How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls (12 page)

From Rose herself, with a napkin folded in her lap: Sometimes chewing your food and then spitting it out is just as satisfying as, like, eating . . . you know?

Seriously. I couldn‘t make this stuff up if I tried.

I‘d thought I‘d be here for only two weeks. But Rose had given me the possibility of a two-month sojourn. To make that work, I had to get Sage on board, too. So the next morning I flatironed my hair, put on one of the more casual outfits Marco had lent me—

low-rise Joe‘s jeans that had shrunk in the wash, plus a white Petit Bateau T-shirt—and settled myself at the fork of the corridor between our two suites.

Around eleven, Sage strode out, wearing dark skinny jeans, a white tank with angel wings on the front, and impossibly high strappy sandals. Save for the shoes, we were similarly dressed.

I took it as a sign. ―Sage!‖

She looked irritated before I even opened my mouth. ―What do you want?‖

―Well . . .‖ I sagged back against the wall and tried to look as forlorn as possible.

“What?”
she snapped. ―You catch crabs from someone at Bath and Tennis or something?‖

I stopped sagging. Evidently, Lily had the acting talent in our family, but it was too late to stop now. ―Listen, Sage, I‘ll level with you.‖
True. In a journalist-who’ll-do-anything-to-get-the-story kind of way
. ―I know you don‘t care about studying, but honestly?‖
Fingers crossed
. ―I really, really need this job.‖

She looked at me with something approaching professional interest. ―Because you‘re in debt?‖

―Exactly.‖
Totally true.

―Big debt?‖

I nodded.

Sage nodded gravely. ―I kind of figured. Two years ago Precious had front-row seats during Fashion Week in New York, and the clothes were to die for that year. And she ended up, like, three hundred thousand dollars in debt, and her mom
freaked
because her credit card only had a hundred-thousand-dollar limit.‖

This was amazing. And priceless.

―What did Precious‘s parents do?‖

Sage leaned forward. ―They cut off her allowance,‖ she whispered, as if imparting a national-security secret. ―Precious was so upset, she nearly
gave birth
. When we Googled you, I sort of figured it must be something like that.‖

Ah, the irony. Never in a million years would it have occurred to me that Sage would jump to the conclusion that I had run up a couture debt and not an educational one.

―So you can see why I really need this job,‖ I said without correcting her misimpression. ―To try to whack it down.‖

―Make Mommy and Daddy Smith happy, you mean,‖ she interpreted. ―Did they push back the release of your trust? God, it‘s just so
mean
!‖

―Right,‖ I agreed. I‘d known a girl at Yale who used to moan all the time that she wouldn‘t get her trust until she was thirty, which was, she used to say, like,
ancient.
―So if we could do a few study things so that I have something to show your grandmother . .

. I mean, I can pretty much stay out of your hair. And at some point, if you decide the Hollywood thing isn‘t working for you, well . . . at least we‘ll have studied a little.‖

I could practically see the blank thought bubbles coming from her head. She heaved a very irritated sigh. ―Fine.‖

Fine?
Hot damn.

―Thanks
so
much,‖ I gushed. ―I really appreciate this.‖

―Whatever. When do we start?‖‘

―This afternoon?‖ I asked tentatively.

―Okay,‖ she agreed with an eye roll that emphasized what a huge favor she was doing for me.

She had
no
idea.

Choose the analogy that best complements the following phrase: YACHT : SOCIETY PRINCESS

(a) cardboard box : wino

(b) Chihuahua : rock starlet

(c) cocaine : supermodel

(d) Fendi Baguette : Sarah Jessica Parker

(e) drug arrests : Robert Downey, Jr.

Afundamental truth came clear to me four days later, my seventh day in Palm Beach: There was a reason for all those stories of famous scholars surviving on bread and radishes, sleeping in a garret, using the same water to boil their eggs and wash their armpits—a life of luxury is not an atmosphere conducive to learning. When given the choice between mastering quadratic equations and watching a not-yet-released DVD in a home theater nicer than any multiplex, who wouldn‘t opt for the distraction of hot popcorn and Orlando Bloom?

Despite the twins‘ ostensible new commitment to studying, they spent a lot more time playing than working. If I‘d been an actual tutor, I might have cared. But I wasn‘t, so I didn‘t. Instead, I did my best to bond with them under the pretext of teaching.

Rose was reasonably pleasant to me, because she was nicer by nature. Sage tolerated me, because with my new Marco wardrobe and look, I was, as he had predicted, an acceptable accessory. Teaching-cum-bonding-cum-research was exactly what I was doing this late afternoon out on Laurel‘s hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht, the
Heavenly
.

As we motored out of the Palm Beach Yacht Club, the new deckhand, Thom, gave me a quick tour. He was skinny, with messy sun-streaked hair and a winning smile. The boat spread out over three levels: one down below that held staterooms; a main level with a huge open rear deck, living room, dining room, and kitchen; plus a helipad upstairs so that guests could be ferried to and from shore without having to contend with the waves.

Post-tour, I found my way to the rear deck, where the girls were already stretched out in their swimsuits. Sage‘s tangerine bikini had shirring across the ass that made her backside look like a peach. Rose wore a white one-piece halter with a back so low, it displayed a peek of rear cleavage. I, on the other hand, was wearing Marc Jacobs white stretch cotton pants and a black T-shirt with a giant cross on the back. Marco had worn it during his Cher stage.

―Where‘s your suit, Megan?‖ Rose asked. ―Aren‘t we going to take a hot tub before we get started?‖

Marco could provide me with a lot of things, but a bathing suit wasn‘t one of them. I pleaded cramps and enjoyed the ride while the twins lolled. A sauna followed their hot tub, and then they summoned Thom to bring food—caviar, water crackers, chocolate-covered raspberries, and a bottle of Taittinger, their favorite champagne. Since water crackers were actual carbs, they mostly stuck their fingers in the caviar and popped them in their mouths.

After that, they were ready to tackle some math. As they got out pencils, paper, and calculators, I tried to tailor the problems to their interests. ―Karen was able to find a classic Chanel dress on sale for two thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars.‖

―Who‘s Karen?‖ Rose asked, flipping onto her stomach.

―It doesn‘t matter. It‘s just a name for the word problem. Just take down the main info.‖

I pulled my T-shirt sleeves off my shoulders so I could at least get a little sun.

Sage sighed with irritation. She‘d been trying—without success—to find another manager to represent them. In the meantime, she had started participating in our study sessions.
Participating
can be defined very loosely. ―Can you start again?‖

―Karen was able to find—‖

―Hold on,‖ Sage ordered. She grabbed some SPF 50 and slathered it on her opalescent chest, arms, and legs while Rose waited. ―Start again.‖

―Karen was able to find a Chanel dress on sale for twenty-six hundred and fifty dollars.‖

―I thought you said two thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars?‖ Rose asked.

I smiled and filed that one away. ―Same difference. When that dress was designed and sewn in the forties, it cost eighty percent less. What did it cost back when it was made?‖

Rose propped herself up on her elbows and began scribbling on a piece of scrap paper.

Sage stared at me blankly.

―Did you need me to repeat the question?‖ I asked.

―Are we talking actual cost or cost as adjusted by inflation?‖ she asked coolly.

Huh. Score one for Sage.

―Actual cost,‖ I said.

―Does Karen have a trust fund or an allowance?‖ Sage asked.

―Karen doesn‘t exist,‖ I said carefully, thinking that maybe we ought to move on to geometry. ―It‘s just a made-up problem to—‖

―Hold it,‖ Sage decreed, raising a finger and cupping a hand to her left ear. Then she pointed to the western sky. ―Yep, that‘s them.‖

I could barely make out an approaching helicopter. ―That‘s who?‖

―Suzanne turned eighteen yesterday,‖ Sage explained. ―We‘re celebrating tonight. If you‘re not into it, you can go hang in my grandmother‘s
library
.‖

I was fine with the surprise. A party was a lot more likely to result in Palm Beach dish than Karen and her fucking Chanel dress.

The noise was deafening as the chopper approached and then hovered a hundred feet above the rear deck. I watched helplessly as the workbooks and papers we‘d been using were blown out to sea by the backwash from the blades.

The chopper touched down, the doors opened, and three of the twins‘ friends hopped out. I recognized Ari and Suzanne, and there was a tall athletic guy I‘d never seen before. Next came an orgy of hugging, kissing, and shouting of ―Happy birthday!‖

As the helicopter went airborne again, I considered how the twins could so blithely risk their fortune by being so unfocused—unless they had the misguided notion that what they were doing with me
was
being focused. In just over six weeks, they were going to find out how wrong that assessment was.

Sage immediately flounced off with the tall guy to good-natured catcalls from the others. I got an actual hug from Suzanne, who then called for a beer and headed for the hot tub, shedding clothes as she went.

―How goes the work?‖ Ari asked, offering me a fist bump. He was wearing cutoff Brooks Brothers khakis and an old CBGB T-shirt. He looked like he could have been in my East Village neighborhood instead of on a multimillion-dollar yacht in the middle of the bay.

―They‘re . . . making progress. How about you, Ari? What are your plans for next year?‖

―MIT. I‘ve got better than a four-point GPA and 2400 SATs, so I‘m pretty confident.‖

I nearly choked on my own spit. One of the twins‘ friends was . . .
smart
?

―I wish you could take the SAT for me, Ari,‖ Rose said with a helpless sigh.

―What your grandmother did was so—‖ Ari began, but I didn‘t hear the rest, because yet another helicopter was approaching. No.
Three
helicopters, making the yacht the center of their airborne isosceles triangle. Then I spotted a few powerboats motoring our way, and Thom lowering a ladder that would allow their passengers to climb aboard.

Thirty minutes later, I was in the midst of a full-fledged birthday bash. All the twins‘

friends I‘d met so far were there, as well as forty or fifty other kids. The only person missing was Will Phillips, whom I hadn‘t seen since he‘d blown me off on Worth Avenue. Not that I cared.

Really.

As the sun went down to the west, most of the kids were in seriously altered states. The new Gwen Stefani album wailed over the boat‘s sound system. Girls were dancing with guys, girls were dancing with girls, girls were kissing guys, and a couple were kissing each other, too, much to the enjoyment of the guys. Everyone had drink or drug in hand.

It made a Yale frat party seem like a Quaker meeting, so when Pembroke told me not to look so stressed—we were the requisite twelve miles off the coast that put us in international waters, i.e., beyond the threat of the Coast Guard—I actually did breathe a sigh of relief.

As the music switched to an old Smashing Pumpkins song, Pembroke pulled me close—well, as close as I could get with his stomach in the way. His eyes were glassy.

―You‘re so
hot
,‖ he whispered in my ear, and I felt a bit of spittle hit my earlobe. Oh,
ick
. ―The whole teacher thing is fucking, like,
wow
.‖

Fucking, like, wow
was right.

Identify the error in the following sentence:

Elitism breeds (a) elitism, and (b)braking (c) the cycle requires courage, (d) conviction, and grace. (e) No error

When I‘d agreed to spend Thanksgiving with James at his parents‘ beach house, I‘d known the holiday would not be the over-the-river-and-through-the-woods experience I was used to at home in New Hampshire. I would miss the early snow and the crackling fire in the fireplace and my father doing an acoustic run through Bob Dylan‘s greatest hits as my grandma made her world—okay, family—famous cranberry sauce (secret ingredient: orange peel).

I‘d spoken to my parents the day before. Lily was going up to New Hampshire by limousine so she wouldn‘t miss her Wednesday-night and Friday-night shows. I felt a pang of homesickness made worse by the knowledge of what lay ahead. Turkey Day in Florida with the quasi-in-laws who hated me.

On Thanksgiving morning, I put the Macy‘s parade on the plasma TV and flatironed my hair, a skill that I‘d nearly mastered. I was still a walking disaster with makeup, so I ran to Marco‘s cottage and let him do me. For clothes, I chose an Oscar de la Renta sleeveless cashmere sweater from Marco‘s Ann-Margret phase and a camel-colored Burberry skirt. As I got into one of the spare BMWs for the hour-long drive down to Gulf Stream, I thought I looked pretty good for a girl who was going into battle.

James‘s parents‘ place was right on the beach in a town that would be considered extremely wealthy compared to anywhere but Palm Beach. As I pulled in to the driveway, James stepped out the door. The next thing I knew, I was in his arms.

―Hey,‖ he murmured into my hair. ―I missed you.‖ Then he held me at arm‘s length.

―Holy shit, what . . .
happened
to you?‖

Ouch. And here I thought I‘d been looking kind of—you know—cute.

―Oh, I just changed a few—‖

―You look
beautiful
.‖

I grinned. ―Really?‖

―Spin,‖ he commanded, managing to make the instruction sound as ungay as possible.

―The hair, the clothes . . . Wait till my parents see you.‖