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find theirs, and here you are, no?”
    “Yes,” I said, now fairly confident all I should do is agree with Mrs. Lamont for the meeting to go well.
    “But this,” Mrs. Lamont sighed dramatically, “is not so easy. First tutor comes, and she is too fat. Second tutor has pimples all over her face. The next one looks like a grandmother. And the last one is fat and old! My children are upset. I am upset. This is not acceptable. Because of my profession, my children grow up in a world with pretty people, skinny people, young people. They are always in my office and in my studio where we hire the best. We have standards. I say this to the Jacobs woman.”
    “Yes,” I nodded, feigning sympathy. Was this woman serious? Since when were tutors supposed to be beauty queens, even those that earned $6,000 per week? I wanted to cringe, but instead pasted on a smile, determined to stick it through. I really needed the money. Living with my mother was not an acceptable alternative.
    Though, suddenly, I wondered if maybe I too wasn’t skinny enough or young enough or pretty enough to be a tutor. And I also had pimples. Just three days before, I broke out with a monstrous zit on my chin. Was it still there? My hand itched for a mirror. I had just known acne would someday be the death of me.
    “I am glad you understand,” Mrs. Lamont said as she straightened on the couch. Her feet hit the floor, and she slid back into her shoes. “Do you follow fashion?”
    “Uh,” I stalled. The truth was no. I knew enough to recognize the big designer names and knew some of the models from TV, but the only time I glimpsed a fashion magazine was when I passed by a newsstand. “I don’t have much free time outside of schoolwork, but I do like clothes.” I held my breath.
    “ Merveilleux ,” Mrs. Lamont said before she got up from the sofa and walked to a phone. Did she like my answer? Why hadn’t I studied French?
    “I want you to meet my children. In this family, we are a democracy. They too can say if they like you. You will go to lunch and talk, and then they tell me if you are okay for them, no?”
    Lunch? I glanced at my wristwatch and worried. It was already past one. If we went to lunch that would be, at minimum, another hour. I wouldn’t be back at school until well past two, and would definitely miss my Evidence class. Still, I would have more than enough time before the Con Law lecture and, well, we were talking about $6,000. Per month. For ten months.
    “Lunch would be great.”
    “ Fabuleux .” Mrs. Lamont picked up the phone. “You go wait in the foyer and I call the children.”
    I retreated from the room and retraced my steps to the front door, sorry that Mr. GQ wasn’t there to show me the way. I paused in the foyer and looked around for a seat. I didn’t find it.
    Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing. Alone. Fidgeting from foot to foot. Did Mrs. Lamont forget? Should I go back to remind her? She might think that rude, so I leaned against the wall, determined to wait some more. Five minutes later, a teenage girl came barreling down the stairs, two barking beagles dogging her every step.
    “I’m coming, Maman ,” she yelled over the dogs’ excited yelps. “But I can’t find Xander.”
    She came to an abrupt stop when she spotted me. The dogs skidded behind her. Tails wagging, their symphony of barks grew even louder when they ran from behind her legs and sniffed me.
    “Uh, nice dogs,” I said as I patted their heads and pressed my back to the wall when one aimed its snout at my crotch.
    “Coco, no!” The girl snapped her fingers and the dog plopped its butt down on my foot.
    I looked up from the dog and returned my gaze to the girl. There was no denying she was Mrs. Lamont’s daughter. She had the same dark hair and large eyes, but somehow her features were less dramatic. Her face was fuller, her lips narrower and her cheekbones less pronounced. She was also shorter and stouter. Poor girl. It couldn’t