Poseur

by Compai

  “Uh . . .” For the life of her, Janie could not remember.

  “Hey,” Amelia grabbed the phone back. “It’s me.”

  “OhmygodIhateyou!” Janie exhaled, covering her eyes with her free hand.

  “Whatev,” Amelia replied. Janie practically heard her roll her eyes. “That was to remind you. Life outside of Winston. It exists!”

  “What a relief.” Janie scowled.

  “You can do one of two things right now,” Amelia continued. “You can remain in the vehicle like a good law-abiding elephant. Or you can take a risk. You can walk across the Showroom like you own it. Which you will because you have changed. In the words of William H. Shakespeare — all the world’s a runway, and it’s about time you, Janie Mae Farrish, took your part and freakin’ played it! Yeah! Are you with me?!”

  “Okay. That seriously grossed me out,” Janie replied.

  “Tell me you’ll walk across the Showroom like you own it!”

  “Fine.”

  “Like you mean it!”

  “Fine. Yay! I own it!”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  Janie smiled. As deeply annoying as Bring-It-On Kirsten was, she kind of did the trick. Janie hung up the phone with a strange feeling. And the feeling propelled her fingers to the door, her feet to the ground, and all five feet ten inches of her out of the black Volvo and into the world. She looked around: the leaves drenched in sun, the cars smooth as glaciers, the banners — WELCOME BACK FALCONS! — bobbing blue balloons, glinting green glitter.

  She felt positive.

  It sort of made her want to gag.

  It also made her shut the door behind her.

  The Girl: Melissa Moon

  The Getup: Black velour Juicy Couture pants, silver Jimmy Choo stilettos, pink and black D&G t-shirt, Bvlgari diamond studs

  Melissa Moon glided her platinum Lexus convertible down Sunset Boulevard, blasting CD-Seedy’s latest album-gone-platinum: Mo’tel. Damn, she loved this album. Mo’tel was the first album to truly address the built-in conflicts of growing up half black, half Korean in South Central, Los Angeles. In her favorite track, “Gimme All Your Love, Gimme All Your Money,” Seedy describes the night his black father met and fell in love with his Korean mother (during a routine robbery of her family’s liquor store.) Some people found it offensive. Melissa, on the other hand, thought it was genius.

  Not that she was biased.

  In addition to being the world’s most controversial rapper-cum-producer, Seedy (aka Christopher Duane Moon) was also her dad. For the Moon family, rap was about as traditional as Bing Crosby at Christmas. Not that they listened to Bing Crosby at Christmas, preferring Seedy’s holiday album: Chestnuts Roasting and I Open Fire.

  Melissa laid into the gas with the strappy toe of her metallic Jimmy Choo stiletto. The convertible picked up speed, transforming her Japanese Hair Straightened hair into a thousand lashing whips. She flinched, pulling it back into a ponytail.

  “Whoooooo!” someone called from a passing Escalade. Melissa was used to it. Her face had launched a thousand SUVs.

  With her sultry eyes, dusky complexion, and Angelina pout, Melissa had the kind of beauty people liked to call “exotic.” But she loathed the term. It was like, exotic according to who? Some milk-fed white guy with a picket fence up his butt? Early on in their courtship, her boyfriend, Marco Duvall, made the mistake of saying she looked “foreign.” Her immediate response was, “Look, I’m the one who grew up here. If anyone ‘looks foreign,’ it’s you!”

  Marco had recently moved from Tucson.

  Roots were important to Melissa. Even though she lived in a Bel Air palace, she wasn’t about to let the general public forget where she grew up: South Central, people. In a duplex. And then she’d put a hand on her hip, daring you to judge her. To her endless disappointment, no one ever did. But come on, they weren’t crazy. Her dad had Melissa tattooed on his fist. We’re not talking her name, either. We’re talking her entire baby picture.

  Melissa came to an intersection at Sunset Boulevard and North Beverly Drive and pulled to a stop. She removed her Christian Dior sunglasses, exhaling cinnamon breath on the tinted-pink lenses. A sudden wolf-whistle penetrated her left eardrum, but Melissa knew better than to pay attention. Unfortunately for her, her dog did not.

  “Emilio Poochie, no!” Melissa cried as her tan-and-cream toy Pomeranian leapt into her lap. “In the back, now!” Within two seconds, Emilio sat quivering in the backseat, his army green driving goggles slipping off his tiny face. Melissa sighed, sinking her venti cappuccino into the cup holder. She leaned over and popped open the glove compartment, straining to locate her lint roller. By the time she did, the Lexus was straddling two lanes.

  Melissa kept one hand on the wheel and went to work on her black Juicy pants. She liked to think of herself as the style child of J.Lo and Condoleezza Rice. Which is to say as much as she was about ghetto glam, she was also about Commanding Worldwide Respect. Which is exactly what Juicy pants accomplish — when they aren’t covered by dog hair.

  She lifted her chin to the rearview mirror once her task at hand was completed. “I’m sorry I yelled, baby. Forgive me?” Emilio put his paws on the back of her black leather seat and licked her diamond-studded earlobe. Of course he forgave her.

  He was a dog. But he wasn’t stupid.

  By the time the Lexus glinted onto Winston Drive, Melissa’s Juicys were in top form. Marco hated those Juicy pants. He compared them to a “Beverly Hills lawn at night”: black, immaculate, and impossible to break into.

  Not that he said that out loud.

  “MuhLISuh!” his baritone voice hollered across the Showroom. Melissa half-waved her cappuccino hand, cranking the wheel with the other. Marco loped toward her, his bulging arms and muscular back straining the fabric of his I’D RATHER BE IN BUCARAMANGA t-shirt. A rawhide necklace grew taut against his thick, strong neck. His hundreds of springing soft brown curls, which all the girls loved and Marco hated, were crammed into a plush, forest green Kangol hat.

  “Wait up!” he panted, trotting alongside the Lexus.

  “Can you not see my eyes are on the road?!” she snapped, nearly plowing into a girl in a bright green miniskirt. She screamed as the car jerked to a halt, inches away from the girl’s bare thighs. The girl wavered and lost balance, planting her barely-clad butt on the hood with a loud whump.

  “Are you okay?” the girl squeaked.

  “Get offa my car,” Melissa replied. “Please.”

  The girl sprung to her feet as if the Lexus were a hot plate. Not that Melissa noticed. The sudden stop had triggered a cappuccino explosion, the effects of which were still seeping into her brand-new D&G t-shirt. Melissa stared down at the spot, and from the look on her face, you would have sworn it was blood.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  “Omigawd-uh!” a high-pitched female voice squawked, sounding the alarm. Marco froze as a soft flapping filled the air — soft, but terrifying — like a flock of winged monkeys. He turned around, bracing himself. Sure enough, six or seven girls in flip-flops were headed straight for him. They arranged into perfect V formation, with Deena Yazdi, Melissa’s self-appointed best friend, at the head. Over the summer, Deena had streaked her jet-black wavy hair in red, copper, and blonds. The majority of the highlights fell on either side of her attractive, if somewhat horsy, tanned face. Her nose-jobbed nostrils were tiny and pinched — as if they perpetually sensed something foul. Her eyes, lined with the usual smoky Chanel eyeliner, bulged out with exaggerated concern.

  “OmiGAWD-uh!” she squawked a second time. (In times of stress, Deena kind of sounded like an evangelical preacher.) “What happen’d-uh?”

  “It’s okay,” Marco explained, waving her off. “She almost hit this girl.”

  “Who?” Deena peered around. Apparently, the girl had already fled for her life. “Did you see what she did to Melissa’s shirt?”

  “To Melissa’s shirt?” Marco gaped, incredulous. Deena narrowed
her eyes.

  “You — are so — rude.”

  “She almost hit someone and you’re talkin’ about a shirt!”

  “That is not the point-uh!”

  Marco was about to tell Deena what she could do with her “point-uh,” when Melissa stepped out of her car. He stepped back, taking in the whole picture.

  “Damn,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You look fine.”

  “No,” Melissa pointed out, “I have a stain.”

  “Yeah,” her devoted boyfriend indulged an eyeful of her coffee-spattered double-Ds. “Your stain is fine.”

  She rolled her eyes, holding out her keys: “Just . . . park the car, okay?”

  “Here.” Deena presented Melissa a small bottle of Fiji water. “Maybe you can still get it out?”

  “No way,” Melissa pursed her lips. “This shirt is dry clean only.”

  “That sucks-uh!” Deena exclaimed, her face crumpling at the injustice of it all. Until she remembered the vanilla latte in her right hand. “Wait.” She plucked off the lid and (making sure Melissa saw her) dumped the contents all over her bright white Theory tank top.

  “Deena — you are crazy!” Melissa gasped.

  “As if I’d let you go through this alone,” her best friend declared with pride. In the face of that kind of logic, the V-Formation had no choice but to follow suit. One by one, they dribbled their Doppios, capsized their capps, and slopped their sugar-free chais. Their t-shirts steeped like tea bags. Their padded bras plumped like sponges. Together they squealed, each at a pitch higher than the last, until they achieved OPTIMUM FREQUENCY, that decibel level unique among girls, though typically reserved for ice-cold pools and flirtatious games of “tag.” Still, despite their volume, they might as well have been invisible.

  Melissa stood in the center of it all and clapped her hands to her mouth. She shook her head, not making a single sound.

  But she was the one to watch.

  Glen Morrison stood at the Assembly Hall entrance, strumming James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” on his buttercup-yellow guitar. Students streamed by like salmon heading upriver. On the occasion one deigned to notice him, Glen dipped his head in greeting. Then he’d shake his floppy gray hair from his eyes and smile.

  He maybe had to do this twice.

  In 1967, Glen and a bunch of other hippie parents founded Winston Prep as a “non-traditional alternative” to other private schools in Los Angeles. They sat in a “non-hierarchical” circle and discussed their “non-biased” vision. In terms of education, Winston stressed a “non-stress” approach. Instead of exclusivity, Winston offered creativity. Instead of competition, Winston offered conversation. Winston nurtured the heart as well as the head. Winston cared about caring.

  Their vision survived about as long as a quart of milk. Forgotten in the back of a van with no air-conditioning. In Death Valley.

  Nevertheless, Glen strummed on.

  Assembly Hall consisted of one enormous, ballroom-sized space. Sunlight streamed in through tall French windows, and the leaves of the weeping willows shimmered behind the glass. There were no chairs to sit on or desks to hide behind. Everyone, students and teachers alike, sat on the smooth, brushed concrete floor. For all appearances, students sat wherever they liked. If you paid attention, however, you’d notice everyone sat in the same spot every day. A strict seating chart was in place — and your spot on the floor, just like your spot in the lot, depended entirely on your social ranking. But while parking spots had to do with what you drove, floor spots had to do with who you were. And who you were was defined by what you wore. And, of course, how you wore it.

  The least popular Winstonians sat in the center of the floor, known as “Ground Zero.” The goal was to sit as far from Ground Zero as possible. The farther you got, the more popular you were. The most coveted seats on the floor were those at the outermost point — in this case, a seat against the wall. A wall seat was a clear sign to the student body that you’d made it.

  Melissa and her friends sat along the sunniest part of the East Wall. East Wallers looked like they spent their lunchtime hot-tubbing with Snoop Dogg. East Wallers wore form-fitting, brand-name clothes that sparkled when they walked. East Wallers were all sass. Basic Rule: if you can’t match your stilettos to your nail jewels, sit someplace else.

  Charlotte and her friends sat on the west side. West Wallers were the so-called “indie darlings” of Winston Prep. West Wallers looked like they spent lunchtime gallery-hopping with Sofia Coppola and Chloë Sevigny. West Wallers dressed in understated yet expensive fabrics: silk, cashmere, sheer cottons. West Wallers were all class. Basic Rule: if you can’t pair vintage capris with couture flats, sit someplace else.

  Janie and her friends sat toward the back, near the middle: this was No Man’s Land. Nomanlanders looked like they spent lunchtime, well . . . eating lunch. Nomanlanders wore Sevens jeans and Banana Republic t-shirts — and that’s when they were feeling really stylish. Nomanlanders dressed to be ignored, and they were. Basic Rule: Um, Nomanlanders didn’t need one.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Glen crowed, cupping his hands to his mouth. He tucked his wiry gray bangs behind his ears and cleared his throat, waiting for them to simmer down. As usual, they didn’t. Glen watched them with a mixture of impatience and fear, like an inexperienced chef on television.

  “Welcome to the first Town Meeting of the year!” he called out, inciting a riot of hoots and hollers. “I know it’s the first day and we’re all excited to see each other after a long and hopefully restorative summer break. But we have a lot of very important announcements that require your undivided attention. So eyes on me. Let’s do our best to focus.”

  At that, all 314 students assumed butterfly position on the brushed concrete floor. A hush fell over the crowd. Glen clasped his hands, pleased. But (predictably) his sense of success was short-lived. He realized their attention, though undivided, was focused on decidedly non-Glen subject matter. In other words, their eyes were very clearly not on him — but on someone else. Someone behind him.

  Which is why he turned around.

  Janie entered the assembly hall, mortified to find every single pair of eyes fixed on her. She tugged at the hem of her green miniskirt and stared at the ground. She knew what they were thinking: here comes Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s new hood ornament. Make way for Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s personal speed bump. Check out Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s latest roadkill. Except, of course, she was worse than roadkill.

  Roadkill had the decency to die.

  In order to get to her seat in No Man’s Land, she would have to weave through the vast crowd of kids sitting on the floor. Under normal circumstances, walking through the crowd was no big deal. But today she was wearing the micro-mini. All someone would have to do was look up and then . . . oh God. She couldn’t even think about it.

  Janie was faced with a choice: assume her rightful place in No Man’s Land and risk everyone seeing her underwear, or sit down exactly where she was. Except exactly where she was happened to be the Back Wall. The Back Wall (aka “Ganja Ghetto”) belonged to kids cool enough to spend lunch break in celebrity rehab. Basic Rule: if you don’t resemble the best-looking member of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, sit someplace else. But for once, Janie didn’t care. Especially since she was wearing her Valentine panties from Target. The pair with IN YOUR DREAMS printed over and over in a tiny, bright pink font.

  She found an empty space next to Joaquin Whitman and, even though he smelled like patchouli and pickles, Janie folded her knees and sat down. To her surprise, Joaquin greeted her with a gentle smile and a singsong, “wha-a-tsu-up?”

  “Whatsup,” she replied, half-wondering if his cheeriness was some kind of setup.

  “Chillin’.” Joaquin nodded, adjusting the headphones to his nano. He smiled, bobbing his head like a dashboard ornament. Janie breathed a sigh of relief. Joaquin didn’t seem to care if she sat there at all. He was even nice.

  She cr
aned her neck, scanning the great stretch of No Man’s Land for Jake. He was nowhere to be found. With heavy heart, Janie turned west. Her instincts were right. There he was, sitting next to her. Janie wished she could say her brother looked out of place but he didn’t. With his new tousled haircut and dewy complexion, his threadbare cowboy shirt and beat-up Converse All Stars, Jake Farrish looked like your basic West Wall poster child. Janie watched as Charlotte Beverwil removed her canary-yellow headband and pushed it through Jake’s hair, laughing. Jake took the whole thing in stride. Ugh, Janie thought. Who does he think he is?

  Just then, Bethany Snee, one of Janie’s only friends at Winston and fellow Nomanlander, caught her eye. Who does she think she is, Bethany’s fat fish-lips appeared to mouth to Farrah Frick, a freckly redhead with an annoying laugh. Janie blushed as Farrah turned around to give her a scandalized look. Before long the two girls were cupping hands to each other’s ears, whispering their gossipy heads off. Janie tried not to think about what they were saying, but she couldn’t help herself. Were they making fun of her skirt? Did they think she was full of herself ? Would they still let her eat lunch with them? Did they think she was on drugs? Now that she was sitting at the back wall, did everyone think she was on drugs?

  Janie squeezed her eyes shut. If only someone would come to school in an outfit more insane than hers. An outfit so what-was-she-thinking out there, her micro-mini would look mild in comparison. Janie tried to imagine what that outfit would look like, but she couldn’t. And then, just when she’d given up. . . .

  Petra Greene walked into Town Meeting.

  Janie’s miniskirt was instantly forgotten.

  The Girl: Petra Greene

  The Getup: See it to believe it

  Only two things on Petra Greene’s body escaped fervent debate: her left hand and her right hand. From the tips of her tapered fingers to the delicate bone of her wrists, they were flawless. And because there’s no such thing as “finger implants” or “wrist tucks,” Winston attributed her flawless hands to nature, genes, luck — whatever. Even her harshest critics agreed: Petra Greene’s hands were 100 percent cosmetic surgery–free.