by Compai
“At the park?!” Melissa trembled with rage. “Are you for real?!”
“Vivien’s just trying to help.” Seedy patted her arm.
“Daddy!” Melissa whirled on her father. “I am launching a label! Not a piñata!”
“Well she can’t have the party here!” Vivien declared.
“I’m not having it here!”
“Seedy!” Vivien pleaded.
“Would you please listen to me?!” Melissa screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’m having it at the Prada store!” Her announcement exploded across the family room like a sonic boom. The three of them stared at each other in silence. Vivien stood upright and perfectly still, like a diver at the edge of the board.
“ What did you say?” she whispered.
In last month’s issue of Vogue, Prada described their spring handbag collection as, “chic, intelligent . . . very modern. Simply put: the Anti–Ho Bag.” For days, Vivien staggered around in shock. She felt like she’d been spiked through the heart. To make her feel better, Seedy banned everything Prada from the house. Even the word itself.
“I’m sorry,” Melissa apologized to her father, only his head was back in his hands. “I meant to say the P-word store.”
“Did you put this together for her?” Vivien squeaked with an accusing glare. Seedy held his hands up in surrender.
“Don’t look at me.”
“Okay.” Vivien nodded. “I won’t.” She turned on the heel of her pink Ugg and headed for the doorway. “I’ll never look at you again!”
Seedy got to his feet, fixing his daughter with a severe stare.
“It was Charlotte’s idea,” Melissa blurted. “Please don’t be mad.”
“Charlotte?” Seedy furrowed his brow. “Who’s Charlotte?”
“My colleague. For my, I mean, our fashion label.”
“Your colleague,” Seedy repeated, his face melting with gradual pride. He shook his head and planted a kiss on the crown of his only daughter’s head. “Alright,” he said.
As her father shuffled off in the direction of his high-maintenance fiancée, Melissa smiled. Without wasting another second, she pulled her white Special Studies binder from her black Fendi tote and flipped it open. At the top of the page she’d written “Word Ideas for New Label.” She pressed her purple pen to the end of a growing list. She had one more word and letter to consider. T.
For Triumph.
The Girl: Janie Farrish
The Getup: Used Diesel jeans, army-green Converse All-Stars, Joe Peep’s Pizza 100 percent cotton t-shirt, bright orange baseball helmet
If you’re a Valley kid, chances are you’ve spent a few birthdays of your life at the Sherman Oaks Magic Castle. Among its many treasures, the Magic Castle counts three miniature golf courses, an arcade, bumper boats, batting cages, a few half-dead, squawking ducks, and a moat. Everything, including the ducks, dates back to 1976. The grounds smell like chlorine, peanut shells, Dr Pepper, and sweat. The only thing castle-like about Magic Castle is the moat and drawbridge. The only thing magic about it is nothing.
Can you blame Janie for being surprised when her brother stopped by her bedroom door and asked her if she’d like to go?
“What about Tyler?” Janie asked, looking up from her desk. “Don’t you have guy friends anymore?”
“Do you wanna come or what?”
Fifteen minutes later they were there.
“So” — she smirked, tucking her glossy brown hair into her rented baseball helmet — “this is what you do with your Sunday nights.”
“Whatever, dude.” Jake pointed at her with his bat. “You’re here too.”
“What about Charlotte?” Janie minced, tossing her brother a token. “Shouldn’t you be with her?”
The coin ricocheted off Jake’s hand.
“I don’t know.” He swept the coin from the ground and dropped it in his worn-out jeans’ pocket.
“Is it true you’re ignoring her?”
“What?” Jake stepped into a fierce-looking practice swing and frowned. “Who told you that?”
“She did.”
“Great.” He sighed. All he’d needed was a little time to think. Now he was “ignoring” her?
Jake swung the gate to the batter’s box and slammed his way inside.
“Hell- lo?” His sister pointed to the sign above the gate. “You’re in the one-hundred-miles-per-hour zone?”
“Yeah.” Jake shook the token into the meter. “I can read.”
The batting machine whirred to life like an enormous electric fan. Jake readied his bat and stared ahead. He could hear the ping of distant pitches, the rattle of the chain-link fence, the clap-’n’-holler of nice dads, the clap-’n’-holler of jerk dads. Jake blocked it out, focusing until — all at once — the ball popped, hurtling toward him like a comet. He swung.
He missed.
“This is way too fast!” Janie yelled, clutching the fence behind him.
“Thanks for the report, Dr. Obvious!” Jake scowled, tapping the plate. The second pitch sang by him before he could even lift the bat. He clenched his jaw. He could do this. He could do this. All he had to do was want it.
Ten minutes later the batting machine rattled and slowed to a wheezing stop. Jake tipped his head back, staring through the ratty veil of black netting to the sky. Twenty-five pitches. Twenty-five chances.
He had missed every one.
“DAMMIT!” He threw his bat to the ground. Janie peered around anxiously. One did not just throw their bat at Magic Castle. Throwing one’s bat at Magic Castle was like an act of high treason. People got kicked out. Jake glared at the 100 mph sign and balled up his fist.
Janie gasped.
But it was too late. He had already sent his fist flying. “OW!” he warbled, wringing his hand like a limp dishrag. Janie blinked at the battered sign, wondering which of the many small dents was the one left by her brother. She couldn’t believe he’d just punched a sign. What did he think this was? A musical number in West Side Story?
“Are you okay?” she asked once her brother stopped cursing. She unlatched the gate, approaching him in timid steps.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, picking the balls out with the toe of his Converse. They rolled down the long slope of concrete like beads of sweat.
“Well, don’t be upset. No one can hit a hundred miles per hour.”
“Some people can.”
“Not unless they practice,” Janie pointed out.
“I don’t have enough time to practice!” Jake cried in pure wolf-man despair.
She stepped aside, allowing him to steam through the parking lot, hands heavy in his pockets, kicking bottle caps, ticket stubs, candy wrappers — any little thing that got in his way. What had gotten into him?
When Janie found Jake, he was slumped in the driver’s seat with the windows rolled up, picking at a patch of duct tape on the lower left-hand dash. She opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “Jake,” she began quietly, watching her brother clench and unclench his jaw. “What’s going on?”
He hooked his finger to the lip of the steering wheel and sighed. “Nothing.”
“Jake.” Janie leaned in confidentially. “You’re listening to Jewel.”
He laughed. “I know, dude.”
“You hate Jewel,” she reminded him. At this point, she was truly concerned.
Jake didn’t respond. He was too busy thinking about Nikki. Nikki and her shy smile. Nikki and her big blue eyes. Nikki and her little red team shorts. She was nowhere near as hot as Charlotte, but wasn’t that exactly the point? Nikki made him feel safe. Like he could kiss her without shaking. Like he could touch her and not pass out. Like he might be able to see her naked without dissolving into a completely spastic dork-meister.
The more he thought about making out with Nikki, the better it sounded. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t want to be with Charlotte. He did.
He just needed to get some practice in first.
“Jake,” Jan
ie interrupted his thoughts, “I think we should go?”
He reached for the door. “Just one more round, okay?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated.
“Relax.” Jake smiled, cracking the door. “I’ll stick with the easy pitches.”
“The second session of The Trend Set — which is a working title, subject to change — is now in session,” Melissa announced, rapping her wooden desk with a small silver Tiffany hammer.
“Okay, what is that?” Charlotte asked from her designated spot on the windowsill.
“It’s a gavel,” Melissa answered with a hard look. “In case certain people get out of order.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Charlotte replied innocently, smoothing the skirt of her black lace baby-doll pinafore. She’d paired the pinafore with a silk shirt with cap sleeves and a mao collar. The collar was marcasite gray, the same as her peep-toe flats. Everything else was black. It wasn’t conscious, but — ever since Jake went AWOL — Charlotte’s outfits grew progressively darker, swallowing her up like a cloud. Her red patent leather belt and matching Hermès clutch were the only evidence of a happier, sunnier life. It was just a matter of time before they were swallowed up too.
“So,” Melissa continued, hooking the silver gavel to her new Gucci tool belt. The belt sat low on her hips, emphasizing the waist of her pink faded Joe’s jeans. To complete her “construction worker goes to Milan” look, she tucked the jeans into her tan Manolo Timberlands with the spiked heels. “Did everyone come up with a super-great word for our label?”
She picked up a piece of bright blue chalk and turned toward the wall. “Mine’s D,” Melissa announced, scrawling the letter on the board. She brushed her hands. “For Diva.”
When no one volunteered to go next, Melissa looked at Janie.
“Oh, mine’s T,” Janie coughed up. “For Tall.”
“Tall?” Melissa fluttered her eyes shut and tried to breathe. How boring could one person get? Before she could object, Petra made things ten times worse.
“Mine’s U,” she announced. “As in Ugly.”
Melissa stared in disbelief. Petra was wearing a paint-smeared blue canvas smock over jeans and brown pleather “goddess” sandals. Her shoes looked comfortable, a quality Melissa found deeply suspicious. After all, what was comfortable but another word for . . .
“Ugly,” Melissa repeated. “You want the word ugly to be associated with our label.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“This is a fashion label, okay? The whole point of fashion is, like, the opposite of ugly.”
Petra held her ground. “I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”
“Fine,” Melissa surrendered, wielding the blue chalk like a dagger. She slashed the board in angry strokes. By the time she finished, the chalk had broken twice. She turned to Charlotte and braced herself. “Please have something good.”
“Mine’s R.” Charlotte shrugged. “As in Rich.”
Melissa exhaled. “ Thank you.”
“Typical,” Petra grumbled from her place on the floor. “All anyone cares about at this school is money.”
“I’d like to point out rich can also mean decadent,” Charlotte replied. “As in this crème brulée is so rich.”
Petra rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s how you meant it.”
“Okay,” Melissa began, going over their list of words. “We got a D, a U, a T, and an R. Anyone get a word from that?”
The girls stared at the letters for what seemed like a very long time. Outside the closed door, the high-pitched shrieks of a few ninth-grade girls rose and fell. Then, after a moment of passing footsteps, it was quiet again.
“Oh,” Janie exclaimed, instantly regretting it. She really didn’t mean to say “oh” out loud.
“What?” Melissa asked, moving to the front of the desk.
“No.” Janie shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Oh, come on.” Melissa stamped her work-boot heel. “What?”
“Um . . .” Janie stuttered after a tense pause. She couldn’t take the pressure of Melissa’s stare much longer. “It, um . . . it kind of spells . . . you know . . .”
“Oh, spit it out!” Charlotte groaned.
Janie swallowed. “It spells turd.”
“What?” Melissa whirled toward the board. “It does not!”
“It totally does.” Petra cackled with delight. “Omigod, that’s awesome.”
“No, that is not awesome!” Melissa sputtered. Here she was, organizing the launch party of a lifetime, and for what? A start-up fashion company called Tall Ugly Rich Diva? Aka TURD? No, no, no, and hell’s no! “We have to come up with a new set of words. Right now.”
“Do we have to?” Petra whined. “My brain hurts.”
“Wow, I feel for you.” Melissa frowned with contempt. “I really, really do. But unfortunately, no one else is gonna do the thinking for us!”
“Well, maybe they should,” Charlotte replied, failing to contain her exasperation.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Not unless you think good business strategy is funny.”
Melissa sighed and collapsed into her seat. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Alright.” Charlotte nodded. “Since we’re having so much trouble with a name, why don’t we do something like hold a contest? Whoever comes up with the best name for our label could, like, get something.”
“Like what?” Petra asked, lifting her disheveled head from her folded arms.
“I don’t know.” Charlotte shrugged. “Like a t-shirt?”
“A t-shirt.” Melissa nodded in agreement, pacing the room. “Like, a couture t-shirt with the name of the label?” Melissa drew an imaginary line across her chest, indicating the label in question.
“Exactly.” Charlotte also nodded. “Not only do label t-shirts look professional and designer, they also provide free advertising.”
Melissa clapped her hands. “Whoever wears the shirt will become a walking billboard!”
“As long as the shirt’s one hundred percent cotton and sweatshop labor–free . . . ,” Petra began.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Melissa consented hurriedly. “So,” she continued, “we’re all agreed on the t-shirt?”
“Yay,” Charlotte sang.
“Yay,” Petra chimed in.
“Um . . .” Janie stared into her lap. What about making a couture dress? she couldn’t help thinking. Not only was a couture dress a much better item than a t-shirt, she could secretly lend it to Amelia. Amelia would have her dress for Spaceland, The Trend Set would have their “thing,” and everyone would be happy. Then again, the t-shirt idea had been Charlotte’s. If Janie dissented, she could only imagine what Pompidou-themed ills were in store.
“Well?” Charlotte asked with a catlike smile. Janie’s heart fluttered like a canary.
“Yay,” she answered in a weak whisper.
Melissa thwacked the desk with her silver gavel.
“Alright!” She pumped her fist. “If you guys wanna e-mail me your guest lists tonight, I’ll go ahead and put the invitations together. You can reach me on my Web site: www.MoonWalksOnMan .com. Peace.”
As Melissa sashayed toward the exit, the bell rang long and loud and clear.
The Girl: Amelia Hernandez
The Getup: Oversized vintage red-and-white striped shirt, white leather belt with silver hoop buckle, gray skinny Lux jeans, vintage red pointy-toe pumps, silver bangles, red plastic hoop earrings
“What do you think?” Amelia asked, tilting the Goodwill’s rickety mirror to get a better view of her black leather–clad ass. “I’m looking for a Debbie Harry in her heyday sorta thing.”
When Amelia started Creatures of Habit, her first priority — after securing actual living, breathing band members — was to buy a badass pair of black leather pants. But after eight months of solid searching, she remained without a badass pair of black leather pants. She was an embarrassment to her profession. A doctor without a la
b coat. A sailor without a cap. A drag queen without a frosted wig.
Whenever she got close to giving up, she’d settle down to a long night of VH1’s We Love the Eighties, and that was all it took. Her craving for leather would start all over again. With one eye on the TV, she’d call up Janie and demand they meet on Melrose, Venice Beach, or — in today’s case — the Goodwill on Magnolia Boulevard.
“Who’s Debbie Harry?” Janie asked, peering from behind a rack of old summer camp t-shirts. She’d been considering a sky-blue t-shirt with a picture of a beaver, a boat, and a rainbow.
“Are you kidding me?” Amelia stopped, appalled at her ignorance. “The lead singer of Blondie!”
“I thought her name was Blondie.”
“Omigod.” Amelia pressed her hand to her head and a collection of bangles slid down her wrist. “Who are you?”
“Whatev.” Janie frowned, her hand on the t-shirt rack. “You look like Ashlee Simpson in those pants.”
Amelia gasped. “I do?” She darted into the fitting room, slamming the door behind her. Janie laughed at the sight of her staggering feet under the door. When it came to removing Ashlee Simpson from her body, Amelia refused to spare a single second.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you!”
“What?” Janie asked.
Amelia emerged from the fitting room in less than ten seconds. “I got the invitation to your launch party last night.”
“Oh no. Don’t laugh.”
“I’d never,” Amelia said, reexamining her reflection sans pants. “It’s just . . . you realize I can’t make it.”
“What?” Janie fought off a spasm of panic. “Why not?”
“It’s the same night as my show.”
“What?!” Janie squawked.
Amelia shook her head. “I had a feeling you didn’t realize.”
Janie wandered to a corner bench and collapsed. She stared ahead in a daze. “I can’t believe this.”
Amelia put her arm around her friend. A single tear formed in the corner of her right eye. She couldn’t believe she was missing Amelia’s show. She might as well give up on seeing Paul Elliot Miller ever again.