Poseur (15 page)

The Girl: Janie Farrish

The Getup: Used Diesel jeans, army-green Converse All-Stars, Joe Peep’s Pizza 100 percent cotton t-shirt, bright orange baseball
helmet

If you’re a Valley kid, chances are you’ve spent a few birthdays of your life at the Sherman Oaks Magic Castle. Among its
many treasures, the Magic Castle counts three miniature golf courses, an arcade, bumper boats, batting cages, a few half-dead,
squawking ducks, and a moat. Everything, including the ducks, dates back to 1976. The grounds smell like chlorine, peanut
shells, Dr Pepper, and sweat. The only thing castle-like about Magic Castle is the moat and drawbridge. The only thing magic
about it is nothing.

Can you blame Janie for being surprised when her brother stopped by her bedroom door and asked her if she’d like to go?

“What about Tyler?” Janie asked, looking up from her desk. “Don’t you have guy friends anymore?”

“Do you wanna come or what?”

Fifteen minutes later they were there.

“So” — she smirked, tucking her glossy brown hair into her rented baseball helmet — “this is what you do with your Sunday
nights.”

“Whatever, dude.” Jake pointed at her with his bat. “You’re here too.”

“What about
Charlotte
?” Janie minced, tossing her brother a token. “Shouldn’t you be with her?”

The coin ricocheted off Jake’s hand.

“I don’t know.” He swept the coin from the ground and dropped it in his worn-out jeans’ pocket.

“Is it true you’re ignoring her?”

“What?” Jake stepped into a fierce-looking practice swing and frowned. “Who told you that?”

“She did.”

“Great.” He sighed. All he’d needed was a
little
time to think. Now he was “ignoring” her?

Jake swung the gate to the batter’s box and slammed his way inside.

“Hell-
lo
?” His sister pointed to the sign above the gate. “You’re in the one-hundred-miles-per-hour zone?”

“Yeah.” Jake shook the token into the meter. “I can read.”

The batting machine whirred to life like an enormous electric fan. Jake readied his bat and stared ahead. He could hear the
ping of distant pitches, the rattle of the chain-link fence, the clap-’n’-holler of nice dads, the clap-’n’-holler of jerk
dads. Jake blocked it out, focusing until — all at once — the ball popped, hurtling toward him like a comet. He swung.

He missed.

“This is way too fast!” Janie yelled, clutching the fence behind him.

“Thanks for the report, Dr. Obvious!” Jake scowled, tapping the plate. The second pitch sang by him before he could even lift
the bat. He clenched his jaw. He could do this. He could do this. All he had to do was
want it.

Ten minutes later the batting machine rattled and slowed to a wheezing stop. Jake tipped his head back, staring through the
ratty veil of black netting to the sky. Twenty-five pitches. Twenty-five chances.

He had missed every one.

“DAMMIT!” He threw his bat to the ground. Janie peered around anxiously. One did not just throw their bat at Magic Castle.
Throwing one’s bat at Magic Castle was like an act of high treason. People got
kicked out.
Jake glared at the 100 mph sign and balled up his fist.

Janie gasped.

But it was too late. He had already sent his fist flying. “OW!” he warbled, wringing his hand like a limp dishrag. Janie blinked
at the battered sign, wondering which of the many small dents was the one left by her brother. She couldn’t believe he’d just
punched a sign. What did he think this was? A musical number in
West Side Story
?

“Are you okay?” she asked once her brother stopped cursing. She unlatched the gate, approaching him in timid steps.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, picking the balls out with the toe of his Converse. They rolled down the long slope of concrete like
beads of sweat.

“Well, don’t be upset. No one can hit a hundred miles per hour.”

“Some people can.”

“Not unless they practice,” Janie pointed out.

“I don’t have enough time to practice!”
Jake cried in pure wolf-man despair.

She stepped aside, allowing him to steam through the parking lot, hands heavy in his pockets, kicking bottle caps, ticket
stubs, candy wrappers — any little thing that got in his way. What had gotten
into
him?

When Janie found Jake, he was slumped in the driver’s seat with the windows rolled up, picking at a patch of duct tape on
the lower left-hand dash. She opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “Jake,” she began quietly, watching her brother
clench and unclench his jaw. “What’s going on?”

He hooked his finger to the lip of the steering wheel and sighed. “Nothing.”

“Jake.” Janie leaned in confidentially. “You’re listening to
Jewel.
”

He laughed. “I know, dude.”

“You
hate
Jewel,” she reminded him. At this point, she was truly concerned.

Jake didn’t respond. He was too busy thinking about Nikki. Nikki and her shy smile. Nikki and her big blue eyes. Nikki and
her little red team shorts. She was nowhere near as hot as Charlotte, but wasn’t that exactly the point? Nikki made him feel
safe. Like he could kiss her without shaking. Like he could touch her and not pass out. Like he might be able to see her naked
without dissolving into a completely spastic dork-meister.

The more he thought about making out with Nikki, the better it sounded. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t want to be with Charlotte.
He did.

He just needed to get some practice in first.

“Jake,” Janie interrupted his thoughts, “I think we should go?”

He reached for the door. “Just one more round, okay?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated.

“Relax.” Jake smiled, cracking the door. “I’ll stick with the easy pitches.”

“The second session of The Trend Set —
which is a working title, subject to change —
is now in session,” Melissa announced, rapping her wooden desk with a small silver Tiffany hammer.

“Okay, what is
that
?” Charlotte asked from her designated spot on the windowsill.

“It’s a gavel,” Melissa answered with a hard look. “In case certain people get out of order.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Charlotte replied innocently, smoothing the skirt of her black lace baby-doll pinafore. She’d paired
the pinafore with a silk shirt with cap sleeves and a mao collar. The collar was marcasite gray, the same as her peep-toe
flats. Everything else was black. It wasn’t conscious, but — ever since Jake went AWOL — Charlotte’s outfits grew progressively
darker, swallowing her up like a cloud. Her red patent leather belt and matching Hermès clutch were the only evidence of a
happier, sunnier life. It was just a matter of time before they were swallowed up too.

“So,” Melissa continued, hooking the silver gavel to her new Gucci tool belt. The belt sat low on her hips, emphasizing the
waist of her pink faded Joe’s jeans. To complete her “construction worker goes to Milan” look, she tucked the jeans into her
tan Manolo Timberlands with the spiked heels. “Did everyone come up with a super-great word for our label?”

She picked up a piece of bright blue chalk and turned toward the wall. “Mine’s
D,
” Melissa announced, scrawling the letter on the board. She brushed her hands. “For
Diva.
”

When no one volunteered to go next, Melissa looked at Janie.

“Oh, mine’s
T
,” Janie coughed up. “For
Tall.
”

“Tall?” Melissa fluttered her eyes shut and tried to breathe. How boring could one person get? Before she could object, Petra
made things ten times worse.

“Mine’s
U,
” she announced. “As in
Ugly.
”

Melissa stared in disbelief. Petra was wearing a paint-smeared blue canvas smock over jeans and brown pleather “goddess” sandals.
Her shoes looked comfortable, a quality Melissa found deeply suspicious. After all, what was
comfortable
but another word for . . .

“Ugly,” Melissa repeated. “You want the word
ugly
to be associated with our label.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“This is a
fashion
label, okay? The whole
point
of fashion is, like, the
opposite
of ugly.”

Petra held her ground. “I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”

“Fine,”
Melissa surrendered, wielding the blue chalk like a dagger. She slashed the board in angry strokes. By the time she finished,
the chalk had broken twice. She turned to Charlotte and braced herself. “Please have something good.”

“Mine’s
R.
” Charlotte shrugged. “As in
Rich.
”

Melissa exhaled. “
Thank
you.”

“Typical,” Petra grumbled from her place on the floor. “All anyone cares about at this school is money.”

“I’d like to point out
rich
can also mean
decadent,
” Charlotte replied. “As in
this crème brulée is so rich.
”

Petra rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s how you meant it.”

“Okay,” Melissa began, going over their list of words. “We got a
D,
a
U,
a
T,
and an
R.
Anyone get a word from that?”

The girls stared at the letters for what seemed like a very long time. Outside the closed door, the high-pitched shrieks of
a few ninth-grade girls rose and fell. Then, after a moment of passing footsteps, it was quiet again.

“Oh,” Janie exclaimed, instantly regretting it. She really didn’t mean to say “oh” out loud.

“What?” Melissa asked, moving to the front of the desk.

“No.” Janie shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Oh, come on.” Melissa stamped her work-boot heel.
“What?”

“Um . . .” Janie stuttered after a tense pause. She couldn’t take the pressure of Melissa’s stare much longer. “It, um . .
. it kind of spells . . . you know . . .”

“Oh, spit it out!” Charlotte groaned.

Janie swallowed. “It spells
turd.
”

“What?”
Melissa whirled toward the board. “It does not!”

“It totally does.” Petra cackled with delight. “Omigod, that’s awesome.”

“No, that is
not
awesome!” Melissa sputtered. Here she was, organizing the launch party of a lifetime, and for what? A start-up fashion company
called Tall Ugly Rich Diva? Aka
TURD
? No, no, no, and
hell’s no
! “We have to come up with a new set of words. Right now.”

“Do we have to?” Petra whined. “My brain hurts.”

“Wow, I feel for you.” Melissa frowned with contempt. “I really,
really
do. But
unfortunately,
no one
else
is gonna do the thinking for us!”

“Well, maybe they should,” Charlotte replied, failing to contain her exasperation.

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Not unless you think good business strategy is funny.”

Melissa sighed and collapsed into her seat. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Alright.” Charlotte nodded. “Since we’re having so much trouble with a name, why don’t we do something like hold a contest?
Whoever comes up with the best name for our label could, like, get something.”

“Like what?” Petra asked, lifting her disheveled head from her folded arms.

“I don’t know.” Charlotte shrugged. “Like a t-shirt?”

“A t-shirt.” Melissa nodded in agreement, pacing the room. “Like, a couture t-shirt with the name of the label?” Melissa drew
an imaginary line across her chest, indicating the label in question.

“Exactly.” Charlotte also nodded. “Not only do label t-shirts look professional and designer, they also provide free advertising.”

Melissa clapped her hands. “Whoever wears the shirt will become a walking billboard!”

“As long as the shirt’s one hundred percent cotton and sweatshop labor–free . . . ,” Petra began.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Melissa consented hurriedly. “So,” she continued, “we’re all agreed on the t-shirt?”

“Yay,” Charlotte sang.

“Yay,” Petra chimed in.

“Um . . .” Janie stared into her lap.
What about making a couture dress?
she couldn’t help thinking. Not only was a couture dress a
much
better item than a t-shirt, she could secretly lend it to Amelia. Amelia would have her dress for Spaceland, The Trend Set
would have their “thing,” and everyone would be happy. Then again, the t-shirt idea had been Charlotte’s. If Janie dissented,
she could only imagine what Pompidou-themed ills were in store.

“Well?” Charlotte asked with a catlike smile. Janie’s heart fluttered like a canary.

“Yay,” she answered in a weak whisper.

Melissa thwacked the desk with her silver gavel.

“Alright!” She pumped her fist. “If you guys wanna e-mail me your guest lists tonight, I’ll go ahead and put the invitations
together. You can reach me on my Web site:
www.MoonWalksOnMan .com.
Peace.”

As Melissa sashayed toward the exit, the bell rang long and loud and clear.

The Girl: Amelia Hernandez

The Getup: Oversized vintage red-and-white striped shirt, white leather belt with silver hoop buckle, gray skinny Lux jeans,
vintage red pointy-toe pumps, silver bangles, red plastic hoop earrings

“What do you think?” Amelia asked, tilting the Goodwill’s rickety mirror to get a better view of her black leather–clad ass.
“I’m looking for a Debbie Harry in her heyday sorta thing.”

When Amelia started Creatures of Habit, her first priority — after securing actual living, breathing band members — was to
buy a badass pair of black leather pants. But after eight months of solid searching, she remained without a badass pair of
black leather pants. She was an embarrassment to her profession. A doctor without a lab coat. A sailor without a cap. A drag
queen without a frosted wig.

Whenever she got close to giving up, she’d settle down to a long night of VH1’s
We Love the Eighties,
and that was all it took. Her craving for leather would start all over again. With one eye on the TV, she’d call up Janie
and demand they meet on Melrose, Venice Beach, or — in today’s case — the Goodwill on Magnolia Boulevard.

“Who’s Debbie Harry?” Janie asked, peering from behind a rack of old summer camp t-shirts. She’d been considering a sky-blue
t-shirt with a picture of a beaver, a boat, and a rainbow.

“Are you kidding me?” Amelia stopped, appalled at her ignorance. “The lead singer of Blondie!”

“I thought her name was Blondie.”

“Omigod.” Amelia pressed her hand to her head and a collection of bangles slid down her wrist. “Who
are
you?”

“Whatev.” Janie frowned, her hand on the t-shirt rack. “You look like Ashlee Simpson in those pants.”

Amelia gasped. “I do?” She darted into the fitting room, slamming the door behind her. Janie laughed at the sight of her staggering
feet under the door. When it came to removing Ashlee Simpson from her body, Amelia refused to spare a single second.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you!”

“What?” Janie asked.

Amelia emerged from the fitting room in less than ten seconds. “I got the invitation to your launch party last night.”

“Oh no. Don’t laugh.”

“I’d never,” Amelia said, reexamining her reflection
sans
pants. “It’s just . . . you realize I can’t make it.”

“What?” Janie fought off a spasm of panic. “Why not?”

“It’s the same night as my show.”

“What?!” Janie squawked.

Amelia shook her head. “I had a feeling you didn’t realize.”

Janie wandered to a corner bench and collapsed. She stared ahead in a daze. “I can’t believe this.”

Amelia put her arm around her friend. A single tear formed in the corner of her right eye. She couldn’t
believe
she was missing Amelia’s show. She might as well give up on seeing Paul Elliot Miller ever again.

“You can always come
after
the fashion thing. We’ll still be hanging out.” Amelia looked sympathetically at her friend.

“Really?” Janie exhaled with trembling relief. When Amelia saw how quickly her friend was consoled by the option of hanging
out after, she removed her arm to smack her on the shoulder.

“All you care about is Paul!”

“No! I really am upset about missing your show. Besides,” Janie pointed out, “it’s not like you’ve said anything about missing
my launch party.”

“Point.” Amelia got to her feet and stretched. “You ready to go?”

“Sure.” Janie nodded. But then her eyes widened and she grabbed Amelia’s arm and yanked her behind a skirt rack.

“Ow!” Amelia yelled, rubbing her abused arm.

“Shhhhh . . .” Janie crouched low to the floor, pulling her best friend down with her.

“What’s going on?” Amelia whispered, craning her neck to get a look. “Is there . . .”

She yanked her down again.
“Don’t,”
she ordered through clenched teeth.

“Janie?”

Janie and Amelia glanced up at the same time. Even though she’d never met him, Amelia knew exactly who it was. He was wearing
a distressed blue SEX WAX t-shirt, brownish cords, and black flip-flops. He forked his fingers through his golden hair until
it sat like a lopsided thatch of straw. His skin had the smooth luster of a beach stone, and when he smiled, the sandy stubble
on his well-defined jaw caught the light. He actually glittered.

“Thought that was you.” He smiled.

“I’m just . . . I dropped something,” Janie explained, making a show of searching the dusty floor. Amelia brushed her hands
and got to her feet.

“I’m Amelia,” Janie heard from above.

“Hey . . . Evan.”

“Found it!” Janie swept something invisible into her pocket and got to her feet.

“Okay,” she said, taking Amelia’s hand. She nodded to Evan. “Well. Bye.”

“Wait!” Evan laughed. Janie frowned. She knew Evan only talked to her because of Charlotte, so why talk to her now? She looked
into his pool-green eyes for some kind of clue. She looked away. His eyes were far too similar to Charlotte’s for comfort.
It was like she was
in
there, watching.

“What?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Evan scratched the back of his ankle with the toe of his flip-flop. “I just . . . um . . . what are you doing
here?”

“Shopping,” Amelia replied from behind a nearby rack of tartan kilts.

“No, we are
not
shopping,” Janie blurted. She could
not
believe Amelia just admitted to shopping at the Goodwill! “She’s totally joking,” she explained, avoiding Amelia’s confused
expression. “We’re donating.”

“Me too,” he replied, hugging a Barneys shopping bag to his chest. “Can I ask you guys a question?” They watched Evan crouch
to the ground and dig through the bag. He pulled out a lavender silk Chloé halter and a beautiful Cacharel skirt in white
cashmere, discarding both in sad, crumpled heaps. And then, just when things couldn’t get more painful, he pulled out a pair
of pants. And not just any pair of pants.

The perfect pair of badass black leather pants.

Amelia stared at Janie with the plaintive look of a starving animal. Janie shook her head. No
way
would she allow her friend to dig through Charlotte Beverwil’s hand-me-downs. Especially in front of Charlotte’s not-to-be-trusted
brother.

“Do you guys know what this is?” Evan pulled a jade green something from the bag by a long, silky ribbon.

“It’s a corset,” Amelia answered, still staring at the leather pants.

“Cool,” Evan replied, smoothing a Goodwill donation form across his knee. He clicked his pen, crossed out the word
“vest”
and replaced it with
“coursette.”

No one bothered to correct his spelling.

“Well, thanks,” he said, refolding the form. Then he re-forked his fingers through his hair and flashed his most devastating,
shamelessly dimpled smile to date. Janie picked dirt from her fingernail and stared into space. Evan sighed. It was weird.
The more this girl ignored him, the prettier she got.

Why
was
that?

“Late,” he surrendered with a lift of his chin.

Janie and Amelia watched Evan exit and lope along the front window in the direction of his mud-splattered forest green Range
Rover. As soon as he was gone, Amelia clapped her hands and did a little jig. “Yay! I
have
to try those on!”

“You’re not serious,” Janie gasped in disbelief.

“Did you
not
see those things?” Amelia spluttered, her disbelief equal if not superior to her best friend’s. “They were perfect!”

“Amelia,” Janie commanded. “No!”

“But
why
?”

“Um . . . your dignity?”

“Dignity has nothing to do with this!” Amelia fumed, storming for the exit.

“Omigod, ’Melia!” Janie followed her through the exit and out onto the sidewalk. The door slammed behind her with a joyous
jangle of bells. “What if someone saw you wearing those pants?! What if they like,
recognized
them and Charlotte
found out
?! Don’t you see how humiliating that would be?”

“Omigod,” Amelia groaned. “For
who
? You or me?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Yes, it does! See, I don’t
care
what that girl thinks.
You
care! It’s all about
you
!”

“Well, easy for you to say!” Janie defended herself. “
You
don’t have to be in class with her. You don’t know what it’s like!”

“Like that’s my fault?!”

“Yeah, actually! IT IS!” Janie exploded on the street corner. “I wouldn’t even be
in
that class if it weren’t for you!”

Amelia walked until she found her bus stop and plunked herself down. A million posters of Britney Spears plastered the face
of a stucco wall. Her front teeth were blacked out with marker. Her foreheads were marked with
SLUT
or
SKANK.
The posters curled and cracked in the sun. Janie and Amelia stared ahead, frowning in the face of Britney’s million mutilated
smiles.

“If you hate it so much” — Amelia finally broke the silence — “why don’t you just drop out?”

Janie stared at the ground. A clump of tough yellow grass sprouted through a crack in the concrete and she touched it with
the toe of her Converse. “We were gonna make that dress.”

“Were we?” Amelia asked. Janie kept staring at the ground. She’d made no plans to make that dress, and Amelia knew it.

“See?” Amelia shook her head. “I got you into this grossness, but the reason you’re still in it has nothing to do with me.
It’s
you,
Janie. You devote yourself to people who reject you.”

“That is not true.”
Janie’s eyes smarted with tears.

“Whatever.”

As the Metro rounded the corner, Amelia got to her feet. Within moments, the grumbling bus pulled to the curb, sounding a
long, high-pitched whine. The tall vertical doors hissed open and locked with a snap. Janie watched her friend climb the dirty
black stairs and clamber along the aisle. She ducked into a seat on the opposite side, disappearing from view. As the bus
pulled away, Janie swallowed. A bead-sized lump lodged inside her throat.

For the first time in the history of their eight-year friendship, Amelia hadn’t waved goodbye.