Petty in Pink

by Compai

  Her father had this habit: right before he gave her what he wanted, he winked his left eye. Melissa could see it happening, but—just as his left cheek began cinching into its corresponding eyelid—Vivien landed her hand on his knee.

  “No,” she said, grinding the wink to a halt, and punctuated her coup with a pert toss of her spiraling, waist-length jet-black extensions. A resulting whoosh of Frédéric Fekkai Sheer Hold hair-spray hovered in the air, hypnotizing her fiancé. “This party is an intimate affair,” she continued, giving his knee a squeeze. “Between our family and closest friends.”

  “Wait—what?” Melissa began to panic. Her father was puckering his mouth in that she-has-a-good-point way, which was completely not okay. “We invited over five hundred people,” she reminded him, returning to Vivien in a flash. “And don’t even try to tell me Tila Tequila counts as a ‘close friend.’ ”

  “Tila Tequila,” Vivien ruffled in retort, “and I are very close friends. We go back to Ho Bag’s Beverly Center Grand Opening. Of course she deserves an invitation!”

  “Daddy,” Melissa trembled in a valiant attempt to repress her mounting rage. Even the words “Ho Bag” pummeled her patience like a one-two punch. “Don’t you see what’s happening? The only reason she doesn’t want me to hold the celebriteaser at the Pink Party is because she doesn’t want Poseur to take attention away from Ho Bag.”

  “Is that true?” Seedy faced his fiancée with concern.

  “Of course not!” Vivien gasped, pressing her hand to her heart. “How can you even ask me that?”

  “Vee,” he apologized, reaching for her gold-bangled arm. “You know, I…”

  “Listen.” She turned to address Melissa directly, her violet eyes growing glassy. “You are the daughter of the love of my life. And I am proud of your accomplishments. All I’m asking is for one night. For you, me, and your dad to put career stuff aside and take the time to honor what’s important.”

  Melissa frowned at the floor, tracing the outline of a polished slate tile with the metallic toe of her shoe. The sincerity in Vivien’s tone had her totally buggin’. It couldn’t be Vivien’s feelings were actually hurt, could it?

  It couldn’t be Vivien had actual feelings?

  “This is a celebration of our love,” Seedy’s fiancée continued, hand still on her heart. “And—I know you don’t believe me, but—you are so part of that love, Melissa. Don’t you know that?”

  Melissa set her jaw and refused to look up, tracing and retracing the slate tile with her toe. She knew what she must look like. Like a spoiled brat. But she wasn’t.

  Was she?

  “Well,” Seedy breathed, patting his emotional fiancée on her silk-draped back. “Friends-and-family-only sure as heck gets my vote.”

  “But…” His daughter looked up and gaped.

  “No celebriteasers,” he reprimanded sternly. “That’s final.”

  In the great haystack of unfairness, her father’s I’m-so-disappointed-in-you tone was the last and final straw. Melissa exploded into tears, jerked her stool back, and bolted from the room. “Fine!” she cried from down the spacious hall, slamming the heavy oak door. A framed photograph of her father and Snoop Dogg at the Grammys quaked on the wall and crashed loudly to the floor, fracturing in three places. Melissa crouched to her knees, tearfully picking up the pieces. I really am a spoiled brat, she realized. A bad seed. The reason things suck. In the words of Alec Baldwin: a thoughtless little pig.

  In comparison to me, she grew nauseous with shame, Vivien’s probably a saint.

  The Guy: Evan Beverwil

  The Getup: Tokyo tan Quiksilver Oxford Weekend pants, black My Morning Jacket Evil Urges Owl tee, black Havaiana flip-flops, tattoo: to be determined

  The summer before freshman year his mom called him into the kitchen where she was sitting at the table with her interior designer (the supremely doable Heidi Meister) and was, like, “Evan, we’re redecorating your room.” At first he was all, I like my room the way it is, but then Heidi smiled, reached across the table—she was wearing this super tight white V-neck so he could see the outline of her bra—and said, “Evan, sweetheart. I one-hundred-percent promise to work only within the bounds of your personal ass static.”

  He must have misheard though, ’cause his mom just sat there calmly tying her hair into a bun, which he pretty much figured she would not be doing if Heidi had just said what he’d thought she’d said. Still, it was pretty deadly: Heidi’s t-shirt + Heidi’s killer Southern accent + the whole idea of “ass static” = sending his system into total overdrive. “Do whatever you want,” he’d practically shouted, and got the hell out of there.

  Well, for a solid three years he’d regretted that decision, and never more deeply than right now. Charlotte had just come home from that business meeting thing of hers, and judging by the high-pitched frequency of girl noise downstairs, she wasn’t alone. Under normal circumstances, he’d grimace in pain, retreating into his room to blast some Tom Petty—purify his ears. This time, however, he turned the music down, cracked his door open, and cautiously leaned into the hall.

  “What about when he was like, oh, yeah, Madonna!” A girl’s voice gaspingly squeaked, trying to get the words out. “That bustier… was so… mine!”

  She and his sister dissolved into laughter, and Evan swiftly closed his bedroom door, leaning against it. There was no mistaking that voice.

  Janie Farrish was in his house.

  Not to say she’d never been inside his house before. There was that one time when school just started and Charlotte was like, “Distract her,” for whatever reason. Of course, he’d only been too happy to oblige, tromping downstairs in his bare feet, big grin on his face, all ready to get his game on, or whatever. What a douche, he cringed at the memory. Talking to cute girls might be his forte, but “beating fortes into fairy dust”—that was Janie’s. Because she was more than just cute, you know? She was smart, and cool, and funny, and… man.

  She was pretty effin’ cute.

  But she barely even looked at him, let alone talked to him. Not to say there hadn’t been hints of progress. Like, that one night at the La Brea Tar Pits when she was all, “In second grade the tour guide told me the elephant statue was real,” and he was all, “I had nightmares about that elephant,” and she was all, “Me too!” and they laughed. That was cool. Or the time she spilled her drawings and he helped pick them up and she thanked him with those moody gray ocean eyes of hers. Man. That was awesome. But they were always just moments, you know? And then she’d get this look on her face—like his buddy Theo when he ate something and was all, “Dude, are there peanuts in this?!” and fisted his tongue with a napkin because he was allergic. Yeah. That was her expression. She’d be, like, Bye, and hightail it out of there, wherever “there” happened to be, which was to say, wherever he happened to be, which was to say, wherever she didn’t want to be.

  It wasn’t his style to get into details, but for the sake of argument: how epically shiteous was their last interaction? For some tard-tastic reason, he actually thought she’d be down to design his tattoo—and maybe they’d get to know each other. But no. As usual, she’d been all blah about it. Like the way she kept drifting in and out of conversation, checking herself out in his car window. It was like, come on. He’d been this close to grabbing her by the shoulders, like, “Listen. You are as drop-dead gorgeous now as you were two seconds ago. Could you please just focus before I lose my shit?”

  The thing was—and he guessed this was pretty messed up, but—the whole “getting rejected” thing? It was kind of addicting. For as long as he could remember, girls had been pretty, you know… available. The phrase “shooting fish in a barrel” came to mind, but no—even that involved a little effort. All he had to do was, like, walk up to the barrel. Maybe look inside. After that, the fish kind of just died. Like, of their own free will. And these were quality fish too. Like models, and shit.

  So why did Janie hate him so hard? Another eruption o
f girl noise, followed by a percussive round of encroaching footsteps, cued him to back step into his room and swiftly close the door. A few seconds later, the footsteps floated past his door, headed down the hall. His sister’s bedroom door creaked open, and Janie said, “You really think so?” Then the door swung back, clicked shut, and it was quiet. He sighed.

  Why did the hate make her so hot?

  But no, he would not talk to her. The time had come to end this humiliation parade. He scanned his room for some kind of diversion: the half-finished take-home Algebra II quiz on his desk, the MacBook on the shelf above his desk, the Pineapple Express DVD on the floor by his desk. Wait. Combine those last two things with a certain something inside his desk?

  He had a pretty decent excuse for the next two hours.

  Crouching to his weathered boardwalk-style hardwood floor, he shimmied his bottom desk drawer open, pushed aside a rumpled black sweatshirt, and curved his fingers around a familiar, cool column of glass.

  To choosing your addictions, he thought, and raised the bong into the air.

  The Girl (sort of): Don John

  The Getup: White Dolce & Gabbana Magic-Fit pants, Dirty English by Juicy Couture black-and-white argyle sweater vest, Penguin Secret Utopia Mopia shirt, white Converse by John Varvatos, black Gucci messenger bag, and organic pearl quinoa, “Soul Food of the Andes,” by Alter Eco

  “That’s it!” Charlotte’s pot-bellied but perky neighbor, fashion adviser, and self-described “kindred spirit” burst into her spacious bedroom. An ornate scarlet Chinese fan fluttered under his baby-smooth, foundation-slathered chin, the only splash of color in an otherwise black-and-white ensemble: white pants, gray-and-white abstract-print shirt, a black-and-white cashmere argyle vest, pearl white knotted silk neck scarf, and the pièce de résistance, a white Juicy Couture glimmer wool newsboy cap. “I am in a category five tizzy,” he panted. “This tizzy cannot be tamed.”

  “Pourquoi?” Charlotte looked up from the Ted Pelligan Christmas catalog she and Janie had been perusing on her sun-dappled four-poster mahogany bed, and Janie watched on, mystified. Was it normal for bug-eyed, unabashedly bronzered boys to burst at random into her bedroom? “What happened?” Charlotte twinkled merrily, widening her thickly lashed chlorine eyes.

  With a jerk of his wrist, the butterfly-bright fan clapped together.

  “Morticia happened,” he breathed, referring, of course, to Mort, the ancient wheelchair-bound retired Hollywood producer to whom, in exchange for luxury guesthouse living and twenty-four-hour pool access, he’d sold his tender bohemian soul. As a small act of rebellion, Don John referred to his master only by nickname—assigning one to each of his myriad moods: Mort-hog for his emotional-eating days, Morgie-Porgie for his crybaby days, Mortata for his sassy days, Auntie M for his gassy days, Moriah for his diva days, and, lastly, Morticia… for his out-to-obliterate-what-remaining-shreds-of-sanity-Don-John-has-left days.

  “Oh no…” Charlotte observed her flustered friend from under a delicate, knitted brow. “Is he making you work for a living?”

  Don John slid his black aviator sunglasses to the tip of his nose and squinted. “Dawn,” he barked in what Janie guessed was a notso-good imitation of Mort’s Long Island accent. “Where the hell is my remote?! Wait-ta-minute. Is the heat on? How many times do I have to tell you, NO HEAT. I need some of that tea, what-tis-it, you know what I mean—the digestion kind! Wait-ta-minute… I can’t feel the left side of my face. Dawn? Dawn! DAWN!!!” The nineteen-year-old aspiring actor collapsed into Charlotte’s pale green velvet chaise longue and flailed a doughy yet tan arm behind him. “Gaahahahah!” He quietly affected a sob. “I thought he’d never stop!”

  As Charlotte slid off the frothy yellow and mint meringue four-poster bed, Janie tucked her foot under her butt and smiled. If Charlotte or Don John happened to glance her way, she’d want to look relaxed, amused, and, well, included—which is to say, the opposite of how she felt (which is to say, ignored).

  “Poor Don John.” Charlotte oozed, gazing into the oval gilded mirror above her flickering fireplace. She curved her delicate arms into a lazy arabesque, teasing a lacquered black pin from her all-business bun. “You’re here now,” she reminded him, ringingly dropping the pin into the shallow rectangular porcelain dish on the marble mantel. “Can’t you put it behind you?”

  “There is only so much I can put behind me.” He sassed a finger to his starched lapel. “I’m not Kim Kardashian.”

  From her bed-corner perch, Janie snorted a laugh.

  “Don John,” Charlotte continued to pout into the large mirror, loosening her dark, shining tresses under her hand. As they tumbled freely down her perfectly vertical back, Janie blushed. The only thing worse than being ignored, she decided, is laughing and being ignored. “Aren’t you going to ask about my meeting?”

  “Duh, I was just gonna!” clucked the young fop. He planted his elbows on his crossed knees, clasped his manicured hands under his chin, and tilted toward her, rapt with interest. “Okay,” he ventured. “On a scale of Gap to Gucci—how did it go?”

  With a dainty demi-détourné, Charlotte disengaged from the mirror and presented her beaming face. “Givenchy!”

  “Not Givenchy!” He gasped to his feet, plunged a hand into his black Gucci canvas messenger bag, and tossed a fistful of gleaming pale pellets into the air. “You broke the scale, you greedy sow!”

  “Ow!” Charlotte winced as the bone-colored granules hailed down around her head, bounced on her shoulders, and caught in the strands of her hair. “Tell me you did not just throw rice at my face.”

  “Of course not,” scoffed Don John, rolling his bulging blue eyes. “I threw quinoa, which is much higher in protein.” He collapsed across the bed, jostling the mattress, and Janie clutched a bedpost, hanging on to her seat. “I knew this day would come,” he moaned, burying his face in the voluminous silk bedclothes. “You’re off to your big fabulous future as a fashion designer, while I stay behind, waving my Hermès and/or Lanvin handkerchief at the dock… just a person you once knew.…”

  “Oh, Juanita, no…” Charlotte joined him on the bed, smoothing his stormy, highlighted head. Janie slipped off the bed completely, preferring the less crowded floor.

  “Who is that mysterious figure in black, they’ll whisper,” Don John continued his scenario, refusing to be soothed. “Miserable town gossips!” he wailed. “Why can’t you leave me alone?!”

  “Um, you guys?” Janie interrupted. They glanced her way, twin masks of bewilderment, seemingly amazed to see her there at all. “I’m going to…”

  “No!” Charlotte cried, noticing her hand on the wrought-iron door handle. Don John sat up and gaped in dismay.

  “You’re going?”

  “No, I just need to make a phone call,” Janie explained, relishing their concern. That they cared whether she left or stayed! It suddenly felt like the highest form of flattery.

  “Well, hurry back!” Charlotte chimed, cuing Don John to reswoon across the bed. Janie smiled as the door swung behind her, blocking her view. Not to say she didn’t enjoy theater, but when it came to Don John: A Tragedy in Infinite Acts? Let’s just say she preferred to wait in the lobby.

  She headed down the hall, ignoring the immaculate Capri Coast–colored walls (not to mention the series of tastefully framed black-and-white portraits of a seminude and fully preggers Georgina Beverwil) in favor of finding her navy Samsung cell, which she unearthed from her disorganized crocheted hobo shoulder bag. Four missed texts! She smiled, eagerly scrolling down the screen.

  From: Amelia

  How did it go?!?!!!!

  Fri, 5:58 pm

  From: Amelia

  Btw: Paul says he a VEGAN now!!!! Hahahahahahah!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!LMAOomg.

  Fri, 6:05 pm

  From: Mom

  Dinner at Charlotte’s fine.

  Jake will pick up. Call when ready.

  Fri, 6:11 pm

  From: Amelia

  Just told him his boo
ts are made of dead cow he took them off!!!! his feet smel so bad!!!!!! worse than rotting dead cowbutt disgusting!!!!

  Fri, 6:39 pm

  Janie half-smiled, half-frowned, scrolling up to Amelia’s second text. Paul Elliot Miller, a vegan? Really? But he, like, subsisted on the spicy-style hot dogs from Carney’s. The only vegetable she’d ever seen him eat was, like, relish (ketchup he considered a fruit). And he wore a pin that said “Flesh Eaters.” Then again, she mused, punching SEND and lifting the phone to her ear, that’s typical Paul. The boy could do nothing unless it was to the absolute extreme.

  “Oh…” A male voice filled her ear, and she sipped a breath, glancing to the end of the hall.

  Evan Beverwil, in all his board-shorted glory, had just finished mounting the stairs.

  “Janie?” burbled a second, excited voice.

  “Hey!” She clapped the phone shut and greeted Evan with a strained smile. Great. She dropped her phone into her bag and privately condemned herself. Hanging up on your best friend equals awesome.

  Evan studied the floor and headed toward her, forking his fingers into his thickly tousled gold-flecked hair. Janie focused on the frosty glass of ice in his hand, his softly slapping flip-flops, but then there he was—right there—and she no longer knew where to look. He was too tall, too gorgeous, too terrifying—like a tree that had suddenly pushed up through the floor and shattered the roof, cracking all the walls. It took all her remaining willpower to look up. As their eyes met, he swayed an inch closer, almost daring her to step back. She couldn’t move. His eyes were too startling, too blue—like sky through a tangle of branches.

  “You’re um…,” he confessed in a low, apologetic voice, glancing toward his left hand, which, she now noticed, gripped a doorknob. “You’re kind of blocking the door.”