Work for Hire (33 page)

Lisa was talking and pleading to a security guard who was by her side at the townhouse. I’d just arrived there for my evening lesson time with Xander and Gemma. This was the last thing I’d expected to see.

The man shoved Lisa towards her bedroom, cardboard packing boxes in his hand.

“What’s going on?” I mouthed to Xander and Gemma.

The twins stood next to me in the Lamont dining room, silently watching the show.

“Dad fired her,” Xander whispered back. “She has to pack her stuff and get out. Now.”

My mouth dropped open. I was in shock. Again.

I followed Xander and Gemma, who followed Lisa and the guard to what was apparently now Lisa’s old bedroom. Lisa collapsed on the floor, still sobbing, and began folding clothes into boxes. She seemingly was oblivious to anyone but the silent guard who kept watch over her.

Lisa looked … desperate. Gone was the voluptuous queen in four-inch stilettos who held court over the Lamont kingdom and who had ordered me about at every opportunity. Instead, in her bare feet and with a red, blotchy face, she resembled the dethroned monarch carted about in front of the masses; one who didn’t even seem to know, or care, that I was there to witness her downfall.

She was Marie Antoinette, and this was her guillotine.

I almost felt bad for her.

What could she have done that was bad enough for Stephen Lamont to axe her?

Xander answered my unvoiced question.

“She destroyed the backs,” Xander whispered to me before he walked away from the scene. Clearly he was done with Lisa.

Like a faithful minion, I trailed him.

“What?” I said, unwilling to dismiss Lisa as quickly.
She
destroyed the backs?!

But the recognition that I shouldn’t beg Xander for the information, or pander to him, nagged at me.

If Lisa was disposable, my time at the Lamonts could end just as quickly, just as arbitrarily. Maybe even faster. At least Lisa had the backing of Stephen Lamont—until she didn’t. My position was even more perilous. Stephen didn’t like me. Monique rarely acknowledged I existed. So Xander and Gemma had to view me as the authority, one who was above mundane gossip. If Xander didn’t want to tell me more about Lisa, oh well.

“Come on, Xander, tell me,” I begged of his retreating back.

Xander stopped short of his own room and scrutinized me, his face momentarily older than its teen years.

“Julian found her on the security tape,” he said and shrugged; with the motion, his seriousness dissipated. “Like, dude, you know, the night of the party,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair. “She came into the house even though she had told Dad she wanted the day off to visit family. And, dude,” Xander informed me, now bursting forth with the news like a colt from the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. “Before, she told us she was going away with Dad and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Total lie. ‘Cause, like, Gemma and I never saw her at the party, and she never said anything about being here after. Julian said it’s not enough for the police, but it was enough for Dad,” Xander snickered. “She was here and didn’t tell anyone she was, so obviously she did it. Dumb bitch.”

“W
HAT DO
YOU
THINK
about Lisa?”

I couldn’t believe I was still asking, still harping on the same subject.

Especially since Gemma, like Xander, seemed pretty much uninterested in the topic. Actually, Gemma didn’t seem interested in anything. She sat at her desk, silent, staring somewhere beyond me, her face vacant.

“Gemma?” I prodded her foot with my own. “Did you hear me?”

“I don’t care about Lisa!” Gemma responded, exploding like Mount Vesuvius unexpectedly come to life.

The outburst was so sudden, so violent, so out of proportion to the atmosphere in the room, that I took a step back.

It was also short-lived. Gemma slammed her fists on her desk and dropped her head there as well. She closed her eyes, her lips unmoving again.

“Gemma?” I sat down next to her. “Are
you
okay?” I asked, concerned.

Silence.

“Are you still upset about your mom?” My raised hand hovered above Gemma’s shoulder. I wanted to pat her, to offer the girl some comfort because I
knew
the situation with Monique was still bad. But I wasn’t sure Gemma would appreciate the gesture, or the physical contact.

“I am not upset about
Maman
!” she yelled, head snapping up and eyes spewing embers of anger straight at me. “And I don’t care about Lisa!
God
! Here,” she hollered, shoving a geography book towards me. “Ms. Anderson wants me to write a stupid essay about the boroughs of New York, just ‘cause I thought New Jersey was a borough and stupid Queens was a state.
Who cares
?” she cried. “I hate geography! I hate Ms. Anderson! I hate school! I hate everything! Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? I wish I were dead!”

“I
’M WORRIED ABOUT
Gemma.”

I marched into Xander’s room only to find him napping. After all the commotion, how could he sleep? Teenage boys were amazing.

Xander rolled off his back and looked at me, his eyes heavy.

“Dumb bitch,” he mumbled. I assumed he didn’t mean me. “What’d she do now?”

I considered his sour expression and hesitated. He sounded as concerned about Gemma as he had about Lisa. Still, Gemma was pretty upset, more so than usual, and, well, there was no one else to turn to. Monique was the cause of the problem. Stephen Lamont was hopeless as a father. And now even Lisa was gone.

“She’s really down about your mother, and what happened.” There; that was an understatement if I ever made one. “She sounds depressed.” Though what I expected Xander to do about it, I wasn’t certain. But it felt good to say the words out loud, as if saying them to someone—even Xander—lifted the responsibility off my own shoulders.

“Dumb bitch,” Xander mumbled again. But this time I wasn’t sure if he meant Gemma or Monique. I hoped the latter. “I don’t know why she cares. Like, it’s just
Maman
. So what if she doesn’t talk to us? It’s not like we see much of her anyway.”

He had a point.

“Yeah,” I said, and I plopped down in Xander’s chair. “But she does. Just keep an eye on her, okay?”

“Why should I?” Xander scowled. “Dude, like, that closet really
sucked
. She got what she deserved.”

I sighed, “I know you’re still upset with her, but don’t you think she’s been punished enough already?”

Xander frowned, considering my words, and finally nodded.

Then he ambled over. He looked at me, then the seat, then me again, until I moved from the chair to the stool next to it.

Xander almost bounced into his chair. “But, yo! Good news. Mr. Dandridge picked my story for
Horizons
.”

He
did
? I re-shifted on the stool, searching for a comfortable spot. Maybe Stephen Lamont would finally get off my case. Maybe.

“And get this: Mr. Dandridge said it might actually get published in like a Best of High School Writing anthology. He said that he’ll submit it to the editors for me, ‘cause he liked it that much. I’ll, like, actually get published in a
real
book. Isn’t that dope?”

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

“
C
AN 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.