Poseur (23 page)

“‘Poseur,’” she read out loud, lowering a tag to her lap.

“Someone did this.” Melissa trembled. “Someone broke into the ball and did this.”

“Or everyone just happens to think one of us is a poseur,” Petra suggested.

“It’s ’cause we dressed in each other’s clothes,” Melissa glared at Janie. “I
knew
that was a bad idea!”

“Right,” Janie bristled. “But we’d be less poseury if we did nothing.”

“You know what’s poseury?” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Valley rats who hang out in Beverly Hills.”

“Ha!” Janie huffed. “What about acting French when you’re
obviously American
?!” At that, Melissa stifled a laugh. Charlotte’s eyes shot darts of pure evil.

“Like pretending to be some ghetto chick when you grew up in
Bel Air
is any better?” she seethed. Melissa’s face froze, but Charlotte persisted. “Or what about acting like you’re famous when
you’re
nobody
?”

“Oh lord.” Petra shook her head. “This is sooo immature.”

“Oh
please
!” Melissa erupted. “You’re, like, the worst poseur ever!”

Petra folded her arms and frowned. “Really.”

“Come on,” Charlotte agreed with a roll of her eyes. “You act all
natural
when, chances are, you’ve had plastic surgery. You’re really rich, but you dress like a beggar. And you go around like this
nice person, when, you know what? You’re just too
stoned
to be mean.”

“And
we’re
the immature ones,” Melissa snorted.

“Okay,” Petra countered. “All of you know
nothing
about my life. But go ahead! Act like you do! ’Cause that makes you the
worst
kind of poseur there is.”

“Oh boo!” Charlotte wiped away a pretend tear.

“Petra . . .” Janie reached for her hand. Without thinking, Petra slapped it away.

“No, I’m out!” she announced, tearing down the street. “I can’t believe I ever got involved with you . . . you . . .
people
!”

“Here, here.” Charlotte folded her arms.

“Good riddance!” Melissa headed in the opposite direction. “I cannot
wait
to be on my own!”

“WAIT!” Janie refused to be left alone with Charlotte. “Don’t we still have to share a ride home?”

The two girls stopped in their tracks.

Five minutes later, The Trend Set sat in the cab of the Beverwils’ storm gray Bentley, arms folded across their chests. “After
this — I’m out,” Petra muttered.

“Me too.”

“Threesome.”

“Foursome.”

Charlotte’s driver, Julius, started the car and pulled out onto North Rodeo. The four girls stared out their separate tinted
windows. Outside, the white tags flipped along the asphalt, picking up dirt and grime.

Tomorrow they’d be gray as ashes.

After a few tearful sessions on her forest-creature couch, Miss Paletsky agreed to dissolve The Trend Set. But, she pointed
out, Winston was too far along in the semester for the girls to sign up for something else. She reinstated their Wednesday
block of time as a one-hour study period. The girls were ecstatic — until Miss Paletsky explained study periods were a) not
opportunities to socialize, and b) strictly “in house.” In other words, no off-campus privileges allowed.

How quickly ecstasy turns to ick.

The off-campus ban was a pain in the ass, but socializing, it turned out, wasn’t hard to resist. The only kids who weren’t
in class were twenty random seventh graders who happened to have a free period. It wasn’t like the Four Formerly Known as
The Trend Set were going to talk to
them.

At the same time, they
definitely
weren’t going to talk to each other.

By the time Wednesday arrived, the girls had resigned themselves. They studied. Melissa planted herself on a bench by Doggie
Daycare. While Emilio Poochie slobbered away on a dried pig’s ear, she thumbed through the library copy of
When Bunnies Brood: The Emotional Lives of Animals.
Charlotte found a tranquil windowsill where she could read
Frock and Roll: The ABCs of Dressing like a Rock Star.
Janie stretched out in the shade of the Winston weeping willows, secured her headphones, and pressed
PLAY
.
“Écoute et répète,”
a recorded voice said in enunciated French. “I love my friends. . . .
J’adore mes amies.
”

“J’adore mes amies,”
she repeated to the trees.

Only Petra crawled to her usual spot on the hill behind the gym, where she dug through her bag and pulled out her most illicit
stash to date. . . .

The latest issue of
W.
The latest issue of
Allure.
And, of course, the latest issue of
Vogue.

The bell rang and Janie stuffed her iPod contraband out of sight. She headed for her locker, careful to avoid Petra’s gaze.
She brushed past Charlotte without a word. She ignored Melissa and her circle of shrieking friends. Janie slammed her locker
shut and headed for Spanish IV. It wasn’t until she’d achieved a safe distance that she allowed herself to look the way she
felt: pathetic. She missed The Trend Set, but she was the only one. That much she knew for sure.

Petra, Melissa, and Charlotte felt the exact same way.

Petra’s parents left for Date Night (which Petra renamed “Hate Night”), leaving her in charge of Sofia and Isabel. Despite
their older sibling’s protests, the two sisters always insisted on playing Barbie. When Petra tried to explain the dangers
of Barbie in a post-feminist world, the little girls gasped for air and pretended to die. When Petra noticed their dolls were
uniformly blond and blue-eyed, she went out of her way to secure them Asian Barbie alternatives.

“THESE ARE DUMB!” her sisters had cried. The next day Petra found Island Fun Miko and Flying Hero Kira decapitated on the
lawn.

But that evening, Petra tried not to worry about Sofia’s and Isabel’s developing self-image. They played “Going Shopping,”
and Petra painted a delicate snowflake on her south wall. She reserved one wall for each of the four seasons, but her favorite
wall was winter. As she dabbed her brush into a blob of silver paint, her cell phone chirped to life.

“Can I get it?!” Isabel panted with excitement.

Petra put down her paintbrush and nodded.

“Hello, Greene residence?” Isabel answered like a hotel concierge. “May I ask who’s calling, please? Yes . . .
just
a moment.”

“Who is it?” Petra whispered, taking the phone. Isabel shrugged, returning to Malibu Fun Whitney.

“I don’t remember,” she said. Her older sister sighed, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Petra. I was looking for my fuschia disco skirt, which is the only thing that goes with my black cashmere tank, and I
realized you still have it.”

A long call-waiting beep interrupted Charlotte’s voice. It was Melissa. Petra glanced at the pirate’s chest in the corner
of her room. She’d forgotten all about it.

“Can you hold on for a sec?” she asked, clicking to the other line.

“You have my strawberry-print t-shirt,” Melissa answered, cutting to the chase. “You need to bring the chest to school on
Monday.”

“Can you hold on?” Petra said, clicking over to Charlotte. “Hey. I’m just gonna bring the chest to school on —”

“Are you kidding me?” Charlotte interrupted. “I refuse to be seen with a pirate’s chest at school.”

“Hold on,” Petra sighed, clicking back to Melissa.

“Fine,” Melissa sighed. “I’ll just come over to your house.”

“You can’t,” Petra panicked. Her parents were due home from Hate Night, which meant they were bound to be fighting.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Charlotte sighed a second later. “I have a date at Chinois tomorrow night. That skirt is
crucial
to the whole aesthetic.”

“Bring the chest to my house,” Melissa replied once Petra relayed Charlotte’s complaint. “Tell Charlotte and Janie to be here
at eight-thirty.”

“Okay,” Petra sighed, snapping her phone shut. She sent Isabel a stern look. “I’m hiring a new secretary.”

“I’m not your secretary,” Isabel replied. “I’m your boss.”

“Yeah,” Sofia echoed.

Petra smiled. “My mistake,” she apologized. Then she shook her head and dialed Janie’s number.

Janie told Petra she’d pick her up, and no — she didn’t mind if her little sisters came along. Sofia and Isabel sat in the
backseat, their faces frozen into masks of dismay. Why didn’t Janie’s car have a mini-fridge? Where was her DVD player? Why
was there silver tape on the door?

What was that weird noise?

By the time they pulled up to Melissa’s massive gold-embossed gates, Sofia and Isabel were brimming with questions.

“Hey,” Melissa greeted them at the front door. She was wearing Baby Phat cargo knickers with a pink mesh top over a white
tube top. On her feet were white plastic platform mules to match her glossy white Chanel sunglasses to match the white square
tips of her French manicured nails.

“Charlotte’s already here,” she said. Sofia and Isabel stayed behind to pat Emilio Poochie’s slumbering body. Petra and Janie
carried the pirate’s chest by its ornate brass handles and followed Melissa into a grand wood-paneled hallway. A long row
of glossy photographs and platinum records glinted behind thick panes of glass. Melissa kicked a pink Pilates ball out of
the way and led them into a sunken, shag-carpeted “meet and greet” room. Charlotte waited by Seedy’s gleaming white Steinway
Grand, her delicate hand resting on the music stand. She looked like she was posing for a society portrait.

“Okay.” Petra nodded, lowering the mahogany chest to the floor. She paused, noticing with horror the white shag carpeting,
which, upon closer examination, looked like fur.

“Relax,” Melissa assured her. “It’s fake.”

The girls crowded around the chest, fitting the locks with their four keys. Petra lifted the lid. Gone were the neat, folded
stacks they remembered. During the journey, the perfect piles had toppled. Clothes tangled together in chaos, like something
washed up on the beach.

As Charlotte pulled out her fuchsia disco skirt, Janie’s red t-shirt clung to the silk ribbon.

“Sorry,” Charlotte apologized, detaching the tank and handing it to Janie.

“Oh wait,” Melissa said, handing Petra her jeans. “These are yours.”

“Wait,” Petra reached inside the waist and pulled out a sock.

“That’s mine,” Janie remarked, retrieving the stowaway.

Once the clothes were separated and returned to their rightful owners, the four girls folded them again. But they seemed to
be taking their time. Several minutes later, when Seedy Moon shuffled into his living room for a relaxing round of Extreme
Chess, they were only halfway done.

“Well, hello there!” he beamed in greeting. At the sound of his voice, Charlotte, Petra, and Janie dropped their clothes and
froze. Seedy Moon was one of the fiercest voices in rap. And yet here he was, greeting them like Mister Rogers.

“I’m Melissa’s dad,” he explained to them, then winked at his daughter. “I suppose these are your
colleagues
?”

The girls looked at each other.

“We’re sort of
former
colleagues,” Charlotte explained after a moment’s hesitation.

“Former?” Seedy waited for an explanation.

“The band broke up, Daddy,” clarified Melissa.

“I see,” he replied, taking a seat on his Louis Boy. He folded his strong hands in his lap and frowned. His Bugs Bunny slippers
stared their one-eyed button stares. “Anyone wanna tell me what happened?”

“We don’t have anything in common,” Janie offered, checking with the other girls. They nodded their approval. “We fight, like,
all the time.”

“We’re just really different people,” Petra explained. “We . . .” She looked to Charlotte for assistance.

“We
clash,
” Charlotte offered. The other girls murmured in agreement. “Clash” was exactly the word.

Seedy drummed his bejeweled fingers on his knees. “Clash, huh?” He pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Oh no.” Melissa shook her head with dawning comprehension. “Daddy . . . don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Seedy feigned innocence. He smiled at Janie, lifting his chin to the corner of the sweeping room. “See those
two bamboo sticks over there?”

“Daddy!” Melissa slapped the shag carpet with her hand. “No!”

Seedy ignored his daughter. “Will you bring them over here?” he asked Janie. Janie got to her feet, sending Melissa a quick,
trepid glance. What was going on?

She handed Seedy the two bamboo sticks.

“Great,” Melissa muttered.

Her father clutched the bamboo sticks in either hand. “Here we have two bamboo sticks. Both exactly the same.” After a pause,
he hit the sticks together. “This is the sound they make. Let’s try it again.” He hit the sticks together a second time. “Look
at that. Same sound. Same sticks. Everything
exactly the same.
Do you girls find that interesting?”

The girls stared in perplexed silence.

Melissa balled her strawberry shirt into her face and whimpered. “You’re supposed to say
no.
”

“No,” the three other girls chanted.

“Good.” Seedy nodded, lowering one stick to the floor. “Now,” he continued, still holding the other, “pick something in this
room. Anything you want.”

After some hesitation, Charlotte pointed at his Grammy.

“
No,
not that!” He winced. “Something else.”

Petra pointed out the white porcelain tiger in the middle of the long glass coffee table. Seedy nodded his approval. He paced
a slow circle around the tiger, the bamboo stick behind his back. And then, before anyone knew what was happening, he whipped
the stick through the air. There was a sudden slicing noise followed by an explosive crash. The girls gasped and ducked for
cover.

The tiny tiger smashed to smithereens.

“NOW!” Seedy’s voice boomed. “Is that tiger the same as he was before?! No he is NOT! When similar objects come together,
what happens? Nothing. But when
different
objects come into contact, what happens? CHANGE happens! Things are destroyed and things are created! So!” He began pacing
the room. “How does this relate to you?”