How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls (6 page)

I had nothing to say to that.

―Yale is an excellent university, no? But frightfully expensive. Debra tells me that you incurred a significant expense to attend there. How much are your outstanding college loans?‖

―Seventy-five thousand dollars,‖ I reported, despite it being clear that she already knew.

I remember discussing that very number, in fact, during my initial interview with my former boss.

―Seventy-five thousand dollars.‖ She sighed. ―So expensive in this country to attend a fine school. Not like in France.‖

Expensive for someone like me,
I wanted to tell her.
Not someone like you
.

But she‘d already pressed a button on a discreet box on the coffee table. ―Please send the girls up.‖

―Right away, Madame,‖ the voice through the intercom replied immediately. How was that possible? Then I remembered the Skull‘s earpiece.

―I should like to detail the rest of this arrangement with the twins in the room,‖ Laurel explained.

Before I could protest that I‘d agreed to no arrangement as yet, the elevator door opened again, and the two teenagers I‘d seen in
Vanity Fair
stepped into the room. Both wore jeans and very high heels. One wore a white silk camisole. Her complexion was enviably translucent. Her flaming red hair hung in loose curls nearly to her waist—

Sage, I figured. The other one, Rose, had a perfect golden tan with freckles dotting her nose and arms. Her streaky red hair fell stick-straight down her back.

I think I‘ve conveyed how effortlessly beautiful my sister is, right? Well, these girls made her look merely average. If the theory of the bell curve applied to looks, somewhere on the planet, two severely butt-ugly girls were paying the price so that the twins could look this amazing. Let me say that I had a very superficial reaction to all this gorgeousness: I disliked them immediately.

Laurel stood, so I did, too. The girls towered over both of us. Sage—the pale one—

shook her curls out of her eyes in what seemed to be a practiced gesture. ―You summoned?‖ she asked Laurel, sounding incredibly bored.

―I did. There is someone I want you to meet. This is Megan Smith. Megan, my granddaughters, Sage and Rose.‖

Sage‘s eyes flicked to me for a bare millisecond.
“And?”

―She will be your academic tutor for the next two months.‖

The twins exchanged a look, and then Sage put one hand on a prominent hip bone. ―No, thanks.‖ She turned to go, taking her sister‘s hand.

―Thanks anyway,‖ Rose called over her shoulder.

I could third that.
No, thank you
.

Laurel sensed my hesitation. ―Megan—you must hear me out. Girls, sit. I‘m going to make each of you an offer you cannot refuse.‖

Any sacrifice—even the sacrifice of one’s values and personal beliefs—is justified when
the result of said sacrifice is financial independence.

Describe your perspective on this statement, using relevant examples to support your view.

Once the twins were seated on the other mahogany sofa, Laurel described the predicament with Duke.

Sage shook the hair out of her eyes. Again. ―Okay. So what‘s-her-name is here to help us get in. That‘s it?‖

―Megan. Her name is Megan,‖ Laurel repeated. ―If she accepts, she will be guiding you in two main areas—your regular studies at Palm Beach Country Day and the SAT

examination that you will take on the fifteenth of January.‖

Sage rolled her eyes. ―You‘ve got to be kidding.‖

Once more, I caught a flash of sadness in Laurel‘s eyes, but the girls‘ faces remained impassive. Either they didn‘t notice, or they didn‘t care.

―I am not kidding. In fact, I would think that after that magazine profile, you would want to prove to the world—perhaps even to yourselves—that you are not
imbeciles
.‖

I noticed Rose‘s right foot jiggle nervously inside a pink suede high-heeled sandal. Her sister threw her arms across the back of the couch. Not a care in the world.

―What do we care?‖ Sage asked, although she clearly wasn‘t looking for an answer.

―We‘re already rich, and we‘re almost famous. Come on, Rose.‖ She got to her feet.

―We‘re out of here.‖

Laurel shrugged again. ―Depart if you want. But understand this, Sage: You are not rich.‖

Sage sighed wearily. ―Yet. We aren‘t rich
yet
. But we will be next month, on our eighteenth birthday. Eighty-four million dollars rich. That‘s what the trust says.‖

―No, that‘s what the trust
used
to say,‖ Laurel corrected. ―It was revised this morning.‖

Sage‘s pale face drained of what color it had. I watched her reflection in the silver tea set across the room. ―What are you talking about?‖ she managed.

Laurel cleared her throat. ―If you and your sister both earn places in the entering class at Duke—I have been told an SAT score and course average you must maintain by the president of the school himself—you will become recipients of the trust the moment the admissions office informs me of your acceptance. If one of you fails, you both do. You will be on your own.‖

―You wouldn‘t do that,‖ Sage challenged.

―I already did,‖ Lauren answered, and I thought I saw a little satisfied gleam in her eyes.

She touched one of her enormous diamond earrings.

―But that‘s . . . that‘s so mean!‖ Rose looked like a little kid whose sand castle had been kicked over by a bully.

―It‘s for your own good, Rose.‖ Laurel‘s voice was kinder now. ―And I am giving you the tools you need to succeed. I suggest you—and your sister—take advantage of them.‖

I waited for Sage to fire back. She didn‘t. The look on her face, however, spoke volumes, all of which were filled with expletives.

Laurel turned to me. ―Megan, you have been very patient. Let me explain the terms of your employment. You will be with us until the Scholastic Aptitude Test in January.

Eight weeks. Your pay is fifteen hundred dollars a week. It will be deposited into an account I‘ve opened for you. You will have your own suite in the twins‘ mansion, all your meals, and use of any vehicle you‘d like. We have a dozen or so in the garage.‖

I did some quick mental calculations. Fifteen hundred times eight weeks was twelve grand. Zero expenses. I‘d go back to New York in January at prime magazine hiring season with a nice financial cushion. And all I had to do was live here in cushy splendor, endure the twins for two months, and try to teach them to spell their own names?

―I cannot fucking believe this,‖ Sage muttered, reminding me of the reality of enduring these girls, even if only for two months. Not so easy.

―Megan, when we were talking earlier, you informed me that you have accumulated a significant amount of debt,‖ Laurel said to me.

―Yes, that‘s true,‖ I acknowledged.

Laurel nodded. ―I am a fan of performance-based compensation, as you‘ve likely concluded already.‖

―Yes, and your offer is very generous—‖

―Kiss-ass,‖ Sage cut in. ―And what are you wearing, anyway?‖ she asked me, apropos of nothing at all. Rose giggled.

I turned back to Laurel, smiling tightly. ―But I‘m not sure your granddaughters are very receptive to the idea, so I‘m afraid—‖

―If my granddaughters are admitted to Duke,‖ Laurel interrupted, ―you shall earn a bonus that will allow you to eliminate that debt. In its entirety.‖

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

―Now. As you were saying?‖ Laurel set her hands on her lap once again.

―I . . . I . . .‖ I stammered. Then I looked at the twins, who looked as shocked by this proposition as I was.

―You‘re
bribing
someone to tutor us?‖ Rose asked.

―Paying, actually,‖ Laurel corrected her. ―So, Megan?‖

My initial inclination was to do a happy dance around her office—I‘d scored nearly perfectly on the SAT and graduated magna cum laude—but a brief moment later, reality set in. The issue here was not
my
academic abilities, but the twins‘. Studying isn‘t a skill that can be developed overnight. Could I take two spoiled brats, who‘d thus far majored in ennui and partying, and transform them into scholars? It was like asking a Neanderthal whose idea of seduction involved a club and a cave to discover the merits of dinner, a movie, and aromatherapy massage. But still. It was a hell of a carrot for me, to go along with the stick Laurel had just smacked against her granddaughters‘

Cosabella-thonged behinds. No wonder Angel Cosmetics was so successful.

―I trust that meets with your approval?‖ Laurel‘s eyes met mine.

I made a quick decision, heavily influenced by dollar signs both certain and chimerical.

―Okay. I mean, um, yes. I‘ll do it.‖

Laurel smiled. She even looked relieved. ―Excellent. I will be leaving in the morning on a business trip to Paris, but I shall check in on a regular basis.‖ She rose gracefully.

―Megan, a bookstore in Miami sent me everything you‘ll need—Kaplan, Barron‘s, and Peterson‘s SAT prep materials, SparkNotes, Cliff‘s Notes. If there‘s anything else, just tell Mr. Anderson. Why don‘t the three of you get to know one another and then get to work? Please excuse me.‖

She crossed her office and summoned the elevator. A moment later, I was alone with the Baker twins. Sage regarded me coolly.

―Listen, Molly, Mandy, or whatever your name is—‖

―Megan.‖

―Whatever.‖ Sage flipped her hair. Again, again. ―You understand we‘re not studying, right?‖

―I‘m pretty sure I just accepted a job.‖ I attempted a laugh.

―Okay, there‘s a little problem, Frizzy. You don‘t mind if we call you Frizzy, do you? It describes your hair so well.‖

―I prefer Megan,‖ I answered her, feeling very thirsty and more than a little panicky.

―Uh-huh. So listen, Frizzy.‖ Sage did the hair-tossing thing again. ―I
puke
cuter than the outfit you‘re wearing.‖

Rose snorted a giggle. Sage turned to her sister. ―Rosie, you know who Frizzy looks like?‖

―Who‘s that, Sagie?‖

I felt like I was being set up for some particularly cruel knock-knock joke.

Sage turned back to me. ―Actually, it‘s not really a who but a what: baboon ass. Bright red and fat all over.‖

I was right. Except it wasn‘t a knock-knock joke, and it didn‘t entirely make sense. Still, I felt my cheeks turning a deeper shade of baboon-ass red.
Fifteen hundred a week
, I told myself.
Fifteen hundred a week
.

―Just out of curiosity, Sage?‖ I asked. ―Does it give you pleasure to insult someone you just met?‖

Sage put a slender finger to her lips as if pretending to ponder this, then she stood up.

―Actually . . . yes. When it‘s someone who looks like you.‖ She beckoned to her sister.

―We don‘t need our grandmother, and we definitely don‘t need you, Frizzy. So I suggest you head back to whatever godforsaken place you came from.‖

She strode to the elevator with Rose in her red-haired wake. I sat there, my eyebrows frozen in shock, until the elevator door had closed.

I slid down on the couch and stared up at the domed ceiling overhead. Then I let out one dramatic sigh and pulled myself upright.

Outside, the sky was clearing. The late-afternoon sun glittered on the water. I watched it, reviewing my exchange with the twins in my head. They were horrible. Awful. Nasty and wretched.

But their grandmother might be right. Maybe, just
maybe
, they were not stupid.

Choose the most correct definition for the following word: HEIRESS

(a) female destined to inherit millions without working a day in her life (b) 50 percent physical perfection, 50 percent emotional cruelty (c) vacuous, without possession of reason or, apparently, a soul (d) entitled, prissy bitch

(e) all of the above

Where are you again? Palm Springs?‖ Charma asked me. ―Like, in California?‖

―Palm Beach. Like, in Florida.‖

―Never been there.‖

―Me, neither, but evidently, this is where the beautiful people congregate and tell each other how beautiful they are.‖ I leaned back on the plush magenta-and-white-polka-dotted divan in the den of my suite at the twins‘ mansion. It was a few light-years nicer than the found-it-on-the-street futon that used to pass for a couch in my apartment.

A half hour before, charm-free Mr. Anderson had led me silently through the muggy evening along a long white gravel walkway from the main mansion to the twins‘ mini-mansion. Tall French-style hedgerows guarded the sides of the path, which meant I couldn‘t see the rest of the estate. When we arrived at the front of the twins‘ manse, though, there was no missing it. Done in a pink one shade lighter than Laurel‘s house, it was a dead ringer for Tara from
Gone with the Wind,
right down to the columns, and minus the color scheme.

―Addison Mizner,‖ the Skull intoned.

―Excuse me?‖

―The architect,‖ he clarified, which clarified nothing for me. He opened the door and led the way through a foyer only slightly less spectacular than Laurel‘s to an enormous winding staircase. Upstairs were two corridors leading in opposite directions. ―The twins,‖ he uttered, casting his eyes to the left. ―You,‖ casting his eyes to the right.

Down the corridor we went, until he stopped at a large white door. ―Your quarters.

Good night.‖

He headed back the same way we‘d come, and I opened the door to what would be home for the night—maybe longer if I could stomach ever coming face-to-face with the twins again. The wallpaper was muted pink and white, and a velvet divan had been placed directly under a picture window overlooking the Atlantic. It was too dark to see the water, but a few sparkling lights twinkled in the distance. There was a white antique desk where I could set up my iBook, along with a high-backed pink leather chair and several hassocks. On the far wall was what I guessed to be a sixty-inch flat-screen TV.

An archway opened into a massive bedroom with a canopied king-size bed and a walkin closet that—like Les Anges‘s foyer—was roughly the size of my entire East Village apartment.

I went back into the den and called James, but I hit his voice mail. My second call was to Charma, who took the news of my rapid deployment to South Florida with her usual deadpan aplomb. I tried to describe Sage and Rose, suggesting she picture the biggest bitch from when she‘d been a senior in high school, multiply her times infinity, and then split her in two.
That
was the Baker twins.