Whatever their hopes for knowledge and experience, interns and graduate assistants enter into a devil's bargain with their employers: In exchange for résumé filler, a letter of recommendation, and maybe a small stipend, they'll make copies, perform mindless data entry or research, and perhaps run a few personal errands. The arrangement works out well for both parties—especially the employers, who only have to expend a minimal amount of energy on divvying out the chores. But the moment the word "apprentice" enters into play, a line has been crossed. In what reads like a ferociously witty roman à clef from a jilted underling, Debra Weinstein's Apprentice To The Flower Poet Z. exacts revenge on behalf of all the poor sods who ever mistook an internship for anything other than an education in toner, Excel, and carryout food. A poet in her own right, Weinstein pares down the story to its bare essentials, accomplishing in single lines what a wordier novelist would takes reams to describe. Set within the insular world of academia, where backbiting and rancor exist in inverse proportion to importance, the book grapples with the excesses and perversions of literary celebrity. Opening with a T.S. Eliot epigram, "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal," Weinstein introduces a memorable diva poetess named Z., a New York university professor whose flower poems have won her enough acclaim to obscure her habitual abuses. When Annabelle, an energetic and gifted young community-college transfer, gets a plum assignment as Z.'s assistant, she feels the allure of being in proximity to greatness, which Z. exploits to great advantage. Soon enough, Annabelle's coursework and creative output fall prey to a ballooning list of duties, including housecleaning, picking up prescription cat food for an aging literary critic, hiding Z.'s adulterous affair, and penning flower descriptions (for $2 per flower) that are channeled verbatim into Z.'s poems. In the ultimate irony, Annabelle discovers that the famous flower poet knows next to nothing about flowers, or even poetry: When Annabelle mentions an affinity for Emily Dickinson, Z. reacts as though she's never heard the name before. As mentor and apprentice, the two women are oddly suited for each other: Z.'s real talent is for exploitation, and Annabelle makes a willing doormat. At times, the latter's zest for naïve submission grows tiresome and pathetic, particularly in her relationship with a James Joyce-obsessed grad student who spins her sexual awakening into a bad first novel. Some of the other peripheral characters, such as Z.'s eccentric family and her department nemesis, never quite come to life, because they don't measure up to the hilarious ping-pong dynamic between Annabelle and Z. Even if there isn't a specific New York poet that corresponds to Z., plenty of literary stars fit the profile. In this scene, talent is a negligible tool for success, especially for seasoned thieves on the tenure track.