Authors: Margo Karasek
“Not particularly,” I smiled. One down. One to go. “But how about your brother? It seems like he has other ideas.”
Gemma turned, searching for Xander. He had stopped at the corner of the block, hands still in his pockets, staring at the clear overhead sky, whistling. The sun glared in his face, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Don’t worry about him.”
Gemma turned back to face me. Her lips turned up in a slight smile and her shoulders relaxed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to encourage me.
“He just likes to show off,” she explained before she started after him.
I meekly followed.
“What are you doing?” Gemma snapped as she stopped in front of her brother and kicked his Converse All Stars. “You heard
Maman
. We are all supposed to go to lunch. And I’m not getting into trouble because of you.”
“Whatever,” Xander hedged.
He looked down from the sky, only to focus his attention on the dirty sidewalk and scuff the sole of his left sneaker along the pavement. He must have found the activity satisfying, because he repeated it with his right shoe.
“I was ready to go five minutes ago, but the two of you just stood there gawking at each other and wasting time,” Xander bitched. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and shoved it through his mop of falling black hair. “And where are we going, anyway?” He narrowed his eyes at his sister. “You better not pick anything expensive, or we’ll go bankrupt doing this.”
Bankrupt? Now I scoffed. His parents were about to dish out $150 an hour on his tutor, and he worried about the lunch bill on his mother’s credit card?
“I don’t know.” Gemma looked around her. “Sushi, maybe?”
“Sushi!” Xander shoved his hand back in his pant pocket. “That’s at least fifty bucks. I don’t think so.”
“Well … ” Gemma bit her lower lip. “I don’t know about anything else. If not sushi, then I want some place where they’ll serve a salad. Do you know any?” she asked me.
I shook my head no. For God’s sake, this was their neighborhood. “Where do you usually go?” I asked.
“She doesn’t eat lunch,” Xander volunteered and sneered at his sister. Sweat slowly percolated around his hairline, yet he refused to abandon the blazer.
Gemma kicked him again. “Very funny, Xander. Just because I don’t eat like a pig—or you—doesn’t mean I don’t eat … oww,” she screeched as Xander kicked her back. “You asshole!”
She aimed an upraised palm at Xander’s head, but stopped it inches from his skull at my sharp intake of breath. I inched between Xander and Gemma to avert any future physical exchanges. Bruises and cracked heads probably wouldn’t look good for me.
“I know!” Xander said, stepping around me to face his sister again. Obviously he was not impressed by my physical authority. “How about pizza?”
“I don’t do cheese, Xander” Gemma said. “It’s bad for the skin.”
“Whatever,” Xander shrugged. “Lunch is wasted on you two anyway.” He tipped his chin in my direction. “She doesn’t look like she eats either.”
I gasped.
The little twerp. I should’ve let Gemma hit him.
Gemma hissed. “Don’t be rude. Just pick a place.
Maman
will worry if we stay out too late.”
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was already a quarter to two, and we weren’t even
in
a restaurant. At this rate, I’d surely miss Con Law, and that would add insult to injury: these two could nix my employment
and
ruin any hope of me getting an A in the class.
“Let’s just go to that place you usually take your buddies when they ruin our house with their unfortunate presence,” Gemma suggested smartly.
Xander pursed his lips. It was amazing how a pretty face could become so unattractive so quickly.
“Fine. Let’s go to Mike’s.”
M
IKE’S TURNED OUT TO BE A DINER
, a perfect 1950s replica of red vinyl booths, black-and-white checkered tiles, and floor-mounted stools. It smelled of garlic and deep-fried oil. A stainless steel service counter dominated much of the back, and pictures of 1950s Manhattan adorned the sunny yellow walls.
A chirpy hostess walked us to one of the red booths. Xander sprawled on the bench seat and grumbled when Gemma made him move to make room for her. I sat opposite.
A waiter appeared and left us with water, utensils and three plastic menus. Xander grabbed a menu and covered his face. He slouched further in the seat. His leg bumped mine. He mumbled an unintelligible apology and fixated on the selection.
Gemma leaned against her seat, but left her menu unopened. She studied the pictures on the wall, avoiding my eyes completely.
I figured a grilled cheese would be the safest bet. Only Lauren could mess up a grilled cheese sandwich. I snapped the menu closed and waited for the waiter.
The waiter took our orders: for Gemma, a salad with no dressing, and for Xander, the burger deluxe, medium rare.
Xander arched a brow when he heard my selection.
Are you really gonna eat that?
, his eyes mocked.
I was tempted to kick one of his splayed legs.
The waiter collected the menus and left.
With nothing to read, Xander crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the ceiling.
Great. I took a sip of water. At this rate, we’d eat in complete silence, and I didn’t think that would land me the client. We needed conversation. Xander seemed a lost cause, but there was Gemma.
I took another sip and cleared my throat.
“So, Gemma, how do you like school? You’re in ninth grade, right?”
Her eyes snapped to mine, uncertain.
“Ah, yes,” she stammered, “I’m a freshman. We’re both freshman.” She nodded at her brother, but his focus didn’t waver from the ceiling. “I’m at an all-girls school, and he goes to Harding, an all-boys academy. And I guess school is okay, though I’m having trouble with some subjects. That’s why we need a tutor.”
Gemma paused and peered at me. Her eyes
were
really pretty. They had her mother’s shape and color, but were softer, friendlier.
“And how about you,” she started up again. “Where do you go to school?”
Startled, I realized that neither Gemma nor Xander probably knew anything about my academic background.
“Well,” I answered, “right now I’m a second-year student at NYU Law. That’s a graduate program. Before that I attended NYU’s College of Arts and Science. And before that, I went to a specialized science and math high school in New York.”
“Oh, and did you do well?” Gemma said while she flipped a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I mean, can you tutor in all subjects?”
Well, well. Good for you. No one had bothered asking me that before. Not Ms. Jacobs. And not Ms. Lamont. Maybe I’d finally get a proper job interview—from a fourteen-year-old.
“I think so.” I smiled at Gemma. This was going well. We were making a connection. I could almost see that first paycheck. “I know math up to advanced calculus, and all the basic sciences, like biology, chemistry and physics. English and history are also a go, though I can’t help you with French; I’m not too good there. But with your mom, you’re probably an expert.”
Gemma smiled back at this.
“So what do you do for fun?” she asked.
“Hmm.” I paused and wiped my hands on a napkin. This line of questioning was trickier. A teenager probably expected me, a twenty-four-year-old, to have an active social life. Every cool twenty-something-year-old was supposed to have one. Should I admit I didn’t? She would think I was lame, and therefore unworthy. “With school, I don’t really have a lot of free time. But I do like to read, listen to music, and go out with my friends.”
Gemma perked up in her seat.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Ah … ” This was sticky territory. No, I did not have a boyfriend. I hadn’t had one in the past six months. Was it my fault all law school guys were emotional disasters, interested only in sex and their future glorious careers? And Markus didn’t count, because I didn’t like him back. “Not at the moment.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Gemma said reassuringly; she seemed ready to pat my hand. To a teenage girl, a lack of a boyfriend was probably a horrifying prospect. “I think you’d be perfect for
Maman’s
assistant. You’re really his type. Julian only dates tall, thin girls with long dark hair.”
Julian? Assistant? Was she talking about Mr. GQ? Gorgeous Mr. GQ? Perfect Mr. GQ? Potentially available and
straight
Mr. GQ?
“Well, I don’t know … ” I hedged when a snort cut me off.
Gemma snapped her head around to face her brother.
“Xander, shut up. If you’re going to sit there and say nothing, then don’t interrupt, or I’ll tell
Maman
.”
“Whatever,” Xander sneered.
“Gemma, Xander,” I began, figuring I should say something to regain some semblance of authority in Xander’s eyes. It wouldn’t do for him to think I was a loser who couldn’t get a date without the help of a fourteen-year-old. But I had no clue what to say. Luckily, the food arrived and cut off all need for further reprimands.
The tantalizing aroma of grilled cheese and hamburger had my stomach grumbling. The day’s events must have been draining, because suddenly I was ravenous. I bit into my sandwich and grabbed for a napkin when hot, melted cheese oozed out.
“Sorry,” I said to no one in particular as I waved a hand in front of my face to cool it off. “The sandwich is really hot.”
After smearing ketchup all over his fries and burger, Xander gulped half of his plate down with one bite. Gemma just toyed with her salad. She nibbled on a tomato, returned most of it to her plate and repeated the process with a cucumber.
“That’s a nice top you’re wearing,” Gemma said as she pointed her cucumber-adorned fork at my halter. “Is it Armani?”
I fingered the shirt’s corded fabric. It felt coarse against my palm, like burlap. “Yes, how’d you know?”
“
Maman
shot an ad campaign for them last year,” Gemma replied as she pushed her plate away and sipped water. “The salad’s not good here. I think I’m done. So, do you like Armani?”
I eyed Gemma’s greens. Of course the salad wasn’t good; it didn’t have any dressing. “Do you want to share my fries?” I offered.
“I don’t know,” Gemma said slowly as she eyed the fries. “I’m not as skinny as you and Xander. He can eat anything and not gain an ounce. You two are
sooo
lucky.
Maman
says I should watch what I eat so I don’t get any bigger. The world doesn’t give many opportunities to big girls.”
I gaped. Again.
Sure, Gemma wasn’t model thin. She was a healthy-looking size six teenager with curves in all the right places. She didn’t have her mother’s height or shape yet, but she was still growing. “Gemma,” I sighed, “when I was your age my body looked like yours. I grew into it eating burgers and fries and pizza. Really, a fry won’t kill you. Here.”
I pushed the plate towards her. She picked a fry, played with it, popped it in her mouth and reached for a second.
“Sure, I like Armani,” I said to divert Gemma’s attention away from the food, hoping she would finish the fries without noticing. If she ate some real calories, her disposition might improve towards me. “Doesn’t everyone? He’s a genius with fabric. Though your top is really pretty, too. It’s very similar to your mother’s.”
Gemma glanced down at her shirt. “It’s Balenciaga.
Maman
just got it for me. She says I’m old enough. That all proper French ladies wear Balenciaga. She doesn’t wear anything else. He’s her signature designer.”
I contemplated the blouse. Balenciaga. The designer of European aristocrats. Should’ve figured. Armani, Gucci and their ilk paled in comparison.
“I’m done,” Xander blurted out as he dropped his napkin on an absolutely clean plate, no fry, pickle or bun left in sight. “Can we go?”
“Wait!” Gemma said as she wiped her mouth and fingers; the fries were all gone. “Can’t you see she’s not finished?” She pointed at my plate where half a sandwich still sat untouched.
I flushed. Somehow I was always last to finish. My mother would say it was because my mouth did all the yapping and none of the chewing. I picked up the food and bit into the sandwich, determined to keep silent until it was gone. No way would
I
make us run late.
“God, Xander,” Gemma complained. “You’re so rude.”
We sat in silence while I ate. Gemma played with her sunglasses and Xander pulled out a phone to text what must have been his entire contact list. When my sandwich was finally gone, Gemma waved down the waiter.
“Check, please,” she said, and as the waiter left to do her bidding she grinned at me, then Xander. “So, Tekla, do you like movies? ‘Cause Xander here is a huge film buff. He wants to be a film director, though Daddy prefers if he went into business. Isn’t that right, Xander?”
Xander shrugged and sniffed, but put away the phone. For the first time he looked at me without derision. Obviously, Gemma had hit his sweet spot. This was my opportunity to impress. One problem, though: I was about as interested in film as in fashion. Sure, I knew enough to get by. I watched the occasional movie on television. I even liked going to the cinema. I especially liked watching old black-and-white flicks. But a film buff? Hardly.
“Ah,” I hesitated. Time to stretch the truth. “Sure, I like movies. Who doesn’t?”
“Yeah?” Xander stared me down, like a poker player on the lookout for a tell. “Name the last movie you’ve seen.”
Oh God. My mind blanked. The last movie? I hadn’t been to a theater since the semester started. Wait! Lauren
had
dragged me to that law school film party, hosted in the dorm of her latest boyfriend. ‘Course, I had hated every minute of the experience: twenty guys, two girls, beer and a movie where limbs flew and characters bled like pigs in a slaughterhouse.
Oh, what the hell; the movie was so gory a teenage boy had to like it. At least, all the twenty-something-year-old frat boys did.
“
Kill Bill,
Volumes 1 and 2,” I said. And held my breath.
Xander sat up in his seat.