gotta run; another phone call,” she sighed, all self-pity. “My work never ends, not even on weekends. But what can I do? I love to help people, so I answer. Say ‘hi’ to Lauren for me. Talk to you soon.”

For the second time in less than an hour, the phone clicked off before I had a chance to utter a single objection.

I threw it on the bed. These people were cuckoo, and I had had enough of them.

Mr. Lamont wanted a new story. Ms. Jacobs wanted me to give him one. Fine. I’d comply with both of them. What did I care? I didn’t have time for extended ethical dilemmas. And it was just a high school paper.
It’s not like I hadn’t written essays for Xander before, so what was one more?
I rolled my chair back to the computer, minimized the brief and opened a new document.

Once upon a time
, the words simply poured onto the screen,
in a huge dog mansion in Manhattan, there lived a dog named Dior. Dior was a beagle and he was a very powerful dog. In fact, he was the most powerful dog in all of New York. All other dogs were in awe of him and his supreme wealth. Dior took all this adoration in stride. He really liked his life; he liked having the huge doghouse and the big bank account; he liked having a beautiful wife that every other dog on the planet admired. Dior’s life was close to perfect—close but not perfect enough. You see, there was one fly in Dior’s ointment of perfect happiness: his puppy son Der. Unlike every other canine on the planet, Der refused to do what Dior wanted. So Dior solved the problem by paying others to pretend to be Der and, well, sometimes that led to trouble …

Let’s see how Stephen Lamont liked this version.

…
T
HE FACTS CLEARLY SHOW
that Miss Smith’s bestselling children’s book was not within the scope of her employment as a teacher at Elementary School 1. As such, the book was not a “work for hire” and the school possesses no ownership interests in Miss Smith’s creative endeavor, nor does it have any rights to its financial proceeds. But even if the Court were to decide that Miss Smith’s book fell under Section 101 of the Copyright Act, Miss Smith is entitled to relief because she has clearly established that her work falls within a “teacher exception.” For all the foregoing reasons, Defendant Amy Smith respectfully requests that the Court dismiss Plaintiff’s case.

I reread the last sentence and wanted to jump out of my chair—no; out of my skin—to dance. I was finished.
Finished
! With the brief. With Xander’s story. With everything. And it was only five p.m. on Sunday. I had hours to spare until the Monday morning deadline. My feet itched to move.

Instead, I collapsed on the bed.

CHAPTER 22

“
H
I,
T
EKLA
, how was your weekend?”

“Fine,” I responded, scowling at the empty space around me before I strolled over to a window to look outside, my cell phone in hand.

It was black out, with only an occasional streetlight illuminating the rows of parked cars beneath it. Nary a soul meandered among the blocks of single-family homes.

It was nine p.m. on Sunday and I was still in my old bedroom in my parents’ house in Brooklyn, too tired to make the trip back to my dorm and Manhattan.

But that didn’t stop my phone from ringing. Incessantly. Apparently, I was very popular this weekend. Except I couldn’t quite believe with whom I was talking now.

Lisa. Seemingly calling to shoot the breeze.

How unlikely.

“Good,” Lisa said, chuckling on the other end. “Stephen and I are in the Hamptons. We drove out this morning for a conference. Boring business stuff, but it’s nice to get out of the city once in a while, don’t you think? Out of the hustle and bustle.”

“Sure,” I agreed, although I hadn’t been so fortunate as to get away.

And business conference, my ass
, I thought.

“Soooo,” Lisa drawled, her voice so syrupy I actually missed the acidity of her usual banter, “are you hanging around the city tonight?”

“So to speak,” I said. Manhattan. Brooklyn. They weren’t exactly the same, but New York was New York, no matter the zip code.

“Good, good,” Lisa almost giggled.

The sound shot my eyebrows up to my hairline. Lisa was never this friendly. Actually, she was never friendly. Period.

“And by any chance, have you seen or heard from Xander lately?”

My frown came back.

“Not today,” I answered, slowly. “I spoke with him yesterday, and he mentioned going to the country with Gemma and Monique, although I don’t know exactly where he meant. Why? Isn’t he with them?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Lisa chuckled again. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she reassured me. “Stephen just wanted to ask him something, and he’s not picking up his phone. Teenagers. You know how
they
can be. Well, I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your night. Bye.”

Yeah. Sure. Teenagers. I closed the phone. Xander was probably just pissed at his father over the story mess. My feelings would’ve been hurt too if I had done all that work just to be told it was crap. I wouldn’t pick up Stephen Lamont’s call either.

Still, a niggling doubt lingered in my mind. Xander wasn’t one to suffer in silence. And if Stephen Lamont couldn’t get Xander on the phone, assuming Xander
was
in the country, wouldn’t he just call Monique instead of having Lisa call me?

I dialed Xander’s number. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

After five rings, I got his voicemail.

Fifteen minutes later, the prerecorded message clicked on again. It did the same fifteen minutes after that.

The doubt bloomed into outright worry.

I tried Gemma. If Xander was in the country with her and her mother and was just refusing to pick up his cell, she’d know and would put the issue to rest. And if not …

“Hi, Tekla,” Gemma chirped into the phone.

“Is Xander there with you?” I said quickly, cutting to the chase.

“Noooo,” Gemma said. “Why?”

The “no” had my stomach dropping to my knees. This was starting to feel bad. Real bad. If I had it right, no one in his family had actually seen or heard from Xander since that morning—more than
twelve
hours before.

“He said he was going with you,” I answered Gemma. “And Lisa says he’s not with your father. Do you know where else he could be?”

Gemma said nothing for a few seconds, then finally …

“Maybe he never left New York?” she volunteered.

The delay and her offhand remark made me wonder.

“Gemma, what do you know and aren’t saying?”

“Nothing,” she said as her voice pitched. I could almost see the shrug that surely accompanied the answer.

“Gemma,” I said in a warning tone.

“Oh, please,” Gemma scoffed on the other end, then tried to divert my suspicion. “Everyone’s all concerned about Xander. Would Daddy be calling every five minutes if he couldn’t find
me
?”

“Why do you think he’s still in New York?” I asked, totally ignoring her last question. There was no point denying the obvious: Stephen Lamont probably
wouldn’t
make the effort, but that was neither here nor there. Gemma was accounted for, whereas Xander was missing. And if Stephen Lamont was calling Gemma every five minutes, I wasn’t the only one who thought something was seriously amiss.

“No reason,” this girl who was never brief said shortly.

Yeah, right.

“Gemma, I repeat, why do you think he’s still in New York? Did you do something to him?” I wondered out loud. Because it was quickly becoming apparent Gemma had her hands in the thick of this.

“Xander, Xander, Xander!” Gemma cried. “Even
you
care more about him than you do about me. Well, I hate his guts, and he
deserves
what he got.”

Uh-oh …

“Gemma,
what
did you do to him?”

Visions of a mutilated Xander danced in my head.

“Nothing bad,” she mumbled. “I just locked him in
Maman’s
closet.”

Her answer, like a needle prick to a balloon, deflated all my anxiety.
That’s it? A closet.

“So why didn’t he just get out?” I asked in puzzlement.
How hard could opening a closet door be?

“Because,” Gemma said, her voice becoming so quiet I could barely make out the words, “
Maman’s
closet has, like, a deadbolt from the outside, and you need a security key to get in and out, and he doesn’t have one.”

I still didn’t get it.

“Well, why would he be in there without a key?”

Gemma hesitated.

“I told him
Maman
wanted him to get a suitcase from there for the trip, and carry it out to the car. He bitched, but went to get it anyway. The door was propped open because Vivienne had been packing
Maman’s
stuff for the trip, so when he walked in I surprised him and locked him in—you know, as a joke to get back at him for his stupid story. Then I told Vivienne that I locked the closet door so she wouldn’t have to trouble herself. You know, as a favor. She never went to check.”

“And you just
left him there
?” I asked, incredulous. “Without telling anyone?”

“I didn’t think it would be for this long!” Gemma defended. “But then Daddy left in his car and when we got in our car to leave too,
Maman
just assumed Xander had gone with him. And then Vivienne locked up the house and went home—
Maman
gave her the day off since everybody would be gone—and then we drove away. I thought it was all very funny at the time,” Gemma wailed. “You know, Xander in the closet, and everybody thinking he was with someone else. And he deserved it,” she insisted, her voice growing angry and bitter, “for all the nasty stuff he wrote about me. He did it a bunch of times too, so I thought he should sit in there for a while.”

My head spun in a million different directions. Xander had been locked in a closet by his sister, and his parents
hadn’t noticed until now
?

“You mean to tell me,” I spoke slowly, as to get Gemma to grasp the severity of her offense, “you purposefully left him locked in, with no way out, no cell to call for help, and no food or
water
, for close to twelve hours now, and you think it’s
funny
?”

Gemma sniffed. “Well, no, not if you put it that way … I didn’t really think about it … and how long and stuff … oh my God,” she said, and her voice suddenly broke, “how long can someone survive without water?”

Bingo. Things were starting to sink in. Finally.

“Oh my God! Do you think,” she shrieked, sounding dangerously close to hysteria, “that he’s dead from dehydration? Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! I killed Xander!” she wailed.

“No, you probably didn’t,” I replied. “Gemma, calm down.” Her histrionics were becoming irritatingly regular. First there had been the drunk Pam, and now Xander—with Gemma the killer of them both. Too bad she didn’t think before she acted. “He’s probably fine. Uncomfortable, but fine.” I looked at a clock. “It’s past ten now, so you guys will probably be heading back soon.” I was surprised they hadn’t left already. After all, it was Sunday night and Gemma had school in the morning, bright and early. “He’ll be fine for a couple more hours, but you have to tell your parents what’s happened so they won’t keep worrying.”

“Ahh,” Gemma responded, her voice becoming very quiet. “We’re not going back tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“Daddy decided to stay in the Hamptons longer, so
Maman
said we should have a longer vacation too. We might go back tomorrow or maybe Tuesday. She has off until then.”

I took even breaths—one, two, three …

Was anyone planning to tell me or did the Lamonts expect me to show up for the tutoring to an empty house?