Poseur (12 page)

The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

The Getup: Anna Sui silk dress with yellow rose print, ivory slip with antique lace trim, moss green cashmere ballet shrug,
green Charlotte Ronson platforms, gold teardrop earrings

When it came to the subject of Janie Farrish, Evan was oddly mute. In fact, the more questions Charlotte asked, the more he
seemed to clam up. By the time she got down to the final three, his answers had devolved into something close to caveman grunts.

Charlotte: Did you flirt with her?

Evan: Ayanug.

Charlotte: Do you think she’s pretty?

Evan: Ayanug.

Charlotte: You didn’t
kiss
her, did you?

Evan: Gog! Wudjujusleemeyuhlone?

Fortunately, in addition to French, Charlotte was fluent in caveman. She understood Evan perfectly. Her brother not only found
Janie attractive, he
liked
her. Which meant Janie Farrish singlehandedly achieved the dream of every girl at Winston Prep. (Every girl except Charlotte,
of course.) Kate had been after Evan since she was old enough to walk. Laila amassed a not-so-secret collection of his old
boxer shorts. And, three years ago, when Evan first left Winston to attend boarding school in New Hampshire, Aiden Reese cried
until she lost her voice.

Charlotte felt optimistic. Janie must have gleaned Evan’s feelings by now, which meant, most likely, her Ugly Duckling Complex
was slowly, surely on its way out. All Charlotte had to do now was swoop in and seal the deal. She would laugh at Janie’s
jokes. She would compliment her shoes. She would ask her what shampoo she used. The goal was to boost confidence levels to
an all-time high. If she played her cards right, Janie’s grudge would be ancient history by lunch.

Charlotte arrived at school in a tight, high-waisted Anna Sui dress with a handmade print of bright yellow roses. She had
cut the roses from the border of an antique tablecloth, then — with painstaking patience — embroidered them into the dress.
The occasional flower she adorned with a silver sequin, creating the effect of morning dew. Charlotte liked to redefine her
clothes with a personal touch. That way everything she wore was one of a kind.

According to her research, yellow roses symbolize new beginnings, forgiveness, and friendship. Charlotte got out of her cream-colored
Jaguar, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. If Janie forgave her by lunch, she and Jake could take their relationship to
the next level as early as fourth period. The mere thought filled Charlotte to the brim. She twirled into a little pirouette,
right there in the middle of the Showroom.

But then something happened.

Charlotte spotted Jake by the Winston Willows and threw him a wave — a wave so great and sweeping and joyous that, for a moment,
her hand became her heart. When her hand opened up, so did her heart. When her hand flew around, so did her heart. And together
they were bursting: hello, hello, a million times hello!

But Jake didn’t wave back. He took one look, sidestepped into the locker jungle, and disappeared from view.

If he was trying to be funny, Charlotte forgot to laugh.

She lowered her hand to her side. Her friends bit their lips in that
sucks-to-be-you
way.

“What?”
Charlotte snapped.

“Nothing,” they chirped together.

“Maybe he just didn’t see you,” Kate offered, her lips twitching into a smile. She quickly hid her mouth behind her hand.

“Of
course
he didn’t see me.” Charlotte frowned, smoothing the skirt of her silk dress. “The sun was totally in his eyes.”

Two hours later, they crossed paths in the Breezeway, but while Charlotte smiled and slowed down, Jake just
kept on going.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat, turning to face her. But still he kept on walking, one foot behind the other, stumbling backward
— as if sucked into a vacuum. “I’m . . . I have to . . .” He pointed his thumb behind his shoulder. Charlotte stared. Last
night, after they kissed (that first heart-stopping, laundry room kiss!), Jake had put his hand to the side of her face. He’d
slid his thumb along the arc of her eyebrow, down the slope of her cheek until, finally, achingly, he’d found her mouth. Charlotte
could still taste his thumb on her lips.

And now he was pointing it toward the door?

“I’ve got to . . . I’ll see you . . . ,” Jake sputtered, affecting utter helplessness. And just like that, he was gone.

Okay,
Charlotte calmed herself.
Maybe he’s late for class. Maybe he feels sick. Or maybe —
even though it would have to change course, shine through a window, and refract off a mirror
— the sun got in his eyes.

It wasn’t until he arrived to AP Physics and sat on
the opposite side of the room
that Charlotte forced herself to accept the obvious. Jake Farrish was stonewalling her. While Mrs. Bhattacharia droned on
about the law of inertia, Charlotte ripped off a tiny square of paper and smoothed it on her desk. Winston banned the use
of cell phones in class, so everyone resorted to the old-school tradition of passing notes. Passing notes was annoying. Not
only was the act time-consuming and high-risk, it was also a huge waste of paper. Last April, the entire student body rallied
to overturn the “no cell phones” rule. Their “Save a Treo, Save a Tree” campaign proved ineffective.

Charlotte shielded her tiny square of paper with a cupped hand. In the most microscopic letters she could manage, she wrote:

She prodded Kate with her pen and handed her the note. Charlotte watched her note bob from desk to desk. By the time it got
to Jake she felt a little seasick. But she kept her eyes fixed, waiting for Jake’s reaction. When after a few minutes he didn’t
look up, Charlotte surrendered and stared at the cover of her AP Physics textbook. She had nothing to do now but wait. He
had to be writing some kind of lengthy, detailed explanation. Why else would he take such a long time?

At long last, she felt the point of Kate’s pencil on her elbow and turned around. She snatched the note and pressed it to
her lap, unwrapping with the care she would show a box from Tiffany.

Charlotte turned around for eye contact. Jake continued to stare at the board.

“Okay . . . it just seems like you are,”
she wrote back, prodding Kate a second time. And then Charlotte stared at the chalkboard. Because Jake wasn’t the only one
who could stare at a chalkboard as if it held the key to the universe, okay?

When the note came back, Charlotte left it on the corner of her desk, refusing to read it until — as Mrs. Bhattacharia requested
of her class — she opened her textbook to page thirty-eight. She unfolded the note, doing her best to look calm.

When class was over, Jake passed her desk and yanked one of her curls. His touch. She melted with relief, looked up and smiled.

But he was already out the door.

Charlotte showed up to the first meeting of The Trend Set ten minutes early. Showing up anywhere ten minutes early — let alone
to something as lame as The Trend Set — could only mean one thing: she was depressed. Charlotte wanted nothing more than to
sit on the windowsill and contemplate her sad, pathetic fate. The sky was blue. The courtyard was empty. The weeping willows
drooped with a weight as heavy as her heart.

And then, out of nowhere, there he was. She watched him walk toward the center of the courtyard. His eyes were on the ground,
his hand to the strap of his backpack. He kicked at something she couldn’t see. Then he stopped and looked around. A shadow
pointed from the toes of his Converse like the hand of a clock. He was alone.

Who was he looking for? Was he looking for her?

Before she could get her hopes up, Janie entered stage left, ruining the whole picture. She ran to his side and stopped, one
hand on her hip, the other gesticulating. While she steamed like a teapot, Jake nodded, looking solemn. He appeared to be
agreeing to something. But to what?

Charlotte unfolded Jake’s note for maybe the eighty-eighth time that day.

Her gift for analysis clicked into gear. If “it” (meaning the weirdness) had nothing to do with “her” (meaning Charlotte),
then “it” (meaning the weirdness) had to do with
someone else.
Someone close. Someone with influence. Someone with an opinion that mattered.

Someone like Janie.

As recently as yesterday, Jake was torn between two allegiances: love and family. As recently as yesterday,
he’d been leaning toward love.
But now, without warning, the tables had turned. With total disregard for her pores, Charlotte pressed her forehead to the
glass. Janie was still out there, ordering him around.

What was she
saying
?

Unfortunately, Charlotte could only imagine. And what she imagined stung her with rage. Of course, after so much pain and
confusion, wrath was a welcome relief. Wrath sucked the blue sadness from her veins and filled them with new hot poison. She
felt alive. She felt powerful.

By the time Janie stepped into the classroom, the roses on Charlotte’s silk dress glowed like yellow lights. And as anyone
who passed a California driver’s test can tell you: yellow lights mean
Slow Down, Proceed with Caution.

Janie had no idea what she was in for.

Janie sat at her desk and sketched a pointy high heel. When she wasn’t sure what to draw, she drew pointy high heels. She
left them on Post-its by the phone, paper menus in coffee shops, the corners of homework assignments. She dropped them like
a trail of pointy crumbs. She could draw them with her eyes closed. Not that she dared to close her eyes. Not when
they
were there, waiting like lions before the kill. At this point, Janie felt too nervous to blink.

In the front of the classroom, Melissa Moon perched sidesaddle on the teacher’s desk and perused the latest
Vanity Fair.
Her low-rise jeans and melony terry-cloth tube top framed a narrow stretch of rock-hard midriff, made terrifyingly toned
by a summer of Krav Maga. Stars of light refracted from her chandelier earrings, her silver spiked heels, the “accidentally”
exposed strap of her jeweled thong. All, however, was muted by the shine of her MAC Lipglass. Janie imagined the La Brea Tar
Pits a thousand years from now, when paleontologists found Melissa’s two lips, perfectly preserved, like mosquitoes in a glob
of amber.