Poseur

by Compai

  “Don’t you care about me at all?” Petra’s mother asked. She raised her carving knife, halving an apple in one resounding chop. Mounds of sliced fruit rose on either side of her like sands in the scales of justice.

  “You’re making another pie?” Petra asked, dropping her trusty boho bag to the Italian tiled floor. She leaned against the terracotta-pink refrigerator and crossed her arms.

  “Daughters who like their mothers,” Heather Greene continued, raising her knife a second time, “don’t go around dressed like that. Daughters who like their mothers ( chop-chop-chop!) care how they look. Because how they look ( chop-chop-chop!) reflects how they were raised!”

  “Why is Mommy mad?” Sofia tugged on the back of Petra’s skirt.

  “Mommy is unhappy with Petra’s choice of attire, darling,” Heather explained.

  “What’s attire?!” yelled Isabel from the other room.

  “Isabel, VOLUME!” Heather bellowed from the kitchen sink, squeezing her eyes shut. After a tense pause, Isabel appeared in the doorway, struggling with the twisted strap of her navy blue pinafore. “What’s attire?” she silently mouthed to Petra.

  “She doesn’t like what I’m wearing,” Petra replied, kneeling to untangle her sister’s strap.

  “But me and Sofie picked it!”

  “Yeah,” Sofia echoed softly. At four and a half, Sofia’s sole duty involved saying “yeah” after everything her six-and-one-quarter-year-old sister said. She took her job very seriously.

  “Sofie and I,” their mother corrected, turning to Petra. “Is this true?”

  “Isabel’s upset about having to wear a uniform now, so I told her, if she wanted, she could choose my clothes for me. It’s not like I care.”

  “I can be as imaginative as I want!” Isabel declared with a sassy purse of her lips.

  “I see,” Heather forced a smile, flicking her eyes up and down Isabel’s latest selection. Petra was dragging around a long hemp skirt in a dusty shade of brown. She paired it with a rainbow-striped strapless leotard and a 1950s apron in yellow chiffon. Ripped yellow chiffon. Her hair hung in two tangled braids — one slightly thicker than the other — tied with wrapping-paper ribbons.

  Heather looked away from her eldest daughter and ripped open a bag of Sugar in the Raw. “Don’t you have that first meeting of your fashion class today?”

  “Yes.” Petra grimaced. She still couldn’t believe she’d been roped into such a stupid waste of time.

  Her mother, however, had been thrilled.

  “Don’t you think you should wear something that expresses your sense of style, not your six-year-old sister’s?” She emptied the sugar into a large metal bowl, releasing a sound like faraway school bells. “I know! What about that darling Miu Miu sundress we bought in Florence?”

  “You mean the darling Miu Miu sundress you bought,” Petra reminded her mother. “Expressing your sense of style, not mine?”

  Heather sighed over her rolling pin, sinking all ninety-one pounds of her body weight into a pale glob of dough. “What happened to you?” she asked. She directed her gaze toward Isabel and Sofia, widening her eyes for dramatic effect. “Who stole my daughter, my beautiful daughter, and replaced her with this derelict?” The two little girls — who found grown-up vocabulary hysterical — erupted into giggles. Heather smiled, delighted. Petra barely noticed the whole exchange. She was too busy staring at the rose-pink marble counters, at the lopsided piles of flour and apples and sugar, the cracked eggshells, empty and oozing. The sight filled her with dread. Petra’s mother only baked when she wasn’t eating. And she only wasn’t eating when she wasn’t taking her medication.

  “Mom. Didn’t you make four pies last week?”

  “I like to bake!” Heather trilled, brushing her hands. “And Sheryl’s dinner party is coming up.”

  “Yeah, in three weeks.”

  “I’m perfecting a new recipe, alright? Try not to be so critical.”

  But Petra couldn’t help herself. The first time her mother buckled down to “perfect a new recipe” she’d baked twenty-eight pies in one weekend. Soon after, she left for what Petra’s father, Robert, referred to as a “restorative, relaxation retreat,” and everyone else called “the psych ward.” Three weeks later, when Petra’s mother returned, Robert announced their mutual decision to adopt. According to him, his wife’s depression was due to a “lack of responsibility.” When it occurred to Petra it might have to do with Rebecca, her father’s still-in-college bombshell receptionist, her father just laughed and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Two months later they brought home Isabel and Sofia. And Rebecca was “let go.”

  Petra’s mother ripped a sheet of tin foil from its long, rectangular box, wielding it like a shield. “Now, which side goes up?” Petra heard her say absently. “Shiny or dull?”

  “Shiny!” Sofia and Isabel clapped, jumping up and down. As a general rule, her younger daughters preferred the bright side.

  “I’ll be right back,” Petra announced to her mother. She slipped out of the kitchen and punched 3 on her cell. “Dr. Greene’s office,” dripped a syrupy voice on the other line. “Please hold . . .” Before she could say okay, Petra was connected to a blast of vibrant, call-waiting violins: Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. (As an inside joke to his patients, Dr. Greene only played one season — spring — on repeat.)

  Click.

  “Dr. Greene’s office,” the voice repeated like a machine.

  “Vicki?” Petra asked.

  “This is Amanda.”

  “Can I talk to Vicki, please?” Vicki, a cheerful, brassy blonde in her fifties, had been her father’s receptionist for the past three years. She wore glitter eye shadow and punctuated her laughs with a hacking cough. The chances of Petra’s father making a pass for Vicki were zero to none (not that Vicki would have him).

  “Vicki left a couple of months ago,” Amanda sighed. “May I help you?” Petra cupped her hand to the receiver and turned to the wall.

  “Hello?” Amanda sighed.

  “I’m sorry, but . . . what do you look like?” Petra blurted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pet, darling?” Heather called. At the sound of her voice, Petra almost dropped her phone. She found the END button with her thumb and slowly exhaled, then returned to the kitchen.

  “You’re going to be late,” her mother observed.

  “Sorry.” Petra watched her mother pinch foil around the edges of a baking tray.

  The dull side was up.

  At sixteen, Petra still didn’t have her license. Not because she’d failed the permit test (she’d missed only one question). And not, as everyone assumed, because of the environment (her parents promised her the brand-new hybrid of her choice). She didn’t drive because she was scared. And the longer she went without a license, the more scared she got. And the more scared she got, the more she was just like her mother.

  Which scared her the most.

  “Good morning,” Lola, the girls’ nanny, chirped as Petra slipped into the front seat of the Greenes’ gargantuan black Hummer. “Everybody ready?”

  “YES!” Sofia and Isabel called from the backseat, squirming behind their seat belts.

  “Almost,” Petra said. “Iz? Hand me a soda, please?”

  “ ’Kay.” Isabel used both hands to pull open the built-in mini-fridge. Petra stretched her hand behind her.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, resting an icy Hansen’s Grapefruit soda in the lap of her textured hemp skirt. She looked out the window as Lola reversed down the drive. Petra’s home could best be described as the mutant love child of the Capitol Building and a New Orleans whorehouse — an overstuffed monstrosity of white columns and wrought iron, French windows and balconies and glacial staircases. The exterior walls were the creamy pink-orange color of sherbet. The hedges were stiff, symmetrical cubes. And then, in the center of it all — surrounded by sparkling white gravel and half-moon plots of petunias — her father’s pride and joy: a two-
ton marble sculpture of Aphrodite . Dr. Greene loved to show her off to his guests, pointing out her “many” physical flaws. “You see?” he’d chuckle, patting the statue’s bulbous bottom. “Even the Goddess of Beauty could use some improvement.”

  Petra pressed her forehead to the window, allowing the bumps in the road to rattle her brain. She imagined one day they’d rattle her sanity right out.

  Maybe they already had.

  As soon as Lola dropped her off at Winston Prep’s shaded south side entrance, Petra beelined for the gymnasium. The back of the gym bordered the base of a steep muddy hill; after climbing just a little ways, she could disappear from sight. She hung on to a tree branch and pulled her way up, crouching among the decomposing leaves, then cracked open her soda and emptied it on the ground. The clear liquid fizzed, scurrying downhill in rivulets. Petra pulled a bobby pin from a tangle of hair, poked it into the top of the can and made a small puncture. She could make a pipe out of anything: cans, apples, shampoo bottles, corncobs, dictionaries. At age sixteen, Petra was to pipes what Martha Stewart was to centerpieces.

  She sprinkled a small amount of weed over the puncture and, using the glassy blue lighter Theo gave her during their class trip to Joshua Tree, lit up. She pulled the smoke into her lungs until her throat itched, closed her eyes, and listened to Coach Bennett yell over the steady drum of basketballs, the squeak of tennis shoes, the sproinggg of missed baskets.

  “Lemme see some hustle, now! Lemme see some hustle! Remember, you’re a winner! You’re a winner! You’re a winner! You’re a winner!”

  Petra exhaled: winner . . . dinner . . . thinner . . . sinner . . . spinner . . . grinner . . .

  The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

  The Getup: Anna Sui silk dress with yellow rose print, ivory slip with antique lace trim, moss green cashmere ballet shrug, green Charlotte Ronson platforms, gold teardrop earrings

  When it came to the subject of Janie Farrish, Evan was oddly mute. In fact, the more questions Charlotte asked, the more he seemed to clam up. By the time she got down to the final three, his answers had devolved into something close to caveman grunts.

  Charlotte: Did you flirt with her?

  Evan: Ayanug.

  Charlotte: Do you think she’s pretty?

  Evan: Ayanug.

  Charlotte: You didn’t kiss her, did you?

  Evan: Gog! Wudjujusleemeyuhlone?

  Fortunately, in addition to French, Charlotte was fluent in caveman. She understood Evan perfectly. Her brother not only found Janie attractive, he liked her. Which meant Janie Farrish singlehandedly achieved the dream of every girl at Winston Prep. (Every girl except Charlotte, of course.) Kate had been after Evan since she was old enough to walk. Laila amassed a not-so-secret collection of his old boxer shorts. And, three years ago, when Evan first left Winston to attend boarding school in New Hampshire, Aiden Reese cried until she lost her voice.

  Charlotte felt optimistic. Janie must have gleaned Evan’s feelings by now, which meant, most likely, her Ugly Duckling Complex was slowly, surely on its way out. All Charlotte had to do now was swoop in and seal the deal. She would laugh at Janie’s jokes. She would compliment her shoes. She would ask her what shampoo she used. The goal was to boost confidence levels to an all-time high. If she played her cards right, Janie’s grudge would be ancient history by lunch.

  Charlotte arrived at school in a tight, high-waisted Anna Sui dress with a handmade print of bright yellow roses. She had cut the roses from the border of an antique tablecloth, then — with painstaking patience — embroidered them into the dress. The occasional flower she adorned with a silver sequin, creating the effect of morning dew. Charlotte liked to redefine her clothes with a personal touch. That way everything she wore was one of a kind.

  According to her research, yellow roses symbolize new beginnings, forgiveness, and friendship. Charlotte got out of her cream-colored Jaguar, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. If Janie forgave her by lunch, she and Jake could take their relationship to the next level as early as fourth period. The mere thought filled Charlotte to the brim. She twirled into a little pirouette, right there in the middle of the Showroom.

  But then something happened.

  Charlotte spotted Jake by the Winston Willows and threw him a wave — a wave so great and sweeping and joyous that, for a moment, her hand became her heart. When her hand opened up, so did her heart. When her hand flew around, so did her heart. And together they were bursting: hello, hello, a million times hello!

  But Jake didn’t wave back. He took one look, sidestepped into the locker jungle, and disappeared from view.

  If he was trying to be funny, Charlotte forgot to laugh.

  She lowered her hand to her side. Her friends bit their lips in that sucks-to-be-you way.

  “What?” Charlotte snapped.

  “Nothing,” they chirped together.

  “Maybe he just didn’t see you,” Kate offered, her lips twitching into a smile. She quickly hid her mouth behind her hand.

  “Of course he didn’t see me.” Charlotte frowned, smoothing the skirt of her silk dress. “The sun was totally in his eyes.”

  Two hours later, they crossed paths in the Breezeway, but while Charlotte smiled and slowed down, Jake just kept on going. “Hey.” He cleared his throat, turning to face her. But still he kept on walking, one foot behind the other, stumbling backward — as if sucked into a vacuum. “I’m . . . I have to . . .” He pointed his thumb behind his shoulder. Charlotte stared. Last night, after they kissed (that first heart-stopping, laundry room kiss!), Jake had put his hand to the side of her face. He’d slid his thumb along the arc of her eyebrow, down the slope of her cheek until, finally, achingly, he’d found her mouth. Charlotte could still taste his thumb on her lips.

  And now he was pointing it toward the door?

  “I’ve got to . . . I’ll see you . . . ,” Jake sputtered, affecting utter helplessness. And just like that, he was gone.

  Okay, Charlotte calmed herself. Maybe he’s late for class. Maybe he feels sick. Or maybe — even though it would have to change course, shine through a window, and refract off a mirror — the sun got in his eyes.

  It wasn’t until he arrived to AP Physics and sat on the opposite side of the room that Charlotte forced herself to accept the obvious. Jake Farrish was stonewalling her. While Mrs. Bhattacharia droned on about the law of inertia, Charlotte ripped off a tiny square of paper and smoothed it on her desk. Winston banned the use of cell phones in class, so everyone resorted to the old-school tradition of passing notes. Passing notes was annoying. Not only was the act time-consuming and high-risk, it was also a huge waste of paper. Last April, the entire student body rallied to overturn the “no cell phones” rule. Their “Save a Treo, Save a Tree” campaign proved ineffective.

  Charlotte shielded her tiny square of paper with a cupped hand. In the most microscopic letters she could manage, she wrote:

  She prodded Kate with her pen and handed her the note. Charlotte watched her note bob from desk to desk. By the time it got to Jake she felt a little seasick. But she kept her eyes fixed, waiting for Jake’s reaction. When after a few minutes he didn’t look up, Charlotte surrendered and stared at the cover of her AP Physics textbook. She had nothing to do now but wait. He had to be writing some kind of lengthy, detailed explanation. Why else would he take such a long time?

  At long last, she felt the point of Kate’s pencil on her elbow and turned around. She snatched the note and pressed it to her lap, unwrapping with the care she would show a box from Tiffany.

  Charlotte turned around for eye contact. Jake continued to stare at the board.

  “Okay . . . it just seems like you are,” she wrote back, prodding Kate a second time. And then Charlotte stared at the chalkboard. Because Jake wasn’t the only one who could stare at a chalkboard as if it held the key to the universe, okay?

  When the note came back, Charlotte left it on the corner of her desk, refusing to read it until — as Mrs. Bhattacharia
requested of her class — she opened her textbook to page thirty-eight. She unfolded the note, doing her best to look calm.

  When class was over, Jake passed her desk and yanked one of her curls. His touch. She melted with relief, looked up and smiled.

  But he was already out the door.

  Charlotte showed up to the first meeting of The Trend Set ten minutes early. Showing up anywhere ten minutes early — let alone to something as lame as The Trend Set — could only mean one thing: she was depressed. Charlotte wanted nothing more than to sit on the windowsill and contemplate her sad, pathetic fate. The sky was blue. The courtyard was empty. The weeping willows drooped with a weight as heavy as her heart.

  And then, out of nowhere, there he was. She watched him walk toward the center of the courtyard. His eyes were on the ground, his hand to the strap of his backpack. He kicked at something she couldn’t see. Then he stopped and looked around. A shadow pointed from the toes of his Converse like the hand of a clock. He was alone.

  Who was he looking for? Was he looking for her?

  Before she could get her hopes up, Janie entered stage left, ruining the whole picture. She ran to his side and stopped, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating. While she steamed like a teapot, Jake nodded, looking solemn. He appeared to be agreeing to something. But to what?

  Charlotte unfolded Jake’s note for maybe the eighty-eighth time that day.

  Her gift for analysis clicked into gear. If “it” (meaning the weirdness) had nothing to do with “her” (meaning Charlotte), then “it” (meaning the weirdness) had to do with someone else. Someone close. Someone with influence. Someone with an opinion that mattered.

  Someone like Janie.

  As recently as yesterday, Jake was torn between two allegiances: love and family. As recently as yesterday, he’d been leaning toward love. But now, without warning, the tables had turned. With total disregard for her pores, Charlotte pressed her forehead to the glass. Janie was still out there, ordering him around.