by Compai
“What?” Janie blanched. Maybe she’d misheard. Maybe she’d said, No time to dally! Janie wouldn’t put it past her.
“My friend Don John’s acting class is about five minutes from where you live,” Charlotte explained, crushing Janie’s hopes in an instant. “I thought he could drop me off at your house and pick me up after?”
“You want to come here?” Janie’s entire circulatory system pulsed in horror. Mrs. Farrish glanced up from her bills. “Um, I . . . I don’t know. . . .”
“It’s fine,” her mother silently mouthed, wagging her palm. Janie hugged her ribs and frowned, turning toward the wall.
“He says his class is only . . . what was it again? Oh, an hour and fifteen minutes. I thought if I came by we could go over your sketch together . . . make sure we’re on the same page?”
“Oh, right. Yeah,” Janie replied, her voice hoarse. “Okay, sure. Bye.” She clapped her phone shut, covering her eyes with one hand.
“Was that Charlotte?” her mother’s wry and all-knowing voice rose behind her.
Janie dropped her hand to her side and turned. “Yeah.”
“So, she’s coming over?” Mrs. Farrish stacked her remaining bills into a pile.
“I . . . I don’t know exactly.” Janie shrugged, still hugging her ribcage with her arms. Off her mother’s baffled look, she continued. “I mean, she might, but it . . . it all kind of depends on this friend? I don’t really know. She was kind of unclear on the phone.”
“Well, make sure you clean up that mess,” her mother instructed, scooting back in her chair. “Whether or not she does come.”
“Uh-huh.” Janie swallowed, glancing into the kitchen to recheck the time. The microwave was splattered with spaghetti sauce, and the plastered hole seemed to eclipse the entire wall. She reached for her phone.
“Oh, and do you have any laundry?” her mother called from the opposite side of the house, pervading the ring in Janie’s waiting ear. “I’m doing whites!”
“Hey,” Jake’s recorded voice clicked into gear. “This is Jake Farrish. Please leave a message. And don’t be embarrish.”
Beeeeeeep!
“Jake, hey . . . ,” Janie murmured, cupping the mouthpiece with her hand. “I know today’s your day to have the car, but I really, really need it. Please come back as soon as you can, please?”
The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil
The Getup: Dark blue skinny jeans by Chloé, blue dot print shirt by Rebecca Taylor, brown suede T-strap sandals by Oscar de la Renta, and heart-patterned neck scarf in nutmeg, gold, and sapphire silk by Christian Dior (courtesy of Jules).
The Farrishes’ house was small and square, with two front-facing windows and a triangle birthday-cap roof painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue. The rest of the house was pale yellow. To the left, a pocked gravel driveway, occupied by Mrs. Farrish’s much newer white Volvo station wagon, a not-quite-spherical basketball, and a looping sprawl of garden hose, sloped to the gray residential street. The lawn, though browning in patches, was neat, and freshly mown, and a leafy walnut tree offered shade. By the end of October, a fair amount of fallen nuts attracted a posse of neighborhood squirrels — they dawdled, poking about the stiff winter grass, pausing every three seconds to sniff whatever it is squirrels sniff.
Charlotte pulled her 1969 Jaguar to the leaf-littered curb and slowly braked, allowing the gleaming cream car to lumber. As the great French songstress Edith Piaf warbled and emoted inside her speakers, she checked a crinkled sheet of antique-toned paper in her lap, peered across the quaint suburban street, lowered her Havana brown Dior sunglasses, and squinted.
“Car ma vie . . . ! Car mes joies . . . ! Aujourd’hui . . . CA COMMENCE AV —”
“Well . . .” She finger-punched the stereo, cutting Edith off mid-climax. “This is it!”
Nineteen-year-old Don John looked up from his Juicy Couture Sidekick, tilted forward in his passenger seat, tipped his Dolce & Gabbana aviators to the end of his well-exfoliated snout, and winced. “Yes, but . . .” He winced again, returning his sunglasses to their rightful place. “What is it?”
“It’s a house, Don John,” Charlotte sighed, shutting off the engine. “Obvie.”
“Wait, like a house where you live?” he gasped, bulging his light gray Bette Davis eyes to maximum capacity. “It’s so small!”
Charlotte drew herself up in her seat, flexing the great ballerina muscle of social consciousness. “You know what? Small is relative.”
He yanked his gelled eyebrows into a puzzled knot. “Y’all are relatives?”
“No,” Charlotte groaned. “What I mean is just because it’s not a ten-bedroom estate does not mean it’s quote-unquote small. Compared to another structure,” she ventured, “it might look quite large.”
“Compared to what structure?” Don John snorted, unconvinced. “Ashley Tisdale’s nose?”
“You are not funny,” Charlotte snapped. But a ghost of a smile twitched behind her peony-pink pout as she glanced into her lap, unzipping a quilted white leather Chanel makeup bag. “So,” she said a moment later, fixing her trusty MAC compact with a haughty glare and applying another layer of lip gloss. “You’ll remember to pick me up at eleven o’clock, right?”
“Oh yes, yes!” Don John agreed, clasping his hands on the polished walnut dash. At last, stingy old Beverwitch had agreed to let him borrow her car (he’d only asked three million times, and she’d always replied, “Can’t you just borrow Mort’s wheelchair?”). Her timing could not have been more perfect. He was desperately in love with Jamie Law, his Advanced Acting for Television teacher, who (despite Don John’s boyish good looks and indisputable razzmatazz) remained bewilderingly aloof. He absolutely had to get Jamie to notice him, and the cream-colored Jag was his last and only hope.
Nothing says “Love me back, bitch” like a hundred-thousand-dollar car.
Charlotte detached the silver key from her purple squiggle bracelet, dangled it to Don John, and pushed open the heavy car door. She’d barely let go of the handle when he turned the ignition and revved the engine, scattering the squirrels in an instant (except for the fattest of the bunch, who merely froze).
“Ta!” her dear friend cried, flinging his polo-clad arm in farewell. And then, before Charlotte could tell him he had lip gloss on his teeth, there came a whirl of autumn leaves, car exhaust . . .
And he was gone.
Charlotte squared her puffy-sleeved shoulders and crossed the street. The quiet house appeared to watch her, its rectangle windows opaque yet curious, like the eyes of a long lost friend. Drawing closer, she succumbed to nostalgia, as if on some unconscious level, she did recognize this place. But how was that possible? How could a house she’d never seen before feel familiar? She reached the sidewalk, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the walnut tree, sending a fleshy green pod to the earth with a hollow thwop. . . .
And it hit her.
She’d drawn this house in kindergarten — always a square, two windows, and a triangle roof. (Okay, most kindergartners drew that house, but still.) Arriving home from school, she’d dutifully surrender the drawings to their dame de la maison, Blanca, who secured them to the stainless steel doors of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. As soon as Charlotte went to bed, however, Blanca would remove them, returning the fiberglass starfish magnets to the shallow cutlery drawer and the crayon drawings to a clear plastic bin labeled storage.
Georgina Malta Beverwil disapproved of clutter.
When Charlotte awoke to find her houses gone, she drew another. And when that house disappeared, she drew another. How many hundreds of triangles had leaped from the tip of her crayon, how many thousands of squares, before that fateful day in first grade when Madame Lefevre, her ballet instructor, changed her life? “I wee-quire all my students to do zaire own mending,” she’d informed Charlotte in her croaking French frog-voice, handing her a painted tin box. Inside, she’d found eight gleaming spools of thread, a pair of mother-of-pearl fabric shears, two fresh needle p
acks, a felt tomato pincushion, and — most precious of all — a pewter measuring tape no larger than an oyster’s shell. Without a moment’s hesitation, she traded her crayons for needles, her paper for bolts of fabric, and resolved “from now on” to create only what she could wear. That way, wherever she went, her creations went right with her.
And she’d never wake to find them gone.
“Charlotte!” Janie swung the screen door open and serenely glided to the front porch — which is to say, tripped over the welcome mat and crashed into a set of hanging wind chimes. As the agitated metal pipes clamored for attention, she cringed: how did her mother find that sound soothing? All she could think of was runaway ice cream trucks and psychotic clowns.
“Ha!” she gasped, attempting a “cool girl who could laugh at herself” sort of thing (she sounded more like the actor who gets stabbed offstage in a Shakespeare play.) “You’re early,” she observed through gritted, smiling teeth.
“Well, early is the new late!” Charlotte chirped, kissing each of her flushed cheeks. She eyed the black folder in Janie’s hand, and beamed. “Is that . . . ?”
“It is.” Janie linked Charlotte’s petite arm with her own, guiding her like a blind man down the porch stairs.
“Oh, before I forget” — Charlotte patted her hand — “Melissa wants us all to wear formal gowns for tomorrow morning. She wants us to present the Trick-or-Treater in costume, but like themed — so we’re all dressed like Oscar winners.”
“You mean, like, dead Oscar winners?” Janie asked, lowering her voice.
“She didn’t specify.” Charlotte, too, lowered her voice and frowned. “Why are we whispering?”
“No reason.” Janie brightened as they achieved a fair distance down the drive. “I just thought we could take a walk. See the sights.”
“Oh,” Charlotte exhaled in disappointment, craning around. “I was kind of looking forward to seeing where you lived. Your house is so charming.”
As Janie measured Charlotte’s chlorine gaze for glimmers of irony, a familiar putter sounded at the end of the street. She looked up, all but wilting with relief.
“Jake!” She released Charlotte’s arm, scampering to the curb. Her brother eased on the brake and buzzed down the passenger seat window, blasting the air with music — something over-the-top angry and drum-infested. “Did you get my message?” Janie yelled.
“Ye-es,” he replied, gazing past her shoulder to meet Charlotte’s ready-for-a-challenge gaze. “Thanks for being so specific.” He grimaced at his sister, increasing the volume. “I’ll be going now.”
“No, wait!” she cried as he eased on the gas. She staggered alongside the slowly moving car, clutching the bottom of the window. “Can’t I borrow the car?”
“No Volvos for Judas.” Jake fake-smiled. “Besides,” he braked. “I told Tyler we’d meet up at Pins on Pico.”
“Omigod.” Janie fluttered her eyes shut, balling her hands into fists of prayer. “Charlotte’s house is right on the way. Can you please just drop her off?”
“Janie!” An appalled Charlotte squared her shoulders and rapidly approached the car, immaculate brown suede shoes a-clacking. “Did you just ask him to give me a ride? Don John’s picking me up in an hour.”
“I know, but . . .” Janie glanced between them both, scrambling for an explanation. “Mom’s really sick,” she confessed, focusing on Jake.
“She is?” both of them replied, briefly united by concern.
“It’s just a bad headache,” Janie amended, going for realism. “But, maybe it’s not the best time for guests. And I should probably stick around, you know, in case she needs something?”
Through the open car window, Jake and Charlotte locked eyes. Janie could tell Charlotte was waiting for her brother to make the first move, but he just sat there, brain-dead as always, while the stereo barfed a continual stream of testosterone.
“You know what,” Charlotte snipped, returning to Janie, “I think I should just . . . wait on the lawn, or something.”
“For an hour?” Janie fretted.
“I’ll be fine.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Jake. “I think I have a receipt or something I could read.”
“Okay, why are you guys being like this?” Janie clenched her fists, stamping her foot in frustration. “Charlotte.” She whirled to face her unlikeliest friend. “Did you not just tell me yesterday that Jake’s the only person who makes you laugh?”
Charlotte’s dainty jaw dropped in indignation, but rather than allow her the time to retaliate, Janie thrust an accusing finger at her brother. “And he cried into his cereal about you, so don’t even think he doesn’t realize how stupid he was.”
Charlotte closed her mouth and glanced at Jake, who gripped the steering wheel and stared at the horn, humiliated beyond belief.
“It’s the truth, Jake,” Janie barked. “You miss her. And Charlotte, you miss him. So why don’t you two just get over yourselves and be friends so I can stop being in the middle of this starting now. Charlotte?”
Charlotte blinked, fiddling the ends of her heart-printed neck scarf. “Yes?”
“Get in the car!”
Less than twenty seconds later, Janie sailed into the house, kicking the door shut behind her. She leaned against it, heart pounding in her chest, exhilarated by a sense of her own awesomeness. She couldn’t believe she’d just done that. She couldn’t believe it had actually worked! Without another peep of protest, Charlotte slid her annoyingly perfect butt into the cracked vinyl front seat, Jake politely lowered the music, and together they took off for the hills. Janie smiled, congratulating herself for a job well done.
But just as she traipsed toward her bedroom, eager to call Amelia and share her latest exploit, her mother pushed out of the laundry room, a bunched white towel in her hand, and blocked her cheerful path.
“Janie.” She frowned, pinching the white towel at either corner and shaking it out. “What is this?”
“Oh.” Janie hesitated, taking a small step backward. She bit her lower lip and cringed. “It’s a dress?”
“Did you use one of my best bath towels for this?” her mother asked, balling the dress into her hip. She shook her head in slow amazement as Janie stared at the floor, quiet.
“I can’t believe this. I just bought these bath towels, Janie. They’re brand new.”
“But I used them for something creative,” Janie whined, daring to meet her mother’s eyes. She’d once used her mother’s only Chanel lipstick to write “Janie” over and over on the bathroom mirror, and just the word “creativity” got her off the hook.
Well, that, and the fact that she’d been five.
“Janie.” Her mother tensed. “You think I’m upset because you did something creative? I’m upset because my daughter would do something like this without asking me first. It’s basic courtesy. They’re my best bath towels and they’re brand new.”
“Okay.” Janie reddened with frustration. “I get it! All this drama over a towel from Bed, Bath & Beyond, I mean.” A rueful little laugh escaped her lips. “Seriously!”
Mrs. Farrish took a small sip of air, but did not respond, choosing instead to look at her daughter with a dubious eye of an art dealer evaluating a painting for its authenticity. “Janie,” she exhaled at last. “Why didn’t you invite that girl inside?”
“Wh-what girl?” Janie stammered like an idiot.
“Janie . . .” Her mother had to smile, she was so damn exasperated. “I could see you outside my window.”
Janie folded her arms across her chest, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “I . . .”
“You know what?” Mrs. Farrish winced and briskly shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Mom . . .” Janie wavered, queasy with guilt. “It’s not that . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it!” she exploded, throwing the dress in a white heap on the floor. “I’m not a fool, and I refuse to stand here while you treat me like one.” She tipped
to the floor, retrieving the dress in a single swipe, and looked up, her eyes glassy with irony and disappointment.
“And not that it matters,” she concluded in a trembling tone, “but these towels are Ralph Lauren.”
The Girl (sort of): Don John
The Getup: Classic pique extra-small white polo by Lacoste, Ibiza plaid shorts by Juicy Couture, blue-and-white Linea Rossa boat shoes by Prada.
He pulled up to “Farrish manor,” sucking away on a See’s latte lollipop and singing along to his freshest, self-entitled mix, “Sunday Revolves Around Me!” What a joy it was — for the purring Jaguar and him both — to relieve the poor, abused stereo of that depressing French crap and put on something fabulous. He rolled down the window, pumped up the volume, and gyrated in his luxurious leather driver’s seat.
“Under my um-ber-ella . . . ella . . . ella . . . oh . . . uh-oh!” He straightened up in his seat, realizing he was not alone: there, just some ten feet away on the front lawn of Ashley Tisdale’s nose, a girl in a very retro bob sat alone, her face huddled into her knees, and her thin shoulders quaking in a way that suggested heightened distress. Don John cringed, waiting for it to go away.
“Ah, hello!” he called at last, rolling the window all the down. “Hello, there . . . crying girl on the lawn!”
Startled, she raised her tousled head and sniffed, her large gray eyes teary and pathetic. “Charlotte’s not here,” she announced, much to his surprise. This young urchin was the notorious Janie Farrish? Huh. A lot prettier than Charlotte ever let on. “She got a ride.” She cleared her throat, wiping her blotchy cheeks.
“Well, of course she did,” Don John clucked, spinning down the volume. “Girl’s never alone for long.” He returned to Janie, regarding her misery with a sudden, unwelcome wave of pity. He sighed. “She didn’t do this to you, did she?”
“No, no.” She attempted to smile, her pretty chin atremble. “I just have the worst life in the world, that’s all!”