The Good, the Fab and the Ugly

by Compai

  They were doomed.

  But then the door clapped shut, blocked the glare of sunlight, and revealed the figure’s identity. “I didn’t do it!” Nikki Pellegrini gasped as the plank slipped from her weakened grasp, crashing loudly to the floor. Two blue bottlecaps dislodged from the plank’s jagged edge, briefly wheeled across the brushed concrete floor, and collapsed together with tiny clatters. She remained oblivious. She simply fixed her careworn cornflower gaze on Melissa. “Venice set me up!” she explained, sinking to her knees. “It’s not my handwriting. I’m free!” Melissa, Janie, Petra, and Charlotte abandoned the podium and quickly crept forward, and the student body had swelled to near hysteria, nearly drowning the puny cries of Glen, vainly attempting to restore control. The members of POSEUR gathered around, following Nikki’s pointed finger to a corner of the trash collage.

  “I found it,” Nikki whimpered, squeezing out a little laugh. “I found the tag.”

  “There’s only one word for this,” Melissa gazed admiringly at the Dumpster artwork propped above the Greenes’ fireplace, which blocked a good portion of their gargantuan, pastel painted family portrait. Turning to face the other three girls, she solemnly clasped her hands. “Providence.”

  “Like Rhode Island?” Janie frowned, plopping into a corner of the white brocade sofa and sifting through a bowl of candy bars.

  “No,” Melissa scoffed in a how-is-this-not-obvious way. “As in the divine and all-knowing.”

  “Oh.” Janie tore into a mini Mounds bar. “Right.”

  “Seriously!” She shook her head in disbelief. “If Nikki hadn’t burst into the gym today, do you even know what would have happened?”

  “A nightmare?” Janie suggested.

  “You have no idea.” Melissa blew some air between her lips, gazing into middle-distance. “We would have been the laughing- stock, of, like, the entire fashion world.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatique,” Charlotte sighed, her customary confidence fully restored. She turned from the fireplace and smiled, extending her elegant ballet arms on either side of the mantel. “We would have been the laughingstock of Winston Prep, I admit. But that’s not the whole world.”

  “You think ’cause something starts with Winston, it stops at Winston?” Melissa rasped. “I hate to break it to you, but laughter spreads, okay? It’s like herpes.”

  “Well . . .” Charlotte bobbed her eyebrows. “Turns out Nikki’s the laughingstock, not us. I don’t see the point in brooding over what might have been.”

  Janie chewed sadly on her chocolate cube and swallowed. “Poor Nikki.”

  “I know.” Melissa frowned. “We should figure out some way to make it up to her.”

  “Make it up to her?” Charlotte scoffed, patting her piled-up curls into place. “Excusé-moi, but that girl deserves what she gets.”

  “Come on, Charlotte . . .” Petra turned around from the window facing the driveway. “So she kissed your ex-boyfriend. . . . Do you honestly think she deserves to be tortured by the entire school?”

  “Jake was equally if not more responsible for what happened,” Janie admitted on her brother’s behalf.

  “I second that,” Melissa agreed.

  “Okay, I think we’re forgetting why we’re here.” Charlotte abruptly changed the subject, sweeping her rose silk-tiered skirt behind her with an impatient jerk of her wrist. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on our magically disappearing bag?”

  “We already searched the whole house,” Janie sighed, ripping into a mini-Krackel. “We can relax for, like, a minute.”

  “For once, I agree with you,” Melissa sighed as she plopped down next to her on the couch and lifted the bowl into her lap. “Girl, you take the last Krackel?”

  “I just don’t get it,” a distracted Petra softly interrupted. She pressed her forehead to the glass, scanning the street for Lola and her sisters. “They said they’d be back by nine.”

  Melissa frowned, shaking her watch. “It’s 9:08.”

  “Sweetie” — Charlotte rested a cool hand on her shoulder — “they’re fine.”

  “I know.” Petra nodded. But she was worried. Within the last hour the spastic mobs of trick-or-treaters who’d dominated her street, filling the darkness with their sugary howls and candy-corn cries, appeared less and less. The last bunch to visit their door (a grass-stained princess, a tiny pirate, and their nanny, the Grim Reaper) had accepted their peanut-butter cups and gummy fangs more than twenty minutes ago. According to Lola’s note, which she’d left on the foyer side table, Mr. Greene was “staying late at the office” (i.e., with that woman), Mrs. Greene was “taking time off at the beach” (i.e., checking herself into the Promises rehab facility in Malibu), and Lola and the girls were “trick-or-treating until 9.” Meaning what? Petra couldn’t help but fret. How did she know “trick-or-treating,” like everything else on that stupid slip of paper, wasn’t a total and complete lie?

  “Trick or treat!” a chorus of familiar voices giggled at the front door, wrenching her from her thoughts. Petra exhaled, woozy with relief.

  “They’re back,” she announced, smiling to the room. According to a tradition she’d started, Isabel and Sofia always ended their night of trick-or-treating at their own house. Nabbing the candy bowl from Janie’s lap, Petra ran down the glacial hallway in her stocking feet, skidded to a stop, and flung the door open, stunned to discover not her two young sisters, but a portly middle-aged man in a sand-colored linen seersucker suit. His hair sat on his head in a thick white crest, like toothpaste, and his blue eyes twinkled.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he greeted her with a mildly British lisp, holding up a deeply tanned and beautifully manicured hand. His other hand he kept hidden, valet-like, behind his back. Janie, Melissa, and Charlotte crept into the foyer, joining Petra at her side, and he bobbed his gray eyebrows, smiling. “I come in peace,” he assured them.

  “A piece of what?” Melissa crumpled her forehead, eyeing the man with unapologetic suspicion.

  “I heard them.” Petra turned to her friends in a sudden panic. “Didn’t you hear them?”

  “You must be referring to the ever-enchanting Sofia and Isabel,” the man chuckled and, observing Petra’s rapidly paling complexion, hurried to explain. “They went through the back entrance with their nanny. Dear Isabella was quite insistent on this point.” He shielded the side of his mouth with his manicured hand, affecting a tone of confidence. “She seems to think you’ll all be très fâché.”

  “And why would we be angry?” Charlotte inquired, pleased to have so fluidly translated his French. The man nodded, clearly impressed.

  “I can assure you” — he held up one hand — “this is Isabel’s impression, not mine. My feeling is that you’ll be quite . . . pleased.”

  Dropping his hidden hand from behind his back, he revealed what he’d been hiding, presenting it to them with a gentle flourish.

  “The Trick-or-Treater!” Melissa yelped, beside herself. Jumping forward, she swiped the beloved couture bag from the mystery man’s grip, and cradled it in her arms. “Omigod,” she burbled and gasped. “My little baby. You’re more beautiful than I ever imagined!”

  Janie smiled at the man, resolving to check out the bag sometime later, once Melissa had had her fill. “Where’d you find it?” she asked, completely unflummoxed.

  “Well, I suppose you could say it found me!” The man chuckled, pressing his hands at his chin. “I live just a few blocks away, on Lexington and Crescent, and I was lucky to be visited by the bewigged Isabel and her candy-coated companion. You may imagine, after so many dreary pillowcases and perfectly depressing pumpkin buckets, my absolute delight upon espying her terrifically original little handbag.”

  “You mean she took it?” Melissa realized, turning to Janie and Charlotte in shock. Petra whipped around, just catching Isabel peeping from beneath the staircase. At the sight of her older sister, her shining black eyes widened with fright and she disappeared, quick as a ground squirrel.

/>   “Isabel!” Petra cried.

  “Now, before you get too upset,” the man interrupted, holding up his soft hands. “When I noticed the handbag — which I could see was far too sophisticated for a little girl — I couldn’t help but inquire: where did she find such a thing? And when she told me her sister designed it . . .”

  “Her sister?” Melissa scoffed, fuming to life. “Excuse me, but . . .”

  “Melissa,” Janie stopped her in a soothing tone of voice. “He just meant . . .”

  “We all designed it,” Charlotte explained as Melissa pressed the Trick-or-Treater to her breast like a fragile newborn. She rolled her chlorine-green eyes and shook her head. “Despite appearances to the contrary.”

  “Is that so? All of you?” The man beamed, and then quickly collected himself, assuming a more professional tone. “Young ladies, are your parents home?”

  “Not exactly.” Petra frowned, shaking her head. “But they should be back . . . um . . . sometime.”

  “I see.” The man nodded, thoughtfully remaining on the threshold. “Well, I’d prefer to talk this over with an adult, if you don’t mind. Would you be so kind as to present to your parents my card?”

  The girls watched with quiet fascination as he removed a platinum and olive green leather card case from his breast pocket, slipping free a gold embossed business card with his forefinger and thumb. Between these two fingers, the card flicked to attention, and he slowly lowered his seersucker-clad arm.

  “Thanks,” Melissa chirped, plucking the card from his fingers and tucking it into the folds of her black satin dress. Janie’s mouth dropped. She wasn’t even going to look?

  “Ladies . . .” The man clasped his hands and tipped into a little bow, presenting them his toothpaste head. “It was a pleasure.”

  They watched him amble his exit along the moonlit crescent drive, transfixed by the peculiar motion of shortish legs. He clasped his hands behind his somewhat rounded back, crunching the gravel under his brown and cream Ferragamo wingtips, and occasionally stopped to flex his feet. When at last the crunching stopped, Janie, Charlotte, and Petra faced Melissa, their faces collectively agog.

  “Okay,” Petra ventured, tilting her bewildered head. “Why didn’t you look at his card?”

  “Because,” Melissa defensively huffed. “I don’t want to act all giddy, like, hi! We’re completely inexperienced.”

  “But we are completely inexperienced,” Janie pointed out.

  “Yeah, but as far as he knows, we accept business cards every day, and his card?” She pursed her lips, and shrugged. “Just another one to add to the collection.”

  “Savvy.” Charlotte smirked, striking a match to the end of a slender, gold-tipped Gouloise.

  “Well, that’s the kind of impression we’ve got to make,” Melissa declared, reaching into her back pocket. “The impression that we are not impressed.”

  And then, tilting the card into the light, she released a sudden shriek, clapping her hand to her mouth.

  “What?” Charlotte leaned over, squinting beneath her knitted brow. Her just-lit cigarette dropped from her fingers. “No.”

  “Omigod.” Janie read the card and croaked, almost too excited to breathe. “Do you think it’s really him?”

  “Okay, who is it?” Petra snatched the card. “Ted Pelligan?” To her utter bewilderment, Janie, Charlotte, and Melissa clutched each other by the elbows and danced in a little circle, shrieking Holy Ice Water. “I don’t get it.” She frowned, lowering the card to her side. “Who’s Ted Pelligan?”

  “Petra. Ted Pelligan?” Charlotte’s dark pupils expanded in their glittering blue-green pools. “As in Welcome to Ted Pelligan?”

  “As in Ted Pelligan on Broadway?” Melissa added, clapping her hands.

  “Or Ted Pelligan on Melrose?” Janie offered in a semi-hysterical squeak.

  “Oh, I get it.” Petra winced. “This is, like, a store, right?”

  The three girls returned her understatement with individualized expressions of scandal: Janie gaped, Melissa gripped her head, and Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Pet.” Charlotte gripped her by the shoulders and swallowed. “I don’t think you understand. Everything I’m wearing, down to the underwear, is from Ted Pelligan.”

  “My shoes!” Melissa affirmed in a strangled voice, gesticulating to her silvery satin-clad feet. “My shoes!”

  “It’s a celebrity watering hole.” Charlotte remained calm. “Paparazzi are permanently installed. It’s like they’re light fixtures.”

  “It’s like” — Melissa recovered, and held up a hand, fluttering her eyes shut — “a totally important store.”

  “An institution.” Charlotte nodded.

  “I bought a cookie there once!” Janie informed them with a squeal.

  “Dudes,” Petra sighed at last, “we don’t know if this guy’s that Ted Pelligan. For all we know, he might just, like, go around handing out business cards as Ted Pelligan.”

  “Why would he do that?” Janie asked, her voice tiny with dismay.

  “I don’t know.” Petra shrugged. “To lure fashion-crazed teenage girls to his underground sex lair?”

  At that the three girls were traumatized into silence.

  “Ew,” Charlotte uttered at last.

  “But,” Janie sputtered, attempting to brighten the gloom, “he wanted to talk to a parent, remember? Why would he do that if he wasn’t legit?”

  “I can’t take this suspense,” Melissa groaned, swiping the air like a cat chasing yarn. “Which one of us has a rental on the rental? My dad’s in Tokyo, and if I don’t make this phone call now, I am seriously going to die.”

  “Well, I can’t help you,” Petra reminded her, shaking her tousled head.

  “My mother just left for New York,” Charlotte whimpered in despair. “She won’t be back for a week.”

  They turned their tragic, imploring eyes to Janie, their last hope, and clasped their hands to their chins. “Um . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “This Rolling Stones member is a graduate of the London School of Economics.” Alex Trebek faced the camera, directly addressing the three members of the Farrish family sprawled about the living room: Mrs. Farrish lying on the slip-covered couch, her bare foot propped on Mr. Farrish’s left leg, and Jake melted across the overstuffed sofa chair. He looked up from his homework and rolled his eyes.

  “Who is Mick Jagger?” he replied.

  “Who is Robert Plant?” the blonde onscreen cringingly inquired.

  “Robert Plant?!” Jake sputtered in indignation while his mother clucked her tongue, flipping through Vanity Fair.

  “Don’t yell,” she reprimanded, wriggling her foot. Her husband gave it an automatic squeeze.

  “But Robert Plant?!” Jake repeated, glancing from his mother to the screen. “Wrong band, you freakin’ moron!”

  “Don’t call the idiot a moron,” his father groused, getting to his feet. “Was that the doorbell?”

  “Trick-or-treaters?” Mrs. Farrish checked her watch. “At this hour?”

  Mr. Farrish swung the door open. “Jake,” he called over his shoulder, “your entourage is here.”

  Jake and his mother got to their feet as Charlotte, Melissa, Petra, and Janie shyly rustled through the door, all but filling the room with their voluminous skirts, dramatically coiffed hair, and sparkling jewels. Janie humbly separated from the flock, allowing her three friends to smilingly introduce themselves: “Hey, I’m Petra . . . Charlotte, so nice to . . . Moon, yeah like the . . . finally meet you!”

  From the corner, Jake saluted, his brown eyes resting on Charlotte. She smiled, hoping her Chantecaille “radiance” rouge concealed the more honest blush underneath. We’re just friends, she scolded herself. (If only her damn, treacherous cheeks felt the same way.)

  “Sorry, I forgot to call.” Janie glanced apologetically between her parents.

  “That’s okay, sweetie,” her father agreeably replied, blit
hely unaware of the tension between her and her mother. Janie glanced her way — she was chatting to Charlotte, smiling her friendly mom smile — and sighed. Now that her friends were actually here, it wasn’t half as bad (aka they weren’t half as judgmental) as she imagined. If only her mother would glance her way — give her a small sign she forgave her — but she wouldn’t. Mrs. Farrish pretty much ignored her daughter like a thing rotting in the back of the fridge.

  “So then” — Charlotte spread her tiny hands, drawing the focus of everyone present — “he handed Melissa his card.”

  “I didn’t even look at first,” Melissa proudly informed the room.

  “And apparently” — Charlotte paused for effect — “he’s Ted Pelligan.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Farrish bobbed her eyebrows, vaguely impressed. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “Or is it?” Petra drummed her fingertips together, releasing an evil laugh.

  “Petra has this theory he’s a pervert,” Charlotte explained, rolling her pretty pool-green eyes. She linked arms with Melissa and patted her hand. “But we prefer to think of him as an esteemed businessman.”

  “Well, chances are he’s both,” Mrs. Farrish wryly rejoined, glancing at her daughter. She smiled. “So you want me to call this guy, is that it?”

  Janie nodded. “Can you?”

  Her mother smiled. “Alright,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I need a phone.”

  In an instant, four compact phones appeared in eager, outstretched hands, ready for her disposal.

  “Okay,” she laughed, perusing her choices: a rhinestone encrusted Sidekick, a purple Nokia, an iPhone, and a somewhat scuffed black Samsung. “I think this one.” She accepted the Samsung, and smiled. Janie smiled back.

  She’d chosen her phone.

  Wedging into the corner of the slipcovered sofa, Mrs. Farrish smoothed the business card on her knee, squinted, and dialed. The four girls gathered around, cuticles between their teeth, anxious eyes fixed to her every move. She leaned back in her seat, looked up, and smiled.