Work for Hire (2 page)

I hesitated. I was supposed to be her tutor, nothing more. I was just a law student who needed to make an extra buck—granted, a hefty one—doing other people’s homework. So why was Gemma acting like I was … well, an older sister or something, here?

“All right,” I heard myself saying, “but only if you
promise
to call your father. He should be at Pam’s, too.”

CHAPTER 1

Two months earlier

“
T
WENTY-TWO HUNDRED
dollars a month for ninety square feet?!” I gasped when I opened the official letter from the school bursar’s office demanding immediate payment.

It was late August, and I had just started classes again at NYU Law. So my new monthly rent came as a total shock. It was $400 more a month than it had been the previous year, for the very same space—a space that fit no more than a twin bed, a dresser, and a desk with a chair. Okay, for that price, I did also get a bathroom, a kitchenette, and a sort of living-slash-dining room, but I had to share those quarters with a suitemate. And, admittedly, my cramped room was on the twentieth floor of a new Greenwich Village high-rise, but really, was a killer view worth $2,200 a month?

“Only in New York!” I exclaimed as I turned away from the row of student mailboxes and shoved the letter into my imitation Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. Where was I going to find the extra money in my already tight budget? With loans, I had barely scraped enough to cover the new tuition—already four grand more than last year’s—the old rent, health insurance, and a meager food allowance. And now this!

“Only in Manhattan, you mean,” my classmate Ann helpfully provided. She had followed me to the University mail center right after our morning lecture. “If you lived with your parents in Brooklyn, I’m sure the rent would be much cheaper.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at Ann, with her horn-rimmed glasses, gelled-back bun and conservative turtleneck—in August. She epitomized everything I feared a law student would be before I got to NYU and found out otherwise. She seemed to study every free minute of our already limited spare time. She briefed every case assigned, and tattled on those who hadn’t done likewise. She refused to share her notes and outlines, but pouted when others did the same to her. She dreamed of being a mega-successful New York corporate lawyer and planned on crushing her school competition to get there. She purposefully alienated most of her law school classmates—so why, oh why, had she singled me out for her special brand of attention? Wherever I went on campus, there was Ann, with her laptop computer, leather briefcase, and know-it-all attitude. She was like the stray cat that shadowed the one person who showed it any kindness. Just because I hadn’t turned on her the way everybody else did after she smuggled out the only copy of the Property Law supplement from the library right before exams, so she alone could score a perfect grade, Ann assumed I was her new best friend.

The truth was, I didn’t really like her any more than everyone else did—but I had figured she couldn’t help herself: Ann was naturally overly ambitious. And it wasn’t like that one supplement question had made much of a grade difference. But understanding her motives didn’t mean I wanted to see Ann every time I turned around, especially in a crisis.

“Really, Ann,” I grimaced. “Can’t you see I have a serious problem on my hands?”

I stomped out of the mail center—already crowded with eager students looking for any news from home—and headed for my dorm. I needed peace and quiet to formulate a plan. If I didn’t find the money somewhere, and soon, I would have to move. I had only one month until the bursar would send final notice.

Ann dogged my every step.

“So what
are
you going to do?” she probed, dodging a group of gossiping first-years. “I think it’s too late to get another student loan for this year. Don’t you?”

I grumbled a ‘yes,’ and kept on walking, faster. The weather outside was beautiful. Students in tees and shorts sat on benches sipping iced lattes, or headed for Washington Square Park to read and bask in the late summer glory, enjoying their last moments of freedom before the heavy workload chased them to the sunless pits of the legal library. Frisbees flew in the air and bikes zipped by as I crossed the street toward the law school’s main residence hall. Trees bloomed, birds chirped and everyone seemed so carefree. Everyone but me.

Because it
was
too late to apply for another student loan. The deadline had passed back in July. And I had maxed out my government-sponsored ones, anyway. Those had a $65,500 lifetime limit, including undergraduate debt. With a $47,000 tuition bill plus another $21,000 in living expenses, I needed close to $70,000 a
year.
That left private loans, but their interest was so high I couldn’t afford another cent. Already I was more than $200,000 in the red.

“I warned you you’d have trouble if you continued living with Lauren,” Ann shouted over at me as I slowed my pace to rummage for a hair clip; the humid New York air had sent sweat trickling down my back. “She has very expensive tastes, you know.”

I had to get the mass of long hair off my neck before I drowned in my own perspiration. How could Ann stand wearing a turtleneck?

“Ann, whether I live with Lauren or not has nothing to do with the matter,” I said as I dug through my bag. The satchel was so big, and I cleaned it out so rarely, that the probability was high I would find some long-forgotten hair accessory.

I was right. After digging out a broken mascara brush and a dried-out stick of gum, I located an old rubber band stuck between my notebook and day planner.

“I would still owe the $2,200, even if I lived with someone else,” I pointed out as I massacred my hair by wrapping the band around it.

Ann did not like my suitemate Lauren. The two had gone to prep school together, and Lauren proudly admitted she had teased Ann mercilessly, all the way from pre-K until grade twelve. She had given Ann her nickname of “Frumpy,” after pointing out that Ann was the only geeky girl with no taste in a school filled with little fashionistas.

“I’m not saying anything about Lauren,” Ann bristled. “You want to live with a girl who’s only at NYU because her daddy paid off all the right people, that’s your business. I meant your parents and their house in Brooklyn. You could probably live there for free.”

Ann was right. If I lived with my parents, rent would never be a problem. Still, everything else would be. Brooklyn was far from campus, at least a forty-five minute commute in one way. That amounted to an hour and a half on a train each day—an hour and a half less of sleep or studying or just plain watching TV, not to mention being cut off from all after-class campus activities. There would be no more spontaneous study meets, beer breaks, or unplanned midnight bar hops. I could forget camping out at the library until it closed, or hanging out in the resident lounge with other equally miserable classmates. My social life, as meager as it was, would completely disintegrate. Then, of course, there was my mother, with her list of chores, rules, and motherly advice. If I moved back to my childhood home, I could almost surely expect the usual litanies of
clean up your mess, eat your dinner
, and
stop reading so much before you ruin your eyes.
I’d be twelve all over again.

“No,” I said to Ann as I briskly moved towards my dorm again. “I don’t think living with my parents will work. We all need our space.”

The residence hall was just steps away now; its air-conditioned hallways beckoned with their cool air, like Greek sirens lured sailors with their treacherous voices. I stepped inside, whimpered with relief, pulled out my student ID and flashed it at Darius the doorman.

“How’s it going, Miss Tekla,” he greeted with a smile as he waved me through. “And a hello to you too, Miss Ann.” He motioned at Ann who was busy searching her briefcase for her own ID. “Are you going up too?”

Ann nodded.

“Well go on up, both of you. Don’t worry about your ID, Miss Ann. If Miss Tekla’s got hers, I’m sure the school won’t mind too much if I let you up this once without seeing yours. And y’all have a nice day now.”

Ann grinned her thanks and hopped after me to a bank of elevators.

“Darius is such a nice guy, don’t you think?” she asked. “He’s much nicer than John from last year. John would have made me stand there and look until I found the ID, even though he saw me every day of the school year.”

I hummed. Darius
was
much nicer. I would miss his smiling face when I moved—that is, unless I miraculously found a batch of money somewhere.

The elevator doors opened in front of us and we filed in. I pressed twenty for my floor and five for Ann’s. Hopefully, she’d get the hint.

“If you can’t live with your parents, how about asking them to lend you the cash?” Ann persisted in her relentless pursuit of a solution to my financial crisis. “They’ll probably help if you ask.”

My parents would,
if
they had the money. But with a mortgage, planning for retirement, and helping both my brother and me with college tuition, my parents couldn’t sustain the additional burden of a graduate education for even one of their children on their middle-class income.

And how could I even ask them about it, especially since my mother still had trouble understanding why I had picked expensive NYU when other schools had offered partial scholarships? She didn’t get tiers and rankings, and law firms that made hiring decisions based on a school’s prestige. She didn’t grasp the importance of making social connections with the children of politicians, hiring partners and judges. To her, school was school. Period. And any child who chose to pay more than necessary just to attend a brand-name school in Manhattan was being foolish.

“I’m sure my parents would lend me $400 this month,” I answered Ann as the elevator jerked into motion. “But they can’t afford to subsidize a second apartment from month to month.”

“Well then,” Ann said as she patted my arm, “I really don’t know what you’re going to do. It’s not like you can get a job. That would just completely interfere with your studying.”

I eyed Ann’s hand. She dropped it immediately.

A job.

The thought of working part-time had crossed my mind before. I had scored exceptionally well on my Law School Admission Test, and figured I could always coach other wannabe lawyers to do just as well. So I had contacted a slew of test prep companies, to no avail. They paid a good hourly wage, but not so good I could work a few hours a week and cover my bills. Turns out, to make ends meet as a test-prep tutor, I would have to clock close to thirty hours a week, and NYU would almost surely frown on the prospect. The law school forbade working in the first year, and strictly limited employment activities in subsequent ones. With four daily lectures and a minimum ten-hour a week commitment to the
Law Review
—I was one of the few lucky students chosen for such a prestigious but non-paying job—it would be hard to balance work and law school responsibilities.

The elevator came to a stop on the fifth floor, and Ann stepped off.

Thank you, God.

“Tekla, listen,” she said before the door slid closed behind her. “If you don’t get the money and need somewhere to stay, you can always crash at my place for however long you need.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, reluctantly touched.

Once on the twentieth floor, I pushed myself out of the car and walked to my apartment, the root of my financial crisis. I unlocked the front door, dropped my bag in the foyer, and scrutinized the visible living room. It was surprisingly uninviting. Steel shelves floated on stark white walls next to a massive flat-screen TV, and a black couch dominated what little room was left. A geometric rug clashed with bleached bamboo floors and reflected in the glass dining table. The room looked like a museum of modern design, and was completely not to my taste.
Do I really want to fork up so much dough for this?

The room’s décor had been Lauren’s idea. She had volunteered the furnishings—free of charge—in addition to the use of her television, desktop computer and printer. At the time, it had seemed like a good deal. Lauren got to decorate in her style, and I didn’t have the hassle of going to use a school computer lab for homework, or forking out money for the additional expense of more furniture. But now I wasn’t certain.

I slipped out of my sandals and left them by the door, next to my bag. Barefoot, I headed for my bedroom where the furniture—
my
furniture—was more cheerful. I needed a nap. I would think about apartments and money and my lack of the latter later.

But as I passed the kitchenette, the smell of burnt eggs changed my mind.

Lauren was home.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”

Lauren stood by our two-burner stove, a spatula in her hand and egg yolk on her surely ridiculously expensive shirt. Lauren only wore couture designers.

“I’m trying to scramble eggs,” she complained, pointing to a frying pan, “but I’m having no luck.”

Lauren was a petite blue-eyed blonde with an impeccable wardrobe and an even better lineage. Her father was managing partner of Fields & Jacobs,
the
premier law firm, and her mother was related to both a Supreme Court justice and a senator. A student-housing lottery had paired us as suitemates our first year, and we had lived together since. We weren’t friends, exactly. We just got along great as suitemates; she stayed out of my way whenever possible, and I stayed out of hers. Usually.

“How come you didn’t go to class this morning?” I strolled toward the stove to help out, desperate for a distraction.

Lauren grimaced as she trashed the contents of the pan.

“Because I didn’t feel like it. Maybe if I play hooky the whole semester my father will finally get the hint and let me drop out. What do you think?”

Lauren’s father wanted her to be an attorney, but Lauren had other plans. She dreamed of going to Hollywood and producing her own independent films. She was eager and ready to battle Tinseltown. Too bad her father held all the purse strings.