Getting Even Page 4

  Levine 555–1345

  Annie still couldn’t figure out what appealed to her so about the ad. Maybe it was the reference to the low salary. It seemed so honest somehow. Whatever the reason, the next day, at lunchtime, when she found she still wanted to find out about the job, she called. Before she knew it, she had an appointment that day, after school, an interview with Mr. Levine himself.

  Which was why she was standing there, working up her nerve to knock. There was nothing to be accomplished by running away. Besides, the odds were good she wouldn’t get the job. Boston was loaded with college students looking for part-time work, and Mr. Levine was much more likely to hire one of them than some kid still in high school.

  Armed with that thought, Annie knocked on the door. “Come in,” some man barked at her. She opened it and strolled in. There was a lot less pressure on her, now that she was so sure she wouldn’t be hired.

  “Anne Powell?” the man asked.

  Annie nodded.

  “You know how to read, write, and answer the telephone?” the man asked.

  Annie nodded.

  “You know how to talk?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Annie said.

  “Fine,” he said. “You’re hired. Come on in, sit down, see where you’re going to be working.”

  “Wait a second,” Annie said, “I don’t have that much experience with jobs, but it seems to me there’s more to it than just being able to talk.”

  “Sure,” the man said. “I asked if you were literate. You’d be surprised how many people aren’t. Even in Boston. Even the ones in college. You in college?”

  Annie shook her head.

  “Why not?” the man asked. “A bright girl like you.”

  “I’m in high school,” Annie replied and waited to be fired. She wondered if she qualified for unemployment insurance.

  “High school,” the man said. “High school. That’s even better. I went to high school myself once. Never made it all the way through college, but high school I graduated from. You going to graduate from high school?”

  “In June,” Annie said. “At least I plan to.”

  “You have a middle name?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Annie said. “But I won’t tell it to you until you tell me what your name is.”

  “Fair enough,” the man said. “Murray Levine. Murray Roger Levine. Your turn.”

  “Anne Martha,” Annie replied. “Martha was my grandmother’s name.”

  “Very impressive,” Murray Levine declared. “Call me Murray. You going to sit down, or do I have to look up to you already?”

  Annie sat down. “You really didn’t finish college?” she asked.

  “The war,” Murray replied. “Korea. It seemed like a big thing at the time. I was too young for World War II and I wanted to prove what a man I was, so I enlisted and fought in Korea, and that kind of killed my taste for higher education. Never go to war. It isn’t nearly as much fun as they make out on Memorial Day.”

  “So you got into public relations work instead,” Annie said.

  “I knocked around for a while first,” Murray said. “A little of this, a little of that. I was going to be an actor for a while there. Lots of guys got out of Korea and decided they were going to be actors. TV was just starting, and it seemed like there were jobs for everybody. I even changed my name for a few weeks. Murray Lewis. I had three lines on Playhouse Ninety once and it was downhill from there. So I quit acting and got a job with a talent agency, helping all the other guys who went to Korea get the parts I’d dreamed of.”

  “That must have been very hard,” Annie said, crossing her legs and starting to feel right at home. The reception area was no great shakes, but it seemed to be clean enough, and the furniture wasn’t falling apart.

  “The fifties were weird times,” Murray replied. “Some great actors, stars even, couldn’t work because of the blacklist. And there I was, this punk kid failure, having to break the news to them. After a while, I decided I didn’t like having to be the heavy, and since my wife came from Boston anyway, we moved here. We have three kids. Know how to type?”

  “I sure do,” Annie said. “Not that it matters, since you’ve already hired me.”

  “True,” Murray said. “But it’s always good for a young person to know how to type. The pay is minimum wage, and I can’t guarantee you much more than fifteen hours a week work. Half of that will be on Saturday. Saturday is a big day around here. Everybody calls on Saturday. You mind working on Saturday?”

  “That would be best for me,” Annie replied. “And a couple of days after school.”

  “Fine,” Murray declared. “You’ll answer phones, type up whatever needs to be typed up, file, send out bills, all the really interesting stuff. Drudge work. Sometimes something interesting will come along, and you’ve got to be able to handle that as well. You object to drudge work?”

  “Not if I actually am learning too,” Annie said. “I don’t want to just be a file clerk around here. I have ambitions.”

  “Fine,” Murray said. “I’ll be happy to teach you everything I know about public relations. My three kids, none of them are interested. One’s a lawyer, one’s in med school, and the youngest, well she’s determined to be a rabbi. A rabbi. Can you beat it. I keep telling her that’s just the same as public relations, but she won’t listen. What are you going to do when you graduate high school?”

  “Go to college,” Annie replied. “Someplace expensive and prestigious. After that, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t count on earning your tuition here,” Murray said. “Let me show you my office, and then we can discuss which days of the week will be best for you.”

  “Fine,” Annie said, feeling remarkably comfortable. She followed Murray into his office, and saw a desk cluttered with papers and folders, a window in dire need of washing, with a view of an alleyway, and a telephone with four extensions.

  “The phone is everything at this job,” Murray said. “My last assistant, lovely girl, sophomore at Radcliffe, suffered from phone phobia. Sure, she could handle one incoming phone call, and in a pinch, she could put one person on hold, and handle a second call. But three at the same time, and she’d start shaking. Once all four lines were busy, and she started crying. She quit the next day. Very sad.”

  “What happened to your assistant before her?” Annie asked, picking up one of the folders and thumbing through it.

  “I had to let him go,” Murray replied. “Sad story. Brilliant boy, great future. But I caught him making obscene phone calls. All these phone lines were just too much of a temptation for him. I couldn’t give him a reference. Broke my heart. I am a very soft-hearted guy, which is why I’m in these less-than-fabulous offices. You have to have a hard heart to make it big in public relations.”

  “That’s my first lesson, I suppose,” Annie said.

  “That’s your second lesson,” Murray replied. “The first is don’t use the office phones to make obscene phone calls with. Now most of my clients are professors.”

  “Really?” Annie said.

  Murray nodded. “I know, people always think of PR work having to do with movie stars and playboys,” he declared. “And I guess in New York and LA that’s what they do. But in Boston, the stars are the professors. Oh, sure, I handle a few local acts. Singers mostly. I get them jobs at the clubs, or at the colleges. But mostly I help promote all those books the professors are always writing, or I get them on radio talk shows, or lectures for various organizations. You know. League of Women Voters in Newton needs a speaker for its annual membership meeting, and I get them Professor Joe Schmoe, who’s just written a book on acid rain. He takes along a few copies of his book to sell, they pay him an honorarium, and everybody’s happy. Nobody gets rich, but it adds up for all of us. It’s clean work too. I like that. I can look my daughter the rabbi straight in the eye. You’ll have nothing to hide from your parents. You do have parents, I assume.”

  “Two of them,” Annie declared. “
Both professors.”

  “Great,” Murray said. “I’ll sign them up. What do they teach?”

  “Philosophy and French literature,” Annie replied.

  “Not the easiest things to place, but if they want, I’ll be happy to try,” Murray declared. “Philosophy gets hot sometimes. Morals and ethics and all that. Let them know I’m available if they’re interested.”

  “I certainly will,” Annie promised. First, though, she had to let them know how it was she knew about Murray Levine. She hadn’t been sure that morning she was even going to call him, so there hadn’t been much point discussing it with them then.

  “Can you start this Saturday?” Murray asked.

  “Yes,” Annie replied. “I mean no. I have a prior commitment.” She wouldn’t dare miss the ball game with Chris.

  “Always respect your commitments,” Murray said. “How about Monday afternoon?”

  “That’s fine,” Annie said, and stood up, preparing to leave.

  “Great,” Murray said. “Now be careful getting home. And tell your parents what a lovely girl they have.”

  “I will,” Annie said, not sure which of the two commands she was agreeing to. She left the office and took the elevator down to the lobby, where she stood for a moment until her body stopped shaking. When she was sufficiently calm she walked the two blocks to the train that would take her home. She wasn’t sure why, but the job with Murray Levine Associates seemed very important to her, even if the only associates were Murray Levine and herself. A paid associate at a public relations firm was a lot more important than an unpaid editor at a high school newspaper.

  She got home before either of her parents, which made life easier. It gave her a chance to start something for dinner, and set the table, and even start doing her homework in a conspicuous location. She looked like a model daughter, which was exactly the look she was aiming for.

  Her father came in first, and Annie greeted him at the door with a hug and a kiss.

  “It’s a nice greeting,” he said, as he tossed his briefcase into the closet. “But not a necessary one. Your mother and I already decided you can miss another morning’s worth of school to appear on Boston Morning if they still want you. It wasn’t your fault they didn’t have you on yesterday, and we know you’ll make up any work you miss.”

  “That’s great, Dad,” Annie said. “But that wasn’t why I hugged you.”

  “No?” her father asked. “Why do I sense trouble?”

  “What smells so good?” Annie’s mother asked, coming in through the kitchen door. “Who started supper? Whoever did, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “I did, Mom,” Annie said. “Chicken in orange sauce.”

  “You are a great daughter, and I take back everything I thought about you yesterday,” her mother declared.

  “Don’t be so fast to forgive,” Annie’s father said. “Something funny is going on here. I can smell it.”

  “That’s the chicken you smell,” Annie’s mother replied. “The smell of real food cooking on a weekday. It could dazzle anyone.”

  “No, listen to me, Gail,” Annie’s father said. “I already told Annie she can be on the TV show, and she says that that isn’t why she’s making such a fuss over us.”

  “I don’t care what the reason is,” Annie’s mother declared. “Just as long as dinner is in the oven.”

  “I do have a reason,” Annie said. “Well, two reasons, sort of.”

  “Two reasons,” Annie’s father said. “I tell you, Gail, we’re in deep trouble.”

  “How deep?” Annie’s mother asked. “Should we call our lawyer?”

  Annie grinned. “It’s all legal and aboveboard,” she said. “If the two of you would just relax, I could explain everything and you’d stop worrying.”

  “I will never stop worrying,” Annie’s father declared. “Even after I’m dead, I want you to know I’ll be worrying about you. You’ll be getting ready to go out and have a good time, and you’ll feel these strange worrying vibrations coming in from the window, and it’ll be me doing some afterlife worrying.”

  “Fine,” Annie said. “I’m going to the ballgame on Saturday with this guy I just met. His name is Chris Wainwright and he’s a freshman at Harvard and he has a driver’s license.”

  “And?” Annie’s mother prompted her.

  “And that’s just about all I know about him,’ Annie said. “Except that he’s coming here to pick me up for lunch before the ballgame, so you can grill him then for further details if you want.”

  “Of course we want,” Annie’s father said. “How did you meet?”

  “At the bookstore. We just got to talking, and then we had some ice cream together, and Chris suggested the ballgame and I agreed,” Annie said. “We weren’t formally introduced, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to know,” Annie’s father said. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have a chance to cross-examine him on Saturday. Assuming he shows up.”

  “He’ll show,” Annie said.

  “All right,” her mother said. “That’s one of the two reasons why you’re being so nice. What’s the other one?”

  “I’ve been offered a part-time job,” Annie declared. “And I’d like to accept the offer.”

  Annie’s father raised his eyebrows. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that one,” he said. “You care to fill us in on the details?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Annie said, and after checking to see that her parents were sitting down as comfortably as they could, began to explain all about Murray Levine Associates to them. She was only interrupted three times, and her father only shouted once, so she knew she was getting off fairly easily.

  “You’ve grown up,” her mother finally said. “We send you off for a summer in New York, and you come back capable of meeting boys and getting jobs all on your own.”

  “You’re right, Mom,” Annie said. “If I hadn’t worked at Image, I never would have wanted a job now. But I really do want one. School isn’t enough of a challenge anymore.”

  “Just remember your grades are a lot more important than your salary,” her father said. “If I even suspect that they’re suffering because of this job, you hand in your resignation.”

  “All right,” Annie said. “But I’m sure I’ll be able to balance everything.”

  “If you can, you can give us all lessons, Supergirl,” her father replied. “Let’s see how you handle school and a job and dating and making the occasional supper.”

  “I’ll be brilliant at it,” Annie promised. “Or I’ll die trying.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” her father grumbled. “Come on, Gail. Let’s see how Supergirl’s cooking is these days.”

  “Competent and delicious,” Annie’s mother said. “And very grown up. Just like the cook herself.”

  Chapter 5

  “Now remember, Dad, don’t give Chris the third degree when he shows,” Annie said, lifting the newspaper away from her father to guarantee his full attention.

  “If he appears, you mean,” her father replied, grabbing the paper back from her.

  “Why wouldn’t he appear?” Annie asked.

  “No reason,” her father said. “But he hasn’t called you since you met. No word on what time he’s coming today, right?”

  Annie shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean anything,” she declared, hoping she was right. “We arranged that he’d pick me up here before lunch. Maybe he doesn’t think he has to tell me whether that means 11:30 or 12:00. Maybe he doesn’t like being pinned down to schedules.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t even remember,” her father said. “Maybe you don’t know anything about this young man except what you could learn from reading his ID.”

  “He’ll be here,” Annie said. “And when he does come, I don’t want you to ask him all those questions you wished I’d asked him. I’ll get to know him all by myself, thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” h
er father grumbled. “And I promise that if this guy does show, I’ll treat him with courtesy and respect. Now don’t you think if you do have a date this afternoon that you should dress for it?”

  He had a point. “I have to shower first,” Annie told him, getting up from the sofa.

  “That makes sense,” her father said. “Shower before you go to the ballpark, where you’ll work up a good-sized sweat cheering and jumping up and down and probably end up with half a cup of beer poured on your head by one of the more enthusiastic fans.”

  “You are a total grouch today,” Annie declared, and gave him a peck on his bald spot. “When I come back down, I’ll be a vision of radiance. And you’d better say so, too.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” her father said, and burrowed back into his paper.

  Annie wished she didn’t share her father’s doubts about Chris’s remembering their date. There was no reason why he should forget it, since she hadn’t, but those things seemed more important to a girl than a boy, she suspected. Dates. Romance. True love. Look at Chris’s father. Although actually, true love was obviously very important to him, since he kept searching for it, regardless of the odds.

  She doubted Chris was like that, she thought, as she took her shower. Not that true love was unimportant to him, but that he was unable to stick with one true love when he found her. Assuming he did find her. Assuming he even remembered their date, to give their true love half a chance. Not that they necessarily were right for each other. It was just that it would be nice if he showed up, so they’d have a chance to find out.

  She dried herself off, blow-dried her hair, which returned to its natural, do-nothing state, and scurried back to her bedroom to decide what to wear. Nothing too formal. Fenway wasn’t a formal kind of place.

  She finally settled on a pair of jeans, which, she was pleased to see, slipped on just a little more easily than they had the last time she’d worn them, and a bright pink shirt she’d bought in New York. Pink was a good color for her, or at least so they’d told her at Image when they’d made her over. For one glorious day, she’d looked gorgeous, instead of perfectly average Annie. Thin and glamorous, and just slightly perfect. It hadn’t lasted, but Annie doubted it was supposed to. Besides, in a few months, the intern issue of Image would come out, and she’d be able to see once again just how amazing she had been that single summer day.