by Compai
What was she saying?
Unfortunately, Charlotte could only imagine. And what she imagined stung her with rage. Of course, after so much pain and confusion, wrath was a welcome relief. Wrath sucked the blue sadness from her veins and filled them with new hot poison. She felt alive. She felt powerful.
By the time Janie stepped into the classroom, the roses on Charlotte’s silk dress glowed like yellow lights. And as anyone who passed a California driver’s test can tell you: yellow lights mean Slow Down, Proceed with Caution.
Janie had no idea what she was in for.
Janie sat at her desk and sketched a pointy high heel. When she wasn’t sure what to draw, she drew pointy high heels. She left them on Post-its by the phone, paper menus in coffee shops, the corners of homework assignments. She dropped them like a trail of pointy crumbs. She could draw them with her eyes closed. Not that she dared to close her eyes. Not when they were there, waiting like lions before the kill. At this point, Janie felt too nervous to blink.
In the front of the classroom, Melissa Moon perched sidesaddle on the teacher’s desk and perused the latest Vanity Fair. Her low-rise jeans and melony terry-cloth tube top framed a narrow stretch of rock-hard midriff, made terrifyingly toned by a summer of Krav Maga. Stars of light refracted from her chandelier earrings, her silver spiked heels, the “accidentally” exposed strap of her jeweled thong. All, however, was muted by the shine of her MAC Lipglass. Janie imagined the La Brea Tar Pits a thousand years from now, when paleontologists found Melissa’s two lips, perfectly preserved, like mosquitoes in a glob of amber.
Charlotte chose the edge of the windowsill as her perch, staring outside like a Burmese cat. Her tight satin dress showed off a spray of yellow roses. She’d cinched the waist with a slim black belt. As usual, she looked petite, precious, and pastry-sweet. Just looking at her made Janie a bit sick to her stomach.
Janie was wearing an extra-long turquoise tank, a pair of boot-cut Levi’s, and her beat-up yellow Pumas. She realized it was boring, but — after the whole miniskirt debacle — she’d developed a new appreciation for boring.
“Okay,” Melissa sighed, checking the clock. She closed the magazine in her lap with a decisive slap. “I guess I’ll take roll.”
Janie released an airy laugh. She wasn’t serious — was she?
“Charlotte Beverwil?” Melissa propped a glittery white notebook against her hip and positioned her purple pen.
“Here,” Charlotte answered.
“Janie Far-eesh?”
“Fair-ish,” Janie corrected her.
“Yeah — is Janie Farrish here?”
“Here,” Janie replied to her sketchbook. Hundreds of high heels swarmed the page like bees.
“Petra Greene?”
“Oh, come on, Melissa,” Charlotte grumbled from the windowsill. “ Not here. Obvie.”
“Excuse me, but if we’re gonna take this class seriously, we need structure.”
Charlotte spat up a small, rueful laugh. “This class is a joke.”
Melissa glared with the intensity of a hair-removing laser. “Melissa Moon,” she continued through clenched teeth. “Present.”
“Heya!” Petra leaned her somewhat bleary face into the room. “Is this . . . ?” The three girls waited as Petra took sudden interest in a beam of sunlight.
“The Trend Set,” Janie finished the sentence for her.
“That is a tentative title,” Melissa snipped, while Charlotte scoffed into the window. Melissa ignored her. “You are late,” she informed Winston’s favorite stoner princess.
“Whoops!” Petra smiled, dropping a dented soda can into the blue recycling bin. “Sorry.” As she found her seat on the floor, Melissa jotted something into her binder.
“Did you just mark me late?” Petra looked up from the lap of her bedraggled skirt.
“Are you or are you not late?” Melissa slammed the binder shut. She proceeded to distribute a series of photocopied packets to the three girls. “Now that we are all here, we have to decide what we’re all here for.”
Charlotte held her packet like a dripping trash bag. “What is this?”
“Copies of our Special Studies applications. Miss Paletsky thought it would be a good idea if we got acquainted with . . . excuse me?”
Janie followed Melissa’s indignant stare to the corner of the room, where Petra had curled into a tiny ball. At the sound of her voice, the tiny ball twitched with laughter.
“What the hell is so funny?” Melissa demanded.
Petra shook her head and looked up, eyes dancing. “It’s just . . . I can’t believe you actually marked me late!”
“It is pretty lame,” Charlotte agreed.
“It is not lame!” Melissa retorted.
“Ch’ello Trend Set!” Miss Paletsky leaned her face into the room. She was wearing an apple-and-worm earring set and purple eye shadow. Her hair was pulled back into a banana clip. (A banana clip!) “How’s the first meeting going?”
“Good!” the girls replied in chorus, forcing their smiles.
“Wonderful,” Miss Paletsky smiled, turning from the door. They waited for her footsteps to disappear down the hall.
“I don’t know about y’all,” Melissa broke the silence, “but I’m here to start a label. Today. Which means we need to create some buzz. Today.”
The other girls looked at each other as Melissa turned toward the board with a fresh piece of chalk. In huge bubble letters she scrawled out the phrase LAUNCH PARTY.
“I’m sorry” — Petra knit her delicate eyebrows — “but isn’t that getting a little ahead of ourselves?”
“Yeah,” Janie agreed. “Shouldn’t we at least have, like, a product?”
“Okay, by buzz” — Melissa squeezed her eyes shut — “I do not mean irritating, buglike noises in my ear.”
Petra and Janie were quiet.
“At this stage of the game,” Melissa continued, “our sole duty is to create an aura of suspense. We can always figure out what we do later.”
“But . . .” Petra frowned. “If we create suspense and have nothing to show for it, aren’t people gonna be —”
“Annoyed,” Charlotte said.
“Okay, y’all seen that show LOST ?” Melissa asked. The girls nodded. “You think the writers of that show have a clue what they’re doing? You think they have any idea how it’s all gonna end or what it all means? Hell no. But it doesn’t matter. As long as you got suspense, the people are watching, and then . . . bam!” She smacked a fist into her palm. “You gotta a hit.”
“Yes, but that’s television,” Charlotte pointed out. “Who’s to say the same works for fashion?”
“Can you think of a reason why it wouldn’t?” Melissa asked.
Charlotte shrugged.
“Eggs-zackly.” Melissa smiled.
“Ch’ello Trend Set!” Miss Paletsky called as she passed the door a second time.
“Hi!” They all waved. There was another strained pause.
“Okay,” Charlotte exhaled. “We at least need to come up with a new name. ‘The Trend Set’ is killing me.”
“I’m two steps ahead of you,” Melissa declared. “The first part of suspense is coming up with a truly buzz-worthy name. Something smooth. Something foxy. Something irresistible. Any suggestions?”
Without skipping a beat, Melissa shot her hand to the ceiling. “Oh look.” She observed her fluttering fingers. “I call on myself! Okay . . .” She took a breath. “What do you think of naming our label . . . now I’m just throwin’ this out there, ladies!” She paused for effect. “Melissa Moon.”
Petra and Charlotte crowed with laughter.
“Melissa Moon?” Charlotte gagged, wobbling from her precarious perch. She planted a foot on the floor for balance. “Omigod, you have to be joking.”
“Okay, fine.” Melissa ruffled. “If you think you can do better.”
“What about Moral Fiber?” Petra asked. Charlotte and Melissa looked at her, then at each other.
Everyone sat in silence.
Janie drummed up the courage to speak. “Okay. What about something like Gwen Stefani’s label? You know how the first letters of Love Angel Music Baby spells out L.A.M.B.? We could do something like that.”
“Maybe we could be assigned one word each,” Petra suggested.
“Okay,” Melissa replied, slowly warming up to the idea.
“Each word could, like, represent who we are,” Janie added.
“What would yours be?” Charlotte pinned her with a predatory stare. “ P for Pompidou?”
At the sound of that word, Janie’s ears filled with an all-eclipsing white noise. She gripped the sides of her chair. Her eyes prickled with heat. “And yours would be H for Harlotte,” she squeezed out in a gasp.
As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Rule number one with girls more popular than you: swallow their insults and move on. Never, under any circumstances, engage them in combat.
All Janie could do was hope Charlotte hadn’t heard. She was too terrified to look up and find out.
“Okay!” Melissa called as the bell rang. “While you guys brainstorm your words, I’ll put the gears in motion for the launch party. I may need to contact y’all for whatever reason, so please be available on your cell or I swear on my grandmother’s unmarked grave I will come to your house and I will find you. Don’t think I won’t!”
“Melissa,” Petra muttered, “we’re three feet in front of you. Do you have to raise the roof quite so high?”
“Just trying to make room for your big-ass head,” she explained with a sarcastic smile. And then, following Petra, she was out the door.
Which left the two others alone.
“So,” Charlotte began in icy containment. “ Harlotte, hmm? That’s really very clever.”
Janie headed for the door. “Leave me alone,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.
“Leave you alone?” Charlotte laughed at the irony. “What about me?”
Janie turned around. “What have I ever done to you?”
“I don’t know, Janie,” Charlotte oozed with sarcasm, “why don’t you ask Jake?”
Janie blinked back in confusion.
“Oh, don’t pull that innocent crap!” Charlotte spat.
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Janie insisted.
“Jake’s ignoring me,” Charlotte began. Saying it out loud was too much for her. The hot poison of wrath coursed through her in a single pulse. Her temples throbbed. “Tell me what you said!”
Janie shook her head in terror. “Nothing!”
“You’re lying. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You, you really think Jake would ignore you because I told him to?” Janie stuttered in despair. “He’s his own person!”
“What does that have to do with it?” Charlotte glared. “ My brother’s his own person. He does what I ask. In fact,” she scoffed in recollection, “the only reason he deigned to talk to you was ’cause I told him to!”
“That’s not true,” Janie squeaked. The two girls faced each other from opposite sides of the doorway: one short, the other tall, one angry, the other terrified — like reflections in a fun-house mirror.
“Oh come on, Janie. You really think Evan would talk to you unless absolutely forced?”
As Charlotte whisked into the corridor, Janie sank quietly into a chair. She stared ahead, too sick to stand.
At the end of the hall, Charlotte locked herself into a bathroom stall, leaned against the cold metal door, and burst into tears. The look on Janie Farrish’s face haunted her. She just looked confused, not to mention wounded. Charlotte’s anger subsided, freeing her to entertain a new, more terrifying truth. Janie was innocent. And she, Charlotte Sidonie Beverwil, was just a bitch. As the revelation took hold, she spluttered with sorrow.
She felt farther away from Jake than ever.
The Girl: Nikki Pellegrini
The Getup: Track uniform: red nylon shorts with white piping detail, red nylon jersey tank over white Champion sports bra, white Adidas knee socks. Team number: 2
“Click it or ticket, mofos!” Jake called to the jumble of knee-socked eighth-grade girls in his backseat. Nikki, Carly, and Juliet giggled, digging their seat belts from under their poly-blend team-shorted butts. Earlier that afternoon, Janie had cornered Jake in the courtyard and begged him take over her volunteer carpool — just this once. Jake was reluctant — but then she put her hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye, and promised him he could have the Volvo all weekend.
Deal.
He put the car in reverse and looked behind him, stretching his long, lanky arm across the back of the tan vinyl passenger seat. Nikki Pellegrini, who happened to be sitting in that passenger seat, had never been so excited in her life. She closed her eyes, breathing deep the intoxicating scent of Jake Farrish’s Speed Stick. The muscles across her back twitched like rubber bands. His arm was right behind her! If you thought about it (which Nikki most definitely did) his arm was practically around her. For the first time in her life, she was too happy to speak.
Nikki had been in love with Jake Farrish since the first moment she saw him, the second day of seventh grade, one whole year ago. At first, none of her many friends could understand. Sure, Jake was an “older boy.” But could she not see the rancid crust of zits? The weird, pointy elbows? The disgusting rat ponytail? Well, Nikki did see. But she also didn’t. There was something about Jake Farrish that — try as she might — she couldn’t explain.
And then, one day, she didn’t have to. His skin cleared up. His elbows smoothed out. His hair de-puffed into cutely mussed, brunette tufts. Suddenly, everyone could see what Nikki saw from the very beginning: Jake Farrish was absolutely, without-a-doubt adorable. But, as much as she enjoyed the vindication, Nikki also felt possessive. After all, she liked Jake first, and that gave her certain rights. Property rights.
Jake Farrish belonged to her.
“Hey, what’s your name?” he asked, looking right at her. Nikki’s heart somersaulted like a circus poodle.
“Nikki Pellegrini?”
“I got some CDs in there.” Jake nodded to the glove compartment. “You wanna pick one?”
“Sure,” she warbled, leaning to turn the latch. As she pulled out his square black nylon CD case, a tiny oval of cardboard fluttered into her lap. She picked it up and stared. In the middle of the tiny oval was a picture of a pregnant woman. She stood in profile, right smack in the middle of bright-red circle and line. When Jake saw what Nikki had in her hand, he laughed.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “It’s from my Accutane.”
“What’s Accutane?” Nikki’s friend Carly Thorne interrupted from the backseat.
“It’s, um . . . this medication I’m taking. You have to, like, punch out the pills, and one of those cardboard things pops out. It’s supposed to remind me to not get pregnant,” Jake added, raising an eyebrow.
“Um . . . aren’t you a guy?” Carly laughed while Nikki grew dark and seethed. Carly was talking about pregnancy with Jake. Which meant, ever so indirectly, she was talking about sex with Jake. Which meant, ever so indirectly, Nikki would have to kill her.
“Oh, I get it.” Jake nodded with a wry smile. “Just ’cause I’m a guy, I’m not allowed to get pregnant. Well, let me tell you something. Just because traditionally pregnancy is a female role . . .”
“GUYS CAN’T GET PREGNANT!” The backseat brigade screamed in unison.
“You guys are so sexist,” Jake said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. Meanwhile, Nikki could have cried. Her friends had completely taken over! Worse, Eastwood Field was at the end of this street. Which meant she had less than one minute to distinguish herself from the giggling idiots in the backseat.
“Okay, guys,” Jake announced, pulling to the curb, “get the hell out of my car.”
While the rest of the girls spilled out of the backseat, Nikki remained where she
was. She turned toward Jake, willing their eyes to meet. Her heart beat like a sacrificial drum.
“Play this one,” she said, gazing at him as she handed him a CD.
“Oh-kay.” Jake covered up his dismay with a bright smile. “Haven’t listened to Jewel in while. It’s actually my sister’s CD,” he explained. Which she bought me as a joke, he thought.
Nikki pushed open the heavy black door, swinging her legs into the sun. She got to her feet and turned, bending down to face Jake. Was it her imagination, or had his eyes just flicked up from her legs to her face?
“Play track number six,” she blurted before she lost her nerve. Then she shut the door and ran.
Like any self-respecting dude, Jake would rather die in a snake pit than listen to Jewel. And yet, he was curious. Jake sank into his seat, rolled up the windows, pressed PLAY , and turned up the volume.
Inside my heart
There’s an empty room
It’s waiting for lightning
It’s waiting for you
Nikki’s message was pretty clear: she had a crush. And not just any crush. A waiting for lightning crush. Jake smiled to himself. He’d never thought of himself as lightning before. He had to admit, he liked the comparison. Sort of like Zeus.
Jake stared out the window and attempted to relocate Nikki in the crowd. The stampede of eighth-grade girls circled the running track, kicking dust into the air. As the girls neared the car, he rolled down the passenger-side window. They rumbled by him like thunder.
The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil
The Getup: Strapless pearlescent Eres bikini, Marc Jacobs red-frame aviators, peach vintage silk kimono with blossom detail
The Girl (sort of): Don John
The Getup: D&G metallic gold thong bikini with matching stretch headband. Royal purple velvet cape imported from Denmark (costume piece for Hamlet)
Don John needed to practice Hamlet for his second week of Film Actors’ Boot Camp and — so long as he agreed to soliloquize by the pool — Charlotte was happy to listen. The Beverwils’ pool was enormous; unless you stood on the roof, it was impossible to see the whole thing at once. Swimmers were treated to hidden grottos and secret caves, pristine waterfalls and — for parties — an underwater bar. The water was tempered with oil of eucalyptus, dead sea salts, and heated to a perfect 78 degrees all year round.