by Compai
“I know, Iz . . . ,” Petra sighed. “But you have to wear the uniform. You know that.”
“But YOU don’t,” Isabel pointed out, her face puffing at the injustice.
“You’re right. That doesn’t seem very fair, does it?” Sofia and Isabel shook their heads. “Okay,” Petra frowned. “Let me put on my thinking cap.” She reached for her oversized sunflower print coffee mug and placed it on top of her head. Sofia giggled while Isabel sniffed, wiping her nose. Petra closed her eyes, as if to summon the thinking cap gods.
“I’ve got it,” she announced, and swiftly removed the coffee mug.
“What?” Isabel asked.
“ I’ll wear a uniform to school too,” Petra explained. “Except I don’t have one, so you guys will have to make it for me, okay? You can pick out whatever you want. And I won’t argue and I won’t scream and I won’t cry because . . .” She paused for effect. “It’s my uniform. And I’ve got to wear it.”
“We can pick out whatever we want?” Isabel’s eyes widened.
“That’s right.”
An expression of pure delight broke across her six-year-old sister’s face. “Come on!” she ordered, pulling Petra by the hand. “We have to get you dressed now or you’ll be late for school!”
Janie and Jake shared custody of their mom’s old Volvo, a black 240 DL sedan. The car, like the Farrish twins, was born sixteen years earlier, which meant technically they were all the same age. However, as Jake explained to his parents on the eve of his and Janie’s birthday last year, one human year is actually the equivalent of seven for a Volvo.
“Like a dog,” Janie had chimed in.
“Exactly.” Jake lay a supportive hand on his sister’s shoulder. “According to my calculations, you’re about to bequeath to us a one-hundred-twelve-year-old mode of transportation.”
“I mean, is that safe?” Janie continued. Her brother tilted his head and pressed his lips together as if to say I’m not so sure.
They knew it was a long shot, but maybe their parents would do something cool. Like enable their loving children to arrive at Winston in style. For once.
“Like a cute new MINI Cooper?” Janie suggested.
“No!” Jake blurted, shooting her the Death Glare. “What she meant to say,” he corrected, returning a modified gaze to their parents, “was a Mercedes CLS 600.”
“I’ll look into it,” Mrs. Farrish replied. But, of course, she didn’t. Neither of them did.
Their parents were actually kind of selfish, when you thought about it.
The commute to Winston took twenty to thirty-five minutes, depending on traffic. The first five minutes belonged to Ventura Boulevard, the San Fernando Valley’s main drag. Jake sped down the wide, four-lane street, and Janie watched the slender trunks of palm trees whip by. The early morning sky was the gray of wet cement, and the streetlights were still on. The twins passed by DuPar’s Coffee Shop — where Valley kids gather on weekend nights — and stopped at Laurel Canyon Boulevard. To their right, in front of the Wells Fargo bank with the mosaic tile mural of “The Old West,” a bunch of people protested the war. To their left, in front of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a bunch of people protested the protesters.
Janie looked out the window and sighed. If only they could take a right, she thought. They could get on the 101 South and head over to the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts that Amelia attended. In eighth grade, Janie and she made plans to apply to L.A.C.H.S.A. together. Amelia would apply for music, Janie would apply for visual arts, and together they would start new lives as Tortured Artists. But then Janie and Jake were awarded academic scholarships to Winston Prep, the impossibly exclusive private school in the Hollywood Hills. Winston was an oppor-tunity she could not — according to her education-obsessed parents — turn down. And so Janie and Amelia, who’d gone to the same schools since second grade, went their separate ways. Amelia took a right where Janie took a left. While Amelia got to be the Tortured Artist, Janie just got to be tortured.
As they pulled into Laurel Canyon, Janie faced ahead. As usual, their Volvo was last in an endless line of cars coursing uphill like the interlocked teeth of a shiny new zipper. Every time Jake eased on the brakes, the black Volvo released a low, moaning noise like a dying whale. After three dead whales, Janie flipped on the radio. In a matter of seconds, the noise was replaced with “I Will Remember You,” by Sarah McLachlan, which was, in their humble opinion, a trillion times worse.
“I will remember poooop . . . ,” Janie crooned.
“Will you remember peeee . . . ?” Jake crooned back.
Jake slid in the new Franz Ferdinand CD, ending their sophisticated duet. Janie loved Franz Ferdinand. The driving beat made her want to spin around and dance and cheer, but the lyrics made her want to lie down, stare at the ceiling, and cry. Maybe because their music pulled her heart in opposite directions, Franz Ferdinand reminded her of Paul Elliot Miller.
Oh, Paul. Would she ever see him again?
The Volvo continued to wheeze up the hill, passing the dramatic ruins of a house that collapsed in the mudslides the year before. Janie thought it looked cool — all those huge slabs of broken concrete, crumbling plaster and shattered glass in the grass. Like a modern art sculpture, she thought. Unfortunately, Jake thought the same thing:
“Ah yes,” he announced. “My pièce de résistance.”
When they reached the top of the hill, Jake turned right, taking the car down Mulholland. Janie leaned back into the cracked, tan vinyl seat, remembering the lyrics to that old R.E.M. song her parents liked: “If I ever want to fly . . . Mulholland Drive . . . I am alive.”
Michael Stipe could feel alive all he wanted. Janie, on the other hand, felt something else. She felt, suddenly, inescapably, on her way to Winston Prep — the exact opposite of alive. Janie pulled at the hem of her miniskirt, letting it sink in for the first time. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t nervous. She was fine.
But then her brother took a sharp left. Were they really on Coldwater Canyon already? The Volvo sailed across a dip in the road, and Janie gripped the sides of her seat. She was going to be sick.
“Wait,” she squawked.
“What?” Jake replied, still staring straight ahead.
“We need to go home.”
“What?” He scrunched his forehead. “Why?”
Wasn’t it obvious? She was Clashing! With a capital C.
Clashing with a capital C is different than clashing with a lowercase c. Lowercase c clashing is, like, wearing gold earrings with a silver necklace. Or leopard print with zebra print. Or black pants with navy blue socks. At the end of the day, lowercase c clashing is just sort of ugly. And just sort of ugly isn’t the end of the world.
Clashing with a capital C, on the other hand, is. Because Clashing with a capital C is when what you’re wearing doesn’t match your entire life: Laura Bush in a string bikini, Marilyn Manson in yoga pants, 50 Cent with a parasol.
Janie Farrish in a bright green micro-mini.
Her early morning rush of confidence vanished like a hallucination. Why oh why had she decided to wear this skirt? What had she been thinking? Even if she did have nice legs, micro miniskirts were the uniform of attractive people, not her! Janie stared down at her upper thighs in horror. She looked like a complete and utter poseur.
She turned to her brother with pleading eyes. Please, God. Pleasepleaseplease make him understand.
“I,” she began. She was calm. She was rational. “I kinda just realized . . . I can’t wear this.”
“What?”
“I need to go home and change.”
Jake looked closely at his sister, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. Janie exhaled, basking in her brother’s sympathy. He could be really great when he wanted to be.
Then he burst into laughter.
“Jake!” She pushed his shoulder. “I’m not joking!”
“I know,” he continued to laugh. “That’s what makes it so funny.”
&n
bsp; Janie watched in horror as Winston Assembly Hall came into view, peeking through the branches of the school’s trademark weeping willows. Winston Prep was comprised of one large U-shaped stucco building and some small neighboring bungalows. The main structure used to be an apartment complex, and not just any apartment complex, but an old-school 1930s Hollywood Spanish-style complex. The central quad featured terracotta tiles and stucco walls. Staircases spiraled down from classroom doors. There were wrought-iron banisters, multitiered fountains, and classical archways. From a distance, the school looked like a gigantic, peach-colored wedding cake. Up close, it looked like a Mexican prison.
At least it did to Janie.
Jake put on his blinker. Janie’s heart jumped up, somersaulted, smacked itself unconscious, and splashed into the icy pool that was her stomach.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Parking,” Jake replied, shifting the clutch.
“You’re parking in the Showroom?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” Jake responded, as if that made perfect sense. As if they hadn’t always parked underground. Janie felt a little woozy. She’d always been a little scared of heights, and the Showroom was her highest peak yet. Even if it was, technically, ground level.
The Showroom was Winston’s crowning glory (in addition to their stellar academic reputation, of course). It featured cars most people only dream about. These were drive-into-the-sunset cars. Speeding-through-the-Alps cars. Escaping-in-a-hail-of-gunfire cars. Seriously. Most kids at Winston were so rich, cars were just another accessory, as accessible (and in some cases, disposable) as gummy bracelets. From BMW to Mercedes, Porsche to Ferrari, Hummer to Prius — no brand went unrepresented, no engine went un-revved.
The Showroom was called the Showroom because it was the only level of school parking located outside. Which meant your car was on display. And if your car was on display, then you were too. Which probably meant you liked to be looked at. More importantly, people liked to look at you, which could only mean one thing. You were popular.
Popularity at Winston was easy to spot. There were obvious clues, like beauty, confidence, and style. And then more subtle ones. Par example, popular girls tend to attach their keys to purple squiggle bracelets. And they almost always have small, white wads of gum between their perfect, smiling teeth. And they call each other chica, bitch, and slut — and then they hug, squealing like they’ve won some kind of award.
Which, in a way, they have.
Popular guys were easier. Popular guys were just guys popular girls happen to like.
There were exceptions, of course. Some kids were popular because they were impossibly talented. Or impossibly funny. Or impossibly cool.
But not impossibly dumb, Janie thought as her brother pulled into one of the coveted Showroom spots. She sank deep into her seat, willing herself to disappear. He couldn’t possibly mean to park here for real, right? Jake turned the engine off, unbuckling his seat belt. He’s worse than impossibly dumb, she realized as he opened the door. He’s clinically insane. Janie watched in stunned disbelief as Jake got out of the car. Of course, stunned disbelief was nothing compared to the spine-numbing paralysis she felt next. When he lifted his hand and waved. And Charlotte Beverwil, leaning on the hood of her mint condition 1969 cream-colored Jaguar, waved back. And smiled.
That’s when she realized: her brother wasn’t dumb. He wasn’t insane.
Somehow, when Janie wasn’t looking, Jake had become popular.
The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil
The Getup: Silk Blumarine dress with grapevine pattern, yellow Marni headband, plum-colored Marc Jacobs knit leggings, black patent-leather Chanel flats
With her winter cream skin, unruly espresso-dark hair and almond shaped pool green eyes, Charlotte Sidonie Beverwil most closely resembled the “Tiffany” supermodel Shalom Harlow. Except while Shalom Harlow measured in at six feet, Charlotte stood a full foot shorter. Fortunately Charlotte had long legs that, she argued, gave her the “illusion of height.” It was true, in a way. She did seem a lot taller than she was. But it had nothing to do with her legs. She looked a lot taller than she was because she said she looked a lot taller than she was.
And you didn’t argue with Charlotte Beverwil.
For the first day of school, she chose a feminine dress to wear over knit leggings and ballet flats. She hoped the dress, which she’d embroidered with an intricate pattern of interlocking grapevines, would remind Jake of their summer together. Jake and Charlotte had gone to school together for over a year, but they hadn’t really met — that is Charlotte hadn’t cared to meet — until that August.
Charlotte was supposed to have spent the entire month of August in Bruges, a quaint little port town in Belgium. There, amid crumbling buildings and murky canals, she would perfect her sewing in an exclusive embroidery class taught by Belgian nuns. But after just four days of pinpricked fingers and a nine o’clock curfew, Charlotte couldn’t take it anymore. She called her dad and — after a thirty-minute begathon — arranged her escape. She laughed every time she remembered the nuns rushing outside as Daddy’s Augusta 109 luxury helicopter descended upon the roof of a neighboring brewery. The whirring blades whipped the pristine garden into a frenzy — uprooted their precious petunias, exploded their prim white roses. As Charlotte ran toward the aircraft, the blizzard of petals whirled like confetti, toasting her newfound freedom. The nuns stood by and watched in shock, clutching their habits and their hearts.
As the Augusta lifted into the air, Charlotte sank into one of the supple leather chairs and sucked sweetly on a Bloody Mary. She was on her way to Northern California, Napa Valley to be exact, where her father was starring, directing, and producing the film adaptation of Dead on the Vine, the Pulitzer Prize–winning Depression epic by the famous recluse author Benjamin Nugent. Everyone said it was “unadaptable.” Daddy was out to prove them wrong.
When she arrived, her father took her on a brief tour of the vineyard, kissed her on the forehead, and told her to “stay in trouble.” After dabbing the kiss off her forehead with a Bioré wipe, Charlotte took a moment to look around. The vineyard surrounded a beautiful ranch house with a wraparound porch and a hammock. She instantly declared the hammock her spot, perching inside like a dainty spider in her web. (No wonder the cute production assistants hovered around like gnats.) Hundreds of scenery actors, called extras, dotted the hills like cattle. They were there to mime the harvest. While the extras practiced looking starved and dejected, prop guys went around with clusters of phony grapes, hanging them from the vines. Charlotte let her hand drop from the edge of the hammock to the Spanish tile floor. If only it really was 1931. How romantic would that be? Sure, a lot of people were poor — but not movie stars. People always went to the movies, no matter how hard things got. Charlotte nestled into her web and sighed. The Beverwils would have been just fine.
“Yo.”
Charlotte fluttered her green eyes open and frowned, annoyed. Who said “yo” in 1931?
“Would you, um . . . like an ice-blended cappuccino?” A dark-haired guy around her age extended a trayful of Dixie cup–sized beverages and cleared his throat. She frowned again. As far as historical accuracy, “ice-blended” was almost as bad as “yo.”
“Thanks.” Charlotte nodded, accepting the offer. Historical accuracy be damned. She loved ice-blendeds even more than she loved the Depression. She took a long sip and — maybe it was the caffeine — it instantly hit her.
Cappuccino Boy was remarkably handsome.
“I’m Charlotte.” She extended her tiny hand.
“I know.” Cappuccino Boy grinned, slapping her hand high-five style. “We go to the same school?”
“What?” Charlotte squinted into the sun. “Oh my god, Jake Farrish?”
He smiled — and why wouldn’t he? Charlotte Beverwil knew his name.
“Yo,” he said again.
“You look . . . ,” she began, struggling to sit up. But her hand slipped through the netti
ng and hit the floor. Charlotte started to slide. She was not a natural klutz, but she knew when to pretend otherwise. As the hammock threatened to flip, she let out a little gasp. Jake put down his tray and rushed to assist her.
Just as she knew he would.
“There.” He righted the hammock and held Charlotte’s hand as she stepped to the floor. She leaned into him in an effort to steady herself. As she looked up into his dark chocolate eyes, her heart surged toward her throat.
“You look . . . ,” she began again.
Jake shrugged, endlessly proud of himself. “I kinda grew this summer.”
But it wasn’t only that. His face, which used to look like a bad case of diaper rash, was perfect — smooth and luminous and slightly flushed at the cheeks. And his hair. Last year, he went around with a shamelessly long and ratty ponytail. But now his brownish-black locks were cut short and cutely mussed. No doubt about it. Jake Farrish had gone from metal head to drop dead. As in gorgeous.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, fingering the delicate chain around her neck.
“I’m helping my dad. He’s in craft service.”
“Oh?” Craft service is basically catering for the movie industry, which meant Jake’s dad spent his days preparing mass quantities of coffee, BBQ chicken breasts, and pinwheel veggie platters. “What do you do there?”
“Slave to the blender, baby,” he smirked. “Iced mochas, iced cappuccinos, iced nonfat sugar-free vanilla cappa-schnappa-rhinos. . . .”
“Margaritas?” she asked.
Jake grinned. “Those too.”
So Charlotte followed him to the opposite end of the set, where the craft service truck was parked. She sat on the edge of the tailgate, kicking her feet like a five-year-old while Jake crushed ice by the sandwich bar. When it comes down to it, movie sets operate under the same hierarchy as the Titanic: first class, second class, craft service. Charlotte flushed with excitement. This meant she was like Kate Winslet’s character, Rose, and Jake was like Leonardo’s Jack! Plus romantique et tu meurs!