by Compai
So did cigarette smoke.
“We’re heading to Kate Mantellini,” Charlotte announced, ashing her gold-tipped Gauloise into the street. “Wanna come?”
“Oh.” Jake bobbed his eyebrows in surprise. An invite to Kate Mantellini, the expensive chopped-salad mecca on Wilshire Boulevard, could mean only one thing: he had passed the Best Friend Test. Jake’s instincts were correct. After a brutal (but necessary) bathroom interrogation, Kate and Laila conceded Jake’s new status as “hottie.” On a scale of one to five butterflies, he earned a staggering four and a half (his unfortunate lack of a British accent worked against him). Using her brand-new Treo, Kate reported Jake to the student-run site: Winston’s Most Wanted. Jake Farrish was instantly inducted.
He glanced into Charlotte’s backseat, where Kate and Laila sat staring into identical black MAC compacts. At the moment of his attention, the compacts snapped shut. They turned, smiling their synchronized, glossimer smiles.
“Well?” the two girls asked in unison.
“Um . . . ,” Jake turned to check on his sister, but she was half-way down the block. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I guess I’m down to be abducted.”
Jake reached for Charlotte’s passenger-side door. The lock released with a luxurious click and he ducked inside, sinking into the buttery leather seat. Charlotte leaned toward him. Her leather seat crackled. Her eyes snapped with light. And she didn’t smell like cigarettes at all. She smelled like orange blossoms. She smelled like summer rain.
She smelled a little like his grandmother.
“Ready?” Charlotte asked.
Jake didn’t have to answer. He’d already shut the door.
With the exception of Amelia, Janie’s Canson Field Sketchbook was her best friend. She’d flip through magazines and draw the things she wanted, the things she needed, the things she had to have. When she got bored, she drew things that didn’t exist. She window-shopped her imagination and drew what she found. Gossamer baby doll dresses and mermaid-tailed cocktail dresses. Cap sleeves and poet sleeves, bell sleeves, ballet sleeves. Skirts with slits and skirts with pleats. Military jackets, puffy jackets, pea coats, and trench coats. She drew petticoats. Hip-huggers and sailor pants, cowboy hats and pillbox caps. Frills and fringe, bows and buttons, ribbons and sashes, buckles and zips and ties and clips.
She drew all the things she would wear, someday — as soon as she worked up the nerve.
But that day, as she sat down for lunch at the Baja Fresh in Beverly Hills, Janie drew for another reason altogether. She flipped open her sketchbook, readying her graphite pencil like a thunderbolt. She stabbed the paper with electric force. This wasn’t a drawing. This was, in the tradition of Dr. Frankenstein and other mad scientists, a creation.
First she drew her model: a slender girl with bobbed light-brown hair and killer legs (resemblance to self — pure coincidence). She drew a t-shirt, black and slashed around the shoulders, a haphazard crosshatch of red stitching around the collar. She penciled in a pair of shorts. Short-shorts. Janie edged the contours with the tip of her eraser, creating the effect of reflecting light. Only one material reflects light like that: vinyl. And she’d cut these from the slickest, tightest, hottest vinyl available. They’d stick to her skin like Fruit Roll-Ups. They’d come in artificial cherry red.
She’d call this little number “Sweet Revenge.”
High heels came next. Black, with rounded toes and platform heels, ribbons laced to the knee. Janie squinted at her work, adding an inch to each heel for good measure. More than three steps in shoes like these and she’d be timber, sprawled on the floor and down for the count. But these shoes weren’t made for walking.
They were made for standing around and looking pissed.
Janie moved on to accessories. Nothing over-the-top: just a few leather bracelets, some safety pins, five earrings, eleven rings, two chain-link belts, and . . . a tattoo? She frowned, nibbling on her last remaining cuticle — she just couldn’t decide.
“Number h’eighty-two? H’eighty-two, order ready.”
Janie scooted her chair back and approached the counter.
“Thank you.” She nodded, transporting her order to the salsa bar. Janie studied her options: pico de gallo, salsa fresca, chipotle, chopped cilantro, lime slices, pickled jalapeños. She unwrapped her order, adding a little bit of everything. Okay, so she tended to over-accessorize, even when it came to tacos.
“Ouch,” exclaimed an unidentifiable male voice.
Janie glanced up at the guy standing directly next to her. He looked like a less grumpy version of Heath Ledger, one of Janie’s absolute favorite actors. He was tall and strong, with well-wrought limbs and smooth golden skin. His longish hair, which was flecked with more gold, ended in soft flips around his ears. His hands appeared capable and calloused (Janie could only guess) from surfing, and he was dressed for the beach: olive green board shorts and rubbery flip-flops, an oversized brown sweatshirt. In short: he looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t talk to her in a million years.
And yet.
“How can you handle that?” He regarded her salsa-soaked taco with something close to awe.
“Oh,” Janie replied, somewhat shell-shocked. “It’s really not that hot.”
“Well.” He grinned, revealing a to-die-for set of dimples. “Maybe not for you.”
Maybe not for her? What was that supposed to mean?
With all the courage she could muster, Janie allowed their eyes to lock. To her surprise, they seemed familiar. What was it about that half-moon shape? That chlorine blend of blue and green?
“Evan!” At the sound of his name, Heath Ledger Boy diverted his attention from Janie to Joaquin Whitman, who had his face pushed against the outside window. “We’re outta here, dude,” called Joaquin, fogging the glass with his pot breath.
“I’ll be there.” The boy whose name was Evan waved him away.
“You go to Winston?” Janie blurted in disbelief. Had he really escaped her attention all this time?
“I just transferred senior year,” he replied. “It’s sort of a long story.”
“Oh.” Janie nodded, hoping she’d come off as the sort of girl who knew all about long stories. Even though she didn’t. Her own story, if you could call it that, was pretty short. Not to mention pointless.
“My name’s Evan,” he extended his hand.
“Jane,” she replied. “Jane” sounded more sophisticated.
“Jane,” he repeated, sounding solemn. Janie laughed. Was it just her or did he sound a little like Tarzan?
“What’s so funny?” Evan furrowed his brow.
“Nothing.” She smiled. “It’s just, like, you Evan. Me Jane.”
He seemed confused. In a desperate attempt to ram the joke home, Janie thumped her chest and released a Tarzan-esque yell.
Ahhhh-ee-yah-ee-yaaaaah-ee-yah-ee-yaaaah!
There was a long, excruciating pause. The Baja Fresh janitor looked up from his mop. In the near distance, a burrito wrapper crinkled.
“Oh-kay . . .” Evan nodded like maybe she was crazy. He picked up his tray and lifted his chin. “Late.”
Janie hurried back to her table and checked her phone: one missed call from Amelia. She looked at her untouched taco and debated what to do with her mouth. Talk or eat? If she ate, she’d obsess over her train wreck of a conversation with the boy named Evan. If she talked, however, she might starve. Okay, so maybe the choice was obvious.
She picked up her phone and punched SEND .
“Creatures of Habit booked a show at SPACELAND!” Amelia exploded in greeting. Janie’s jaw dropped a little. Spaceland was, without a doubt, the coolest music venue in L.A., having launched such music legends as Elliott Smith, Death Cab for Cutie, the Foo Fighters, Jurassic 5, the Shins, the White Stripes, Jet, Supergrass, Modest Mouse, and Weezer. The list went on and on. As did the line to get inside. Not that she had ever been inside. The closest she’d come was the strip of broken sidewalk outside the main entrance. Ja
nie had stared at the drab stucco exterior, wondering if she’d found the right place. If it wasn’t for the compact neon SPACELAND sign on the roof, the building may have resembled an abandoned, possibly haunted motel. Of course, she was there on a Sunday at the unglamorous hour of 2:45 p.m. Bright sunlight and Sunday quiet have a way of exposing nightclubs for what they are: sad little windowless boxes. If only she could see what Spaceland was like on a Saturday night, when dark concealed the cracks and neon lit the sky. If only she could pass through those heavy, barnlike doors, down that black throat of a hallway, and into the pulsing, reverberating world within.
But of course she couldn’t.
“How did you book a show at Spaceland?” she asked. “Don’t you have to be twenty-one?” Unlike the majority of kids her age, Janie had yet to procure a fake ID.
“You have to be twenty-one to go, not to play,” Amelia explained.
“Oh,” Janie replied, still feeling confused. Weren’t new bands supposed to start low profile? Weren’t they supposed to get some practice in first, then improve their technique, build a fan base, and slowly, slowly work their way up?
Amelia seemed to read her mind.
“Chris says he likes to throw new talent into the deep end. It’s all about sink or swim.”
“Who’s Chris?”
“Chris Zane,” Amelia clarified, as if that made things clear. “The music producer?”
“O-oh.” Janie pretended to recognize the name.
“We met him at Paul’s aunt’s engagement party —”
“You went to a party?” Janie interrupted, failing to conceal the hurt in her voice. Since when did Amelia go to parties and not invite her?
“J!” Amelia groaned in frustration. “We went to perform! It wasn’t like a party, party. It was work.”
“Oh,” Janie said. “Right.”
“So,” Amelia continued, “after the set, Zane comes up to us and he’s, like, listen. You guys are ready to go. And we’re, like, what? And then he takes out his phone and puts in a call to Spaceland, like, right there. Like, in front of us! It was so . . . awesome!”
“Wow!” Janie warbled in a small voice.
“Ew,” Amelia replied. “That wow sucked butt.”
“I’m sorry,” Janie sighed. “It’s just . . . I guess I just wish I could come.”
“But you can!”
“You have to be twenty-one.”
“Dude, don’t you get it? You’re with the band!”
Janie stared into her basket of tortilla chips. The chips pointed at her like golden arrows of destiny.
“Hello?”
“Sorry.” Janie tried to recover. “I . . . I think I’m still in shock.”
Amelia laughed. “Listen. Will you make me that dress? The one you drew at my house last weekend?”
“The London Vampire Milkmaid dress?” Janie flipped to the sketch in question. As she examined the drawing, her heart sank. “I can’t. The materials alone would cost, like, two hundred dollars.”
“We’ll raise the money!”
“Yeah, right.” Janie rolled her eyes. Amelia was only, like, the worst spendthrift on the planet.
“Well, it’s our only option,” Amelia declared. “I have to have that dress.”
“You know what I could do?” Janie mused. “Start a Special Study.”
“A what?”
“It’s this new thing at Winston. We’re allowed to create our own classes and, like, they can be whatever we want them to be. I could start, like, a Dress Amelia Fund!” Janie laughed at the notion. “Problem solved.”
“That is . . . ,” Amelia replied, “totally brilliant.”
“I was kidding.”
“Well, obviously you don’t call it the Dress Amelia Fund. You say it’s Costume Design or something. And then you collect dues. Major dues. It’s not like those rich Winston biznatches can’t afford it.”
“I don’t know,” Janie hesitated.
“Janie, please?” Amelia whimpered. “I just invited you backstage, at Spaceland, so you can spend a whole night doing nothing more than stare at Paul’s ass.”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Janie blushed. “I’ll propose a Special Study.”
“Yay!” Amelia cheered.
“I can’t promise anyone’ll sign up,” Janie added.
But her best friend had already hung up the phone.
The Girl: Miss Paletsky
The Getup: Plum-colored oversized I.N.C. blazer with shoulder pads, brown stretch pants with side zip, gray pleather slouch boots, gold starfish earrings
Miss Paletsky stuck Melissa Moon’s application in the middle of the thick pile of paper on her old oak desk, pushing the other hand under her octagon-shaped reading glasses. She pressed a finger and thumb to each of her closed lids. She kept pressing until she saw fireworks, which exploded around one question: were all of these students completely crazy?
In addition to Melissa’s campaign for world domination, Miss Paletsky read a proposal for a Naptime Alliance (why should five-year-olds have all the fun?), a Pedicure Group (pedicure, from the Latin “ped” meaning “foot,” is an ancient art), and an S&M&M Society (do you like to hit others and/or be hit by hard chocolate candies?). What about a book club? she wondered. A new political party? A language society? A cooking class?
The young new teacher sighed, preparing herself for the mind-numbing task of compiling multiple proposals into a few solid classes. For example, by combining the Naptime Alliance and the Dream Interpretation Club, she not only created a stronger proposal, but also ensured the interest of at least two students. Unfortunately, she’d have to put the Pedicure Group and the S&M&M Society in the REJECT pile.
Steadily she worked, listening to Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations at a rebelliously loud volume. Every time she reached Melissa Moon’s application, she’d stick it back into the middle of the pile. The girl’s ambition was compelling — if a little scary — and Miss Paletsky could not decide where it belonged. She’d just about dropped Melissa Moon: The Class in the “ REJECT ” pile when, during the very first notes of Variation 20, she read an application that created a mental spark. A very interesting proposal for a “Costume Design” class, complete with an array of imaginative sketches executed with surprising skill. It was easy to see that the girl who drew them had talent.
She decided to combine “Melissa Moon,” “Costume Design,” “Sewing Circle” and an outlandish but nevertheless noble-minded class called “Moral Fiber.” She fanned the four applications in the center of her desk and nodded. Together, these four girls might have real potential. Yes, their ideas were vastly different, but each sprouted from the same seed: fashion. Miss Paletsky entered their names into her Excel spreadsheet.
Melissa Moon. Janie Farrish. Charlotte Beverwil. Petra Greene.
Miss Paletsky smiled, revealing her overlapping eyetooth. She liked the sound of the names together. There was a ring to it. A harmony.
Yeah. You’d think a “music scholar” would know better.
The Girl: Janie Farrish
The Getup: Used Seven jeans, extra-long light blue cotton tank, red Pumas, black gummy bracelets
By the time the bell rang on the fifth day of class, that crazy, back-to-school buzz, that fantastic feeling of newness, had completely disappeared. The shock of radical haircuts and drastic weight loss had dissipated. Flashy new cars were already old, pens and protractors already lost, three-ring binders already busted. The freshest gossip had been passed around. Twice. And there was already too much homework, too much pressure, too little sleep, too little time.
But perhaps the most obvious sign of hangover was the sudden irrelevance of summer. As a conversation piece, “what I did for vacation” was way, way over. The only kids behind the curve were Jake Farrish and Charlotte Beverwil, both of whom found the subject endlessly fresh and topical. Of course, “summer” was but a thinly veiled disguise for the true subject at hand.
Each other.
�
�We gotta stop at Charlotte’s on the way back,” Jake informed his sister as they prepared for their end-of-day drive home.
“Why?”
“I dunno.” Jake smiled at his black Nokia. “She just texted me.”
“She texted you?” Janie grimaced. “You guys were just talking, like, two seconds ago!”
“So?”
Janie pulled out of her spot so fast, Jake lost his next sentence in a cloud of dust. As she turned into the street, the car wheels squealed — quite a feat for a Volvo.
“What is wrong with you?” Jake asked, leaning into the corner of his seat.
“Nothing! You’re the one obsessed with the Bever-bitch.”
“I haven’t put on my seat belt,” he pointed out.
His sister stared straight ahead. “Who am I, your keeper?”
When she was little, Janie had recurring nightmares. In one Jake fell into an ivy-covered well. In another, an escalator ate him alive. But the one that really got her, the one that haunted her for hours after she woke up, was the dream where Jake got into a strange car and drove away. Right when the car turned down the street, Janie would get this feeling, like something horrible was about to happen.
She never let him not wear his seat belt. Ever.
“Fine,” Jake said, letting go of his shoulder strap. Janie listened to the nylon whirr and snap against the window. After a few seconds, she jerked the car to a stop.
“Okay,” she surrendered. “Put it on.”
Jake did as he was told, shaking his head in exasperation. In fact, he was relieved. It was one thing to deal with his sister’s wrath, quite another to deal with her apathy. That she still cared whether he lived or died — it meant a lot to him. It meant so much he wanted to hug her. Jake stole a glance at her. No, he decided. Way too pissed off for hugs. He sighed, resigning himself; he’d have to express himself in some other, more stealthy way.
And so he farted.
“You are disgusting!” Janie exploded, rolling down the window while Jake cackled in triumph. She leaned her face into the wind. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?!”