Poseur

by Compai

  “That’s it?” Melissa gasped. “What are you planning on wearing? A gumball?”

  “This is what we’re going to do, okay?” Janie smiled through clenched teeth. “We are not going to spend money on new clothes with no personality. We are going to hire each other to design something unique.”

  “But . . . ,” Charlotte began.

  “It doesn’t have to be the most amazing thing ever!” Janie cut her off. “Just something. Something that shows our potential. Assuming we even have potential.”

  She kneeled to the ground and scribbled their names on four small squares of notebook paper. Then crumpled the squares into tiny spitballs, cupped the paper wads in her palms, and shook. “Okay. Whoever’s name you get, that’s your design partner.”

  She uncupped her hands, and the girls picked one spitball each. After a moment of uncrinkling, Melissa began the reading of names.

  “I’m supposed to trust her with my outfit?” She pointed at Petra in horror. “No! No way!”

  “Oh, just deal with it, Melissa.” Charlotte tsked, unclasping her pink Chanel coin-purse. She pulled out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Janie. Janie accepted the money, counted the bills, and promptly lost her ability to breathe. Five hundred dollars? Was she serious? Janie glanced at Charlotte for signs of trickery.

  “Just make me something good,” Charlotte requested.

  “Of course,” Janie replied. But she could barely contain her excitement. She folded the bills into tight squares, and tucked them into her dad’s old wallet. When she dropped the bloated billfold into her bag, it tugged with new weight, heavy as a sack of gold.

  “Thanks.”

  Charlotte pinched Janie’s twenty between her fingers like a used Kleenex. “No . . . ,” she smiled. “Thank you!”

  “Fine!” Melissa stormed off. “If that’s how it’s gonna be!”

  “Where are you going?!” Petra called.

  Charlotte checked her platinum Bvlgari wristwatch. “Barneys closes in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m returning my shoes!” Melissa hollered from the curb.

  The remaining ladies looked at each other in surprise. Melissa had just spent the last hour and a half gabbing about the “fabuliciousness” of her latest “necessary” purchase: a pair of black, brass-studded Dolce & Gabbana wedge platform heels — the very last pair in the store.

  “Why?!” Charlotte yelled after her.

  “So I have enough money!” Melissa cried bitterly. “To give to Miss Animal Rights over there!”

  “That’s perfect.” Petra plopped down by the fountain. But Janie smiled, proud of herself.

  Her plan had totally worked.

  Nikki Pellegrini was one of those girls everybody liked. She was the Amanda Bynes of the eighth grade — pretty (but not too pretty), smart (but not too smart). And she was sooooo sweet. As her chain-smoking grandmother, Nikki the First, concluded in a frog-like rasp: nicotine’s the world’s most addictive substance, but Nikki’s a close second.

  But the addiction people had to Nikki was no match for the addiction Nikki had to people. From cool kids to wannabes, jocks to jokesters, brainiacs to hacky-sacks, suck-ups to stuck-ups — no one escaped the click of her mouse. A hefty 384 friends belonged to her MySpace account alone. (Of course, her tally excluded bands, celebrities, and MySpace Tom.)

  Having virtually recruited every member of the seventh and eighth grades, Nikki realized it was high time she conquered the ninth. She figured out a shortcut: she would befriend one supremely popular person in the tenth grade. Once Supremely Popular Tenth Grader was in place, Nikki would place her in the Top Eight, where she would serve as indisputable evidence of Nikki’s coolness. Curious freshman would have to wonder: who was this Nikki? And if Supremely Popular Tenth Grader was her friend, why then, weren’t they?

  Nikki logged onto MySpace.com and entered her Supremely Popular Tenth Grader of choice. She scrolled down the list of inevitable Loser-Charlottes (there was Charlotteandkey, a forty-two-year-old swinger from Austin, CharlotteKisses, a thirteen-year-old cheerleader from Boise, and “ShootingChars,” a fifteen-year-old Scientologist from Tampa), until she found her target: Charlotte_Beaucoup, a ninety-nine-year-old “Other” from Los Angeles. In her thumbnail pic, Charlotte held her cat, a scowling Burmese named Monkey, to her cheek. Charlotte was dressed as a French maid. Monkey was dressed as a feather duster.

  Ever since Jake kissed her in the Showroom, Charlotte had become Nikki’s new obsession. Charlotte had beauty, brains, style, and wit. But most of all she had experience. Behind that sly half-smile was a world Nikki could only dream about — a secret world of jets, Jaguars, and (most of all) Jake. Nikki scrutinized Charlotte’s pic for some kind of clue, analyzing her face like a tarot card. She outlined Charlotte’s features with the point of her cursor. If Nikki couldn’t be close to Jake, then at the very least, she would be close to the girl he loved.

  Do you really want to add Charlotte_Beaucoup as a friend?

  Click “Add” only if you really wish to add Charlotte_Beaucoup as a friend.

  Nikki moved her cursor across the screen and held her breath. She vowed not to exhale until she clicked. She used this technique whenever she had to do something that scared her.

  After twenty-one seconds, Nikki clicked ADD. And then she gasped for air.

  The next day, Charlotte_Beaucoup accepted her as a friend. Within a week the entire ninth grade class and a quarter of the tenth joined Nikki’s network. She now had a staggering 451 friends to her name, including — to her unparalleled joy — Charlotte Beverwil herself. Things couldn’t get better.

  And then things did.

  “You are so lying!” Carly gasped once she shared the news. Nikki, Carly, and Juliet (aka “The Nicarettes”) had spread their bagged lunches on the steps outside the breezeway. The breezeway attracted a lot of foot traffic, which gave Nikki ample opportunity to greet friends should they happen to walk by.

  “She’s not lying,” Juliet sighed, staring into her Smart Water. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  It referred to nothing less than Nikki’s personal invite to The Trend Set’s highly anticipated “Tag — You’re It!” Party. As far as Nikki knew, she was the only eighth grader to have received one (she chalked it up to the Pellegrini charm). The stiff white envelope had arrived sealed with a dollop of pink wax stamped in the shape of a rose. The card inside was a matching shade of pink with a lacquered black border. Nikki ran her fingertip across the raised calligraphy letters. So accustomed was she to evites, an actual invitation was an event in and of itself.

  “What did it say?” Carly asked. Nikki cleared her throat. She’d committed every word to memory.

  As further evidence, she grabbed her new 9502 Caramella bag by LeSportsac, unzipped the front pocket, and slipped out the tag. Carly and Juliet passed it between them, their mouths hanging open. They both looked a little like Nikki’s grandmother after the stroke.

  “I like ‘Shotgun,’ don’t you?” Nikki asked. Her label choice referred to the day she sat shotgun with Jake at the wheel. She licked the foil lid of her peach yogurt and sighed. “I hope I win.”

  Carly pitched the tag into Nikki’s lap. “ How were you invited to this?!” It was less a question than an accusation.

  “MySpace. Charlotte’s one of my friends.”

  Carly stared at Juliet, like, how is that possible?

  “How is that possible?” Juliet asked. Her grilled tofu wrap levitated at her lips.

  “Um . . . I asked her?”

  “B-but,” Carly sputtered. “She just accepted?!”

  “Obvie,” Nikki replied, exasperated.

  As if on cue, Charlotte and Kate Joliet emerged from the breezeway. Kate was wearing a butterfly-print thermal, a distressed denim mini, and tan Frye harness boots. Charlotte was wearing an emerald green camisole, “Ava” skinny jeans, and silver eyelet Twelfth Street flats. “He is not my boyfriend!” She giggled, smacking Kate’s bony excuse for an ar
m.

  “O-ow!” Kate whined, raising her arm to her lips. She gave herself a get-well kiss. “If he’s not your boyfriend,” Kate said, returning her attention to Charlotte, “then what is he?”

  “My friend,” Charlotte answered. “Who happens to be . . . a boy.” At boy, she closed her eyes, savoring the word like candy.

  “You are so full of it.” Kate grinned.

  Charlotte clapped her hands in delight. “I know!”

  As they waltzed by her, Nikki tried to smile, but she felt slightly stunned, like a baby in the presence of two larger-than-life dogs. Charlotte seemed to barely register her presence.

  “Wow, Nikki.” Juliet smirked once the two older girls were gone. “You guys seem pretty tight.”

  “Aka — she has no idea who you are,” Carly snorted in triumph.

  “I look really different in person,” Nikki protested, hoping it was true.

  “Omigod!” Juliet gasped, slapping her hand across her mouth. She looked over at Carly. Her eyes bulged.

  “What?” Carly snapped.

  “Remember seventh grade?” Juliet asked, removing her hand. “When Molly Berger came to my bat mitzvah?”

  “Ew-uh . . . yeah.” Carly cringed. “Why did you invite her? That was so awk.”

  “Because . . .” Juliet paused for effect. “I told my mom to invite everyone on my MySpace list. But I completely forgot I’d accepted Molly Berger as one of my friends. And then, once I remembered, it was too late.”

  “Wait.” Carly frowned. “You accepted her as a friend?”

  Juliet executed her best Sad Face. “I felt bad.”

  “That’s the problem with the Internet,” Carly sighed. “It makes you too nice.”

  “Totally,” Juliet agreed. She turned to Nikki. “You, like, get the moral of this story, right?”

  “I guess.” Nikki frowned. Carly and Juliet shared a knowing glance. They could tell she didn’t have a clue.

  “The moral of the story is” — Juliet touched Nikki on the knee — “Charlotte looked at her MySpace list and invited you by mistake.”

  “And she only accepted you in the first place because she was being nice,” Carly added.

  “Aka — she pitied you.”

  “You’re, like, a random.”

  “A Pity Project.”

  “A Charity Chum.”

  “If you go to this party?” Juliet shook her head. “Everyone’s gonna look at you and be like . . .”

  “What is she doing here?” Carly groaned.

  “Just like Molly Berger,” Juliet finished in her best ghost-story tone.

  Nikki frowned into her lap. Her friends had a point. She probably had been invited by mistake. But was that any reason not to go? What was “mistake” but another word for “incredible stroke of good luck?” What was “incredible stroke of good luck” but another five words for Fate? How could she pass up an opportunity to be near Jake Farrish? And what’s more, be near him in a pretty dress, on a warm September night, at a glamorous party in Beverly Hills? And besides. Maybe she wasn’t invited by mistake. Maybe Charlotte actually wanted her to go!

  “I don’t care,” Nikki declared. “I’m going.”

  “Fine,” Carly shot back with unadulterated contempt. “I would so not go if I were you but that’s just me so whatever.”

  Nikki turned to Juliet. “Do you wanna come? I’m allowed a plus one.”

  Juliet gasped like Miss America. “Are you kidding me?!” she cried, throwing her arms around Nikki’s neck. Carly croaked like she’d swallowed a fly.

  “You asked her?”

  “You said you didn’t want to go,” Nikki reminded her with a tiny smile.

  “Well, I don’t!” Carly huffed, crushing her paper lunch bag into a tiny ball. She tossed it toward a trash can.

  She missed by a mile.

  According to local Valley lore, the tiny shop on the corner of Colfax Street and Riverside Avenue was cursed. It had started out as a shoe repair called “Cinderella’s Shoe Repair.” The elderly shoemaker wore tiny spectacles and a leather apron. Then the shoemaker died and his store got snapped up by a yogurt vender. Within days, the only evidence of the shoemaker’s eighty-eight-year life was the small glass slipper decal on the old glass entrance door. Despite repeated applications of steel wool and nail polish remover by the new owner — the decal survived. His yogurt store did not. Neither did the the B-grade sushi restaurant, the gourmet dog treat bakery, the Boba tea lounge, the tapioca bar, the hammock hut, or the “happy” hookah parlor. Every business failed within three months.

  Then came Bippity Boppity Beads.

  Maybe there’d been a sudden boom in the bead industry, or maybe the store-name’s reference to Cinderella appeased the shoemaker’s ghost; whatever the reason, Bippity Boppity Beads broke the corner store curse. It passed the three-month mark in July and by September was still going strong. Which was very good news.

  Because Janie was obsessed with Bippity Boppity Beads.

  “Aren’t those beautiful?” Elsa, the owner of Bippity Boppity Beads, had asked. Elsa weighed in at two hundred pounds and had the exact same haircut as Richard Gere. She wore a fringed black leather motorcycle jacket and called herself the Bead Baron. “They’re from Moreno,” she added, peering over Janie’s shoulder. The beads in her hand were the murky blue of sea glass.

  “I love them.”

  “They’re ninety-five cents each.” Elsa smiled, showing off her silver caps. “We got them in yesterday.”

  Janie had already made her purchase — fifty red beads from Morocco, fifty black beads from Egypt — but she didn’t let that stop her. She stuck her hand into her canvas tote to scrounge for a few free-floating bills. She couldn’t find any. She scrounged for a few quarters. She couldn’t find any. In the end, she found four pennies, a Magic Castle token, two bobby pins, and a piece of blue lint.

  Janie’s stomach fell into her shoes.

  “I’ll be right back,” she squeaked. She headed for the door, stepped outside, and took a deep breath. If that piece of blue lint meant what she thought it did, then Janie had spent every dime of Charlotte’s five hundred dollars in a matter of two and a half hours. How was that even possible?!

  “Of course it’s possible,” Jake now scoffed. “This is, like, old-school Galileo shit.”

  Whenever he chilled in his sister’s room, Jake leaned against her closet. Leaning against the closet was the best way to avoid looking at the closet, which (let’s be honest) wasn’t so much a closet than a semi-fanatical shrine to Nick Valensi, the guitarist of the Strokes. Nick Valensi’s “achingly perfect” face and “kill me now” forearms graced every inch of the door’s surface, including the brass knob (Jake could only assume it was brass; the knob hadn’t been Valensi-free for years).

  Janie pushed aside her black star-shaped pillows and dumped her afternoon purchases on her bed. “What does Galileo have to do with this?” she asked, staring down at her loot.

  “Well, you know about the theory of gravity, right?”

  “Sort of,” she replied, immediately resenting Jake’s scientific prowess. It was like, how could her brother be so smart and yet so dumb?

  “In the absence of resisting forces,” he explained, “everything falls at the same rate. Same goes with money. In the absence of resisting force, you spend it. It doesn’t matter if it’s, like, two bucks or two thousand — it all goes at the same rate.”

  “Yeah, except — there’s no force that stops people from spending,” Janie pointed out.

  “Yeah, there is. I’m a force.”

  “Omigod.” She peeled with laughter. “Sorry, but you are so not a force.”

  Jake made a sound like a hyena flying around on a broomstick.

  “I do not sound like that!” Janie pitched a bag of red beads at his head. He collapsed into the fetal position.

  “I would’ve been, like: don’t do it, Janie.” Jake shook his head, his voice muffled. “Don’t buy those little red bead things.
They’re dumb. And you would have been, like, wow, Jake. Indeed, you are a force. A force . . . of reason.”

  Janie snatched her bag of beads and scowled. “They are not dumb, okay? They’re a necessary component of my design.”

  He considered her point with a solemn nod. “Dumb.”

  “Get out,” she ordered.

  Jake got to his feet and shuffled for the exit. He paused at his sister’s door and shook his head. “Dumb,” he whispered.

  “JAKE!”

  In a flash, he escaped down the hall.

  Janie shut her door and collapsed against it. She gazed at the mess of material, beads, buttons, safety pins, and thread on her red and black twin bed. Over the last year, she’d made sure everything in her bedroom was either white, red, black, or a combination of the three. Jake kept asking her if she’d invited the White Stripes over for a slumber party (he thought that was super-hilarious), but Janie didn’t care. She thought it looked cool.

  She slid open the top drawer of her white bureau (she’d painted the handles fire-engine red) and looked inside. The enormous vintage British flag she’d bought on eBay was folded inside. It was about twenty times more expensive than a brand-new one — but it was worth it. New flags were made of stiff, synthetic fibers like nylon and polyester. New flags had no history or romance. The vintage flag was made from hand-stitched, 100 percent silk. The vintage flag belonged to a World War II veteran named Perry McCloud. Perry McCloud wrote Janie a personal congratulations upon the date of her purchase.

  Janie sat down on her fluffy sheepskin throw rug and grabbed a pair of shears. She fixed them to a corner of the flag, right at the diagonal of the Union Jack stripe. She sucked in her breath and sliced into the fabric. The scissors stuttered with effort. Her heart beat like a drum. There’s no going back now, she thought, splitting the silk at a faster clip. Suddenly, her vision was clear, so clear she could almost touch it.

  The Girls: Melissa Moon, Charlotte Beverwil, Petra Greene, Janie Farrish