Poseur

by Compai

  The rest of her features, however: definitely suspect. Beauty like hers just wasn’t natural. Or so everyone assumed.

  Dr. Robert Greene was the most sought-after plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. In light of his profession, Petra’s looks were universally pooh-poohed. She isn’t pretty, her dissenters insisted. She’s a product — the latest accomplishment of “Daddy’s magic wand.” It was just a rumor, of course, but a rumor even Daddy spread around. When clients gushed over a prominently displayed photograph of his daughter, Dr. Greene would wink and say, “my best work to date.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. Petra was his work — in the way all children are the “work” of their parents. If his patients thought he meant something else, well then that was their interpretation.

  When Petra caught wind of her father’s comments, she wasn’t exactly surprised. As her mother uttered over brandy more than once, Petra’s father was ruthless. In terms of price, his was the highest. In terms of dignity, his was the lowest. Dr. Greene had a reputation for doing anything for anyone at anytime. (There was good reason Michael, Cher, Liza, and Angeline were all said to be his clients.) Petra sometimes wished operating rooms were run like car dealerships, so people could see her father as he really was: the guy on TV telling you to come on down. “Come see the King of Collagen! The Baron of Botox!! The Lord of Lipo!!!” He’d holler and wave around a ten-gallon surgical cap. He’d juggle his scalpels and laugh like a maniac.

  But no one saw her father like that.

  No one, that is, except Petra.

  Her therapist informed her she didn’t hate her father — she hated his behavior. But no, Petra seriously hated her father, which is why she did everything humanly possible to wreck the perfect looks God gave her. She would not be his free advertising. She refused. She would float around in ratty smocks and moth-eaten sweatshirts. She would never wash or brush her hair and she would never, ever wear makeup again — not even ChapStick.

  Seriously.

  In terms of rebellious acts, Petra Greene’s ranked number seven in Winston’s all time top ten, knocking Billy Bresler — who torched a tennis net in 1989 — to number eight. At Winston, not caring how you look is way more subversive than arson. And Petra really, really didn’t care.

  Town Meeting proved no exception.

  Six hundred hungry eyes watched her float across the room. She wore a pink ballet slipper on her right foot, a black ballet slipper on her left. The fallen hem of her wine-red linen skirt dragged along the floor, and a mop-gray thermal bunched under her baby-tee. A shredded scarf dangled from her neck as a string of fake pearls fought for breath. Her yellow t-shirt, which looked about ten sizes too small, read: PROPERTY OF SPONGEBOB. As a final touch, Petra topped her matted locks with a lopsided paper Burger King crown.

  Still, you know how Johnny Depp insists on accepting roles that ruin his looks? And yet — despite the scissor hands in one film, the mouthful of rotting teeth in another — he manages to be mind-blowingly beautiful? Petra Greene suffered from the same sort of disease. Try as she might, she couldn’t not be pretty. In fact, the less she cared, the more you stared.

  It was really quite tragic.

  “Take a seat, Petra,” Glen nodded as she sat down, her skirt blooming like a wine-red mushroom cloud. “It’s nice to see you.”

  And wasn’t that the truth?

  Winston Prep lifted the term “Town Meeting” from the Quakers, a centuries-old community of nonviolent Christians who — if they were anything like that guy on the oatmeal box — considered pirate hats the absolute height of fashion. Which is to say, the similarities between Winston Town Meetings and Quaker Town Meetings began and ended with the name.

  Winston Town Meetings were all the same: boring announcement after boring announcement until the ultimate reward of boring bagels, accompanied by only slightly more compelling individualized cream cheese packets. Then, while the seventh graders sat consuming their carbs (upperclassmen knew better), Glen reminded them that, in addition to announcements, Town Meeting provided a platform for community expression.

  “Come on, guys!” He scanned the meeting for volunteers. “Town Meeting doesn’t have to be boring!”

  That was the most boring announcement of all.

  No one in their right mind took advantage of community expression, which expressed one thing and one thing only: I am a big fat loser. Take Owen Meyer, for example. In commemoration of the thirteen-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, Owen had performed an a cappella rendition of “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam,” and then — to the shock and mirth of all present — he actually cried. After that, everyone called him Owen Crier, which made him cry more, which only proved the point. Eventually he moved to Texas, which students dubbed the Lone Tear State, but only for about a day. By the next, Owen and his blotchy face were forgotten.

  “I did a lot of thinking over the summer.” Glen looked off into the distance, nostrils flaring like a conquistador. “I thought about the way Town Meeting used to be. And then I thought about the way Town Meeting is now — strained of creativity like so much pulp from orange juice. Even though the pulp is the most nutritious part!”

  He bored into them with his sternest look.

  “I realized we need to make some serious changes around here,” he announced. Students shifted their weight and exchanged worried glances. What, exactly, was Glen capable of ? Was he allowed to ground them? Send them to boarding school? Military school? ITT Tech?

  “I’d like to introduce our new director of Special Studies.” Glen turned toward the right corner of the room. “Miss Paletsky.”

  That no one knew what a “special study” was really didn’t matter; the insult was obvious. Everyone knew “special” was synonymous with “retard,” even Glen. But before they could cry out in protest, Winston’s newest teacher approached the microphone.

  One thing you could say for the new director of Retard Studies: she knew how to dress the part.

  Her clothes looked like something you’d trade for cigarettes behind the Berlin Wall. Meaning they were, like, eighties — but in a very non-cool way. She had paired high-waisted tan stretch pants with a magenta leotard and an asymmetrical white leather belt. Her boots were little white spikes. Her kitten-face earrings were clip-on. She smelled like apples and menthol and Suave. She looked about twenty-eight years old, roughly the same age as her lipstick, which was roughly the color of borscht.

  The forces of fashion had united against her. And yet. She was cute.

  You could tell by the way some of the male teachers straightened in their seats. For the most part, Winston faculty hulked like vultures. They slumped at laptops. They stooped over coffee. They wilted by dry-erase boards. Winston faculty earned their bad posture in college, having slowly collapsed under the weight of their brains. Most of them graduated from Stanford or Yale, which was sort of depressing when you thought about it (you know they thought about it, like, all the time.)

  Miss Paletsky pressed her hands to her thighs and tipped into a little bow. “Ch’ello, stewdents,” she murmured into the mic. Her voice was both breathy and Slavic, a strange mix of Marilyn Monroe and Dracula.

  “Ch’ello,” she repeated, a little louder this time.

  Glen cupped his hands to his mouth. “Community Expression needs our help!”

  Miss Paletsky knitted her brow, confused by his random, enthusiastic outburst.

  “Ye-es,” she continued with a timid smile. “This ‘Community Expression’ is not so popular. But as the new director of Special Studies, I’m here to fix it. So. What is Special Study? Special Study is class that you, the stewdents create. It can be anything you like, and as long as your study is approved, you have one period each week to meet. Which means —”

  “You must have a minimum of four students!” Glen interrupted, bursting with excitement. “That’s no less than four to qualify as an official class. Every Special Study must involve legal and age-appropriate activities. Which means absolutely no drugs,
no sexual activity, and no violence of any kind! If you have an idea, please talk to Miss Paletsky. All it takes is four or more interested students and it’s official: your very own Special Study is good to go!”

  With a grave look of concern, Miss Paletsky observed Glen pump his fist. She returned her gaze to the students, smiling bravely.

  “Okay!” Glen continued, still beaming like the Patron Saint of Dorks. “Town Meeting dismissed!”

  Jake had two classes lined up before lunch: Advanced Physics and French Cinema. (Guess which one Charlotte was in?) Advanced Physics took place in an unremarkable Winston classroom (mahogany desks, chalkboards, French windows with spectacular canyon views), and French Cinema didn’t take place in a classroom at all.

  Thanks to the generous contribution of Alan and Betty Kronenberg, the Winston campus came equipped with a 100-seat movie theater. Except for the screen, which was state-of-the-art digital, the theater was straight out of the twenties. Creamy silk curtains hung in scalloped pleats. Chairs held out arms of warm red velvet. The seashell-shaped sconces fanned the walls with golden beams. There was even a ticket booth with a window that opened and shut like a brass accordion. The more sophisticated students dismissed the theater as “cheesy,” but then they’d sink into their seats, tip their heads back, and sigh. The black ceiling twinkled with a galaxy’s worth of tiny white lights.

  As far as cheese goes, this stuff was world-class brie.

  Charlotte invited Jake to sit with her in the back row — and he accepted. The lights went down and the title came up. The first film of the year was a black-and-white French classic called Les Quatre Cents Coups.

  “Four Hundred Blows?” Charlotte translated the title with a coy smirk. “ This should be interesting.”

  “Dude,” Jake replied. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” Charlotte threw back her long neck and laughed, breezy as a wind chime. Jake stole a quick glance at the soft shadow between her breasts. When he looked up he noticed Kate Joliet, Charlotte’s best friend, staring back — disgusted. Jake looked ahead and pretended to focus on the film.

  After class, Charlotte excused herself to the bathroom, her two best friends in tow. The two girls had spent the film staring at Jake in this super-critical way — and Jake thought he knew why. Why was why. Charlotte sat next to him? Why? Laughed at his jokes? Why? Asked to borrow his sweatshirt when the air kicked in? Why?

  Once they asked, Jake could kiss his luck goodbye. Because once they asked, Charlotte would realize: she really didn’t know why. Before long why would become what (had she been thinking?) and how (could she let this happen?) and where (could she blow him off ?) and when (as soon as possible).

  Jake watched the object of his affection drift toward the exit, growing smaller and smaller, like a balloon he’d let go by accident. As a kid, he would have thrown a tantrum. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged it off. It was just a balloon. It was just a girl.

  The tide of the crowd guided him to the exit, through the corridor and into the sun. He blinked, taking a moment to adjust his eyes to the light. Jake was on Accutane, and one of the side effects — sensitivity to light — made exiting buildings somewhat of a challenge.

  It was a small price to pay.

  When Jake and Janie first transferred to Winston last year, their skin had gone from bad to worse. Pores gave way to pimples. Pimples gave way to pustules. Pustules gave way to pustules with pimples.

  Which was to say, even their zits had zits.

  “We’re lepers!” they had cried to their parents, wringing their hands and running through the house.

  “Good,” their dad muttered, tightening a string on his twelve-string guitar. “We can send you to a colony.”

  But Mrs. Farrish booked them an appointment with a dermatologist.

  Dr. Kinoshita spent the entire appointment connected to a swivel stool with little wheels that squeaked. Instead of walking, Dr. Kinoshita pushed his feet to the floor and launched. He rocketed across the smooth, white tiles. He swung an enormous mirror in front of their faces and stared with one unblinking, magnified eye. He was a cyclops. A cyclops on wheels.

  “This is a very bad case of acne,” he declared, slapping his hands to his knees. Jake and Janie looked at each other. Can you say, “duh” ?

  “We’ve tried everything,” their mother sighed.

  “I’m going to ask you two a question.” Dr. Kinoshita laid a hand on Mrs. Farrish’s shoulder. “I call it ‘the paper bag test.’ It’s very easy, only one question long, and the question is this: when you go outside, do you feel like wearing a paper bag over your head?”

  “More like an entire paper luggage set,” Jake said.

  Dr. Kinoshita nodded. “There’s a medication called Accutane,” he explained, “but I only prescribe it to people with acne so severe they feel like they can’t go outside in public.”

  “Well, I feel like I can’t go outside in public, and my skin is fine,” joked their mother. Dr. Kinoshita chuckled. Her children were unamused.

  “Does this stuff actually work?” Jake couldn’t help but feel suspicious.

  “Well, everyone is different. But let’s just say all of my patients have been very happy with their results.”

  “Doesn’t this medication have side effects?” Mrs. Farrish interjected. Jake and Janie groaned in dismay. Their mother wasn’t going to let a little thing like side effects stand in the way of clear skin, was she? They could turn into twin Hulks for all they cared! As long as their green skin was blemish-free, who the hell cared ?

  “It does have some,” Dr. Kinoshita confirmed, handing their mother a glossy paper insert, “but it’s important to keep in mind —”

  “Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Farrish gasped, her eyes darting down the list. “Hair loss? Rectal bleeding?” Jake and Janie looked at each other. Okay. No one wanted to be a balding butt bleeder, not even the Hulk.

  “Keep in mind most of those reactions are extremely rare,” Dr. Kinoshita replied. “I’ve never experienced anything like —”

  “What have you experienced?” Mrs. Farrish interrupted again.

  “Chapped lips. Dehydration. Sensitivity to light. . . .”

  Mrs. Farrish lowered the list to her lap. “So, what’s in this pill? Jack Daniels?”

  Dr. Kinoshita chuckled again. “No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, drinking should be avoided while taking this medication. It lowers tolerance significantly.”

  “Right,” Jake responded with a thoughtful nod.

  “What do you mean ‘right’?” his mother interrogated. “Are you drinking?”

  “Also,” Dr. Kinoshita interrupted, “this medication causes severe birth defects. If you decide to take it,” he advised, turning to Janie, “you must use some form of birth control.”

  Mrs. Farrish trilled with laughter. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” she chortled, oblivious to her daughter’s mortified glare. Janie’s utter lack of sexual experience was one thing. But that it should prove the subject of her mother’s hilarity!

  It was a little much.

  “So then we can get it?” Jake asked, his tone hopeful.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Farrish wiped a tear from her merry eye. She turned to take a good look at her two children. They seemed to really want this. They were practically salivating out of their zit-encrusted mouths.

  “I suppose it’s up to you guys,” she sighed.

  When Jake’s eyes finally focused outside of the Kronenberg Theater, he spotted his sister exiting the Showroom. Juniors and seniors were allowed off-campus lunches, a privilege Janie seemed impatient to use. She punched the crosswalk button like a woodpecker as Jake broke into a trot, catching up to her just as the light turned green.

  “You goin’ to Baja Fresh?” he asked, following her into the street.

  “Get away from me,” she replied.

  “What? Why?”

  Janie stopped in her tracks, planting her foot
like a kick-stop. “Did you see what happened in the Showroom?”

  “No,” Jake said, confused. “What happened?”

  Janie narrowed her eyes. “Nothing,” she seethed, steaming ahead.

  “Wait!” He grabbed her bony elbow. “What happened?”

  “I guess you were too busy flirting with the enemy to notice!”

  Jake blushed. “We weren’t flirting.”

  “Ha.”

  “We’re just — friends!” he sputtered. “Besides — who are you? My keeper?”

  Janie darkened with fury and Jake stepped back. His sister could be a little intense. “Don’t you remember anything?” she asked. “She’s the one! She called me ‘Pompidou’ for like a whole semester!”

  “She did?”

  “You seriously have the memory of a goldfish!”

  “Yeah, well, better than the memory of an elephant.”

  “I am not an elephant!”

  Jake folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the ground. How was it he and his sister were actual twins? They weren’t even the same species!

  “How did this even happen?” Janie eked out, her eyes now growing glassy. “How are you guys quote-unquote friends? ”

  Before Jake could answer, a nasal beeping distracted them both. They looked up to find Charlotte’s gleaming, cream-colored Jag lumbering at the curb. She leaned toward the window, her glossy black curls tumbling across the shoulders of a slouchy gray hoody. At first Janie was confused. Charlotte Beverwil wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoody. Then she noticed a small object glint next to the zipper. An Amnesiac pin. Janie blanched in horror.

  She was wearing her brother’s sweatshirt.

  “Hey!” Charlotte called to Jake, flashing a dazzling white smile in Janie’s direction. Janie pretended not to notice.

  “Just gimme a sec,” Jake said, sidling up to her car. The engine greeted him with a throaty purr. Music wafted through the window like cigarette smoke.