Poseur

by Compai

  “Meelia!” Paul called, pushing back a ragged black sheet. He stepped into a narrow hallway and pounded on a black door. “MeelYUH!”

  “Hold on!” a female voice yelled.

  Paul leaned against the wall and looked at Janie. She looked back at him, feeling the blood throb in her ears. His eyes lingered on the trio of black satin roses at her waist.

  “What?” she asked, wrenching the word from the back of her throat.

  In response, he pounded the door a second time. “Oi!” he yelled, sounding somewhere between Sid Vicious (punk rock legend) and Sid Firestein (Janie’s cranky grandfather). The door cracked open. Paul thrust his painted thumb in Janie’s direction.

  “Your prom date’s here,” he snickered.

  Janie blushed, realizing exactly what he meant. She was Clashing with a capital C. Except, not only did the dress clash with who she was, it also clashed with where she was. She was Clashing with a capital C to the second power.

  “Omigod!” Amelia gushed, opening the door wider. “You look so pretty!” Janie darted inside, slamming the door behind her. She couldn’t handle the look on Paul’s face — whatever it was. No doubt “pretty” was the last word he’d use to describe how she looked, assuming he looked at her, which he most definitely did not.

  “Thanks,” Janie whispered, once they were alone.

  “Whatever,” Amelia muttered, slamming the brakes on her initial friendliness. Amelia almost forgot: she and Janie were in a fight, which meant — head-over-heels happy as she was to see her — she had to act the opposite.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Amelia asked, digging through her white leather hobo. “I thought you had that, like, ‘Pop Your Zit’ party to go to.”

  “I do,” Janie replied, noticing two bloated cigarette butts in the toilet bowl. “If they find out I left, I’m pretty much dead.”

  “So go.” Amelia shrugged, heading for the door.

  “No, wait!” Janie insisted. She presented Amelia with the brown paper shopping bag, much like the one she presented Charlotte hours before. “I had to give you this.”

  “What is it?” Amelia asked, melting a little. She was a sucker for presents.

  “Open it.”

  Amelia hesitated, turning to the water-spotted mirror. “We’re going on in, like, two minutes,” she announced, applying an extra coat of dark red lipstick. Janie noticed it was NARS, a brand Amelia definitely could not afford. Not that it mattered. Her best friend was an expert shoplifter, an act she jokingly referred to as “coming down with a case of the Winonas.” Sometimes Janie thought it was funny. Sometimes she didn’t.

  She pressed her lips together and blotted on the wall. “I’ll open it after the show,” she said with a hard look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She whisked outside, slamming the door behind her. Janie stood in the center of the bathroom, stunned. So stunned she didn’t hear the click of the door handle, or the sound of Amelia stepping back inside.

  “Ew!” Amelia cringed, wringing her hands like she’d stepped in something gross. “That was so bitchy!”

  As she flung her arms around her, Janie laughed with relief. “Never let me be that horrible again,” Amelia whispered into her ear. “I’m, like, traumatized.”

  “MMMEEEEELLLLLIIIAAAA!” Paul bellowed down the hall. Amelia rolled her eyes. For a supposed anarchist, Paul sure was a stickler for starting on time.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she apologized. Janie blocked the door.

  “Not until you open this thing!” she demanded, swinging the shopping bag by its paper handles.

  “Okay,” Amelia surrendered, snatching the bag from the air. She tore apart layers of tissue paper like a crazed animal. “Omigod.” She gasped in disbelief. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Janie laughed, clapping her hands.

  Amelia immediately tore off her navy blue baby-doll dress and slipped into Janie’s creation. Charlotte’s budget had bought enough material for not one, but two dresses. The first dress served as a learning exercise; Janie dropped some stitches, misjudged a couple of pleats. But she learned from her mistakes, and so the second dress was perfect.

  “The London Vampire Milkmaid Dress,” Amelia whispered as Janie zipped the back. “I can’t believe it.”

  In the distance, their drummer, Max, commenced an execution-style drum roll. The message was clear: either Amelia showed up in three seconds, or it was off with her head.

  “Okay.” She gasped again, hugging Janie one last time. Janie watched her bound breathlessly down the hall. A moment later, Amelia’s audience screamed in appreciation. Amelia leaned into the mic and cleared her throat.

  “Shut up,” she murmured. The crowd rumbled with laughter. “You ungrateful slobs. You disgusting leeches. Isn’t it time you cleaned your freakin’ rooms? Don’t you realize we’re . . .”

  “CREATURES OF HABIT!” the crowd exploded, right on cue. Amelia laughed, twanging a string on her bass.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, shaking her hair back. “Thank you so much.”

  Backstage, Janie smiled, hiding her grin behind the stage curtain. Amelia never thanked an audience. And she wasn’t thanking them then.

  She was thanking Janie.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d asked Evan Beverwil for a ride, but what choice did she have? Jake, who promised he’d take her to Spaceland, seemed to have disappeared. And just as her brother was nowhere to be found, Evan was just about everywhere. All Janie had to do was turn around and he appeared: at the bar, on the stage, behind the staircase, by the bouquets, on the dance floor, in the lobby. He was even outside the girls’ bathroom. But she never saw him look at her, that is, until she tapped him on the elbow. At the moment of her touch, Evan, who’d been chatting with Bronwyn Spencer, stopped mid-sentence and snapped to attention. Janie noticed his car keys in one hand. (She tried not to notice the beer in the other.)

  “Do you know where Spaceland is?”

  When he agreed to drive her, she was unbelievably relieved. And it was her relief that had occupied her thoughts as they sped from Beverly Hills in the direction of Silverlake. Of course, by the time they headed back to Beverly Hills, Janie’s relief had dissipated, and her mind was free to think about other things.

  Like the fact that she’d accepted a ride from a beer drinker.

  All at once, Evan’s red Porsche 911 convertible seemed uncomfortably low to the ground. Janie could see the individual bumps of gravel in the road. Then he changed gears. In a matter of seconds, the bumps became streaking comets. Janie’s heart leaped into her throat.

  “We’re going kind of fast,” she squeaked, glancing at the beer in his cup holder.

  “Come on,” Evan replied, following her gaze. “I’ve had one beer all night. Besides, this is a nine-eleven.”

  “Right.” She grimaced, gripping the sides of her seat. She tried to block out the image of her brains splattered across the road.

  “So,” he said, zipping through a yellow light, “did your friend like his present?”

  “You mean her present,” she corrected.

  “Wait . . .” Evan looked confused. “Who was that dude you were talking to?”

  “You mean Paul?” she asked, blushing the color of the convertible.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged, dropping his arm across the back of Janie’s seat. He glanced at her. “He seemed kinda gay.”

  “He is not gay.”

  “He was wearing eyeliner.”

  Janie recoiled against the passenger door, appalled. “So?”

  Evan caught a glimpse of her expression and sighed, returning his hand to the black leather wheel. “Can I ask you a question,” he said. Janie watched him clench and unclench his jaw. “Do you, like, hate me in particular? Or do you just, like, ooze with general hate.”

  Janie’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t respond. They headed down Sunset Boulevard and made a right on La Brea. Janie looked out the window. They pa
ssed by Mashti Malone’s, the store with the legendary saffron-and-rosewater ice cream. They passed the Volvo mechanic on Santa Monica Boulevard, the mega-Target, and the Starbucks. And then they passed by Jet Rag, with its skyscraping red neon sign. All but three letters were burned out. Together they read: TAG.

  Evan pulled to the side of the road, the Porsche growling as he shut off the engine.

  “I’ll be right back,” he announced. And then he got out of the car.

  Janie craned around in her bucket seat, watching him saunter down the dimly lit sidewalk. Was he just going to leave her there? She fidgeted for a few seconds before opening the car door. As much as she hated Evan’s company, she hated her own more.

  She got out of the Porsche, floating around the car like an aimless raft tied to a dock. She waited for him to turn around — waited for him to see her waiting. But he didn’t. He just hung onto a chain-link fence, his face close enough to smell the rust.

  What was he looking at?

  Janie surrendered and started walking toward him. She was curious. And she was lonely. Sometimes she wondered if every choice she made came down to those two feelings.

  “Hey,” she said, hugging herself with her arms.

  “I just needed some air,” he replied, looking straight ahead. “Sorry.”

  A streetlight lit up the crown of his head, casting his face in shadow. Janie pressed her forehead to the chain-link fence.

  “Oh . . . ,” she murmured, hugging herself tighter.

  The elephant looked different at night, illuminated by murky green lights and criss-crossed with grassy shadows. Janie couldn’t see the tar, but she could smell it. She could hear it, too — bubbling like a witch’s brew.

  “I used to have nightmares about this elephant,” Evan said.

  “Yeah?”

  Evan nodded. “We took this field trip in, like, second grade? And our guide told us the elephant was really alive, but trying really hard to be still, so she wouldn’t sink into the tar, or whatever.”

  “Omigod,” Janie blurted with disbelief. “I totally had that same guide!”

  Evan shook his head and laughed. “That guy seriously messed with my head.”

  “Me too!”

  “He should be, like, jailed or something.”

  “Or thrown into the tar pit,” she suggested.

  “I like it.” He smiled. “Poetic justice.”

  Janie smiled back, allowing their eyes to lock. Her heart rose and fluttered in her throat. This makes no sense. How could Charlotte’s older brother have the same elephant issues she had? Of all the people in the world, Evan Beverwil understood.

  “Can I ask you something?” he asked.

  “Okay,” Janie whispered, holding her breath.

  “Did that guy, that eyeliner dude . . .”

  “Paul,” Janie responded, feeling sick. How could she have something in common with a guy who thought Paul Elliot Miller, the god of her idolatry, was gay?

  Evan cleared his throat. “Did he tell you how unbelievably pretty you look tonight?”

  “Oh,” Janie replied with a blush fierce enough to cause temporary blindness. “No.”

  Janie could feel him looking at her. She could not bring herself to look back. She just stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, absolutely still.

  She was stuck.

  Evan nodded and let go of the fence. The chain-link jingled like a spur. “Just checking.”

  Jake was beginning to understand why Accutane and alcohol didn’t mix. All he’d had was, like, two glasses of champagne and — five seconds later — bam. He was stumbling around like Tara Reid. Through a combination of luck and pure willpower, he’d managed to direct his stumbling toward a cantaloupe rind–shaped chair. Fifteen minutes later, he was still there, head in his hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  But it just spun faster.

  “Hi, Jake!”

  He looked up. A cute blonde in a slinky purple dress peered down at him, her face a blur of pinks and whites and blues. Jake squinted until the pinks relocated to her lips and cheeks, the whites to her inexpertly powdered forehead, and the blues to her eager, shining eyes.

  “It’s me, Nikki! I like your tie!”

  He stared at the frosted glass of clear liquid in her hand. “Is that water?” he croaked.

  “Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “My friend asked me to hold this for her. She’s telling everyone it’s straight vodka but it’s actually water. So lame.”

  “Can I have some?”

  “Sure!” she trilled, handing him the glass. Jake drank like a desert wanderer, swallowing in loud, eager gulps. Nikki watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, transfixed.

  “So . . .” She sat next to him with a klutzy thump. “You look really nice,” she whispered. “Can I tell you that?”

  “Um . . . okay.” He smiled. “You look nice too.”

  “Really?” Nikki breathed. She leaned her head toward his shoulder, but missed completely and fell into his lap.

  “Hey . . . ,” Jake said, sliding his hand under her cheek. He spatula’d her face from his lap like a pancake. “Are you okay?”

  “This is so much fun!” she squealed. And that’s when Jake realized — Nikki wasn’t exactly sober herself.

  “Come on.” He tried lifting her to her feet. “Let’s get you some air.”

  “No.” She pouted, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt.

  “Hey.” Jake gently wrested her grip from his only good button-down. Nikki grabbed his hand, and he allowed her to drag him around to the other side of a freestanding wall. The wall looked like one of those foam egg-crate mattress pads, except instead of bright yellow, it was avocado green.

  “Where are you taking me?” Jake laughed. A row of glass fitting rooms glinted under the light.

  “You wanna see something?” Nikki asked, wavering in the hall.

  “What?” Jake hesitated, looking around him. He was starting to feel guilty, but he didn’t know why. He followed her inside a fitting room. “What,” he said again, as she slid the glass door shut.

  “Look outside.” Nikki pointed. Jake looked through the glass door. The crowd churned under the disco lights, colliding into each other, shrieking like they were being boiled alive. The DJ was blasting Daft Punk’s “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger.” Everyone danced their hardest, bestest, fastest, strongest. Jake felt like he was a little kid, pointing a kaleidoscope at the sun.

  And then, all at once, the glass door transformed into an opaque white wall. The party disappeared.

  “Whoa,” he exclaimed, stepping back. Nikki giggled. Jake stared as the opaque wall faded back into a transparent, glass door.

  “Look.” She pointed again. A silver dome sat on the slate-gray floor like a mushroom. The word PRIVACY was engraved across the top. “Press it,” Nikki instructed, like a character from Alice in Wonderland.

  He tapped the silver dome with the toe of his shoe. Sure enough, the glass door transformed back into a wall. “Holy shit,” he laughed, tapping the dome a few times in a row. The glass door flickered like a ghost. Jake beamed. “It’s like the future!”

  Nikki giggled, stepping on his foot. Jake held his breath. The pressure of her foot on his was nice. So nice, he let her push further — until the silver dome sank into the floor, the glass became a wall, and, just like that, they were alone.

  “I should go,” Jake said. She whipped her foot away and nodded, staring at the floor.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Hey.” He suddenly felt bad and jostled Nikki’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said again, this time with surprise. He held onto her shoulder and tried to get used to it. She was totally shaking.

  “Listen,” Jake murmured, hooking a lock of Nikki’s hair behind her ear. And then, without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her. He kissed her as a token of charity — because she liked him so much and, well, he felt bad. Except, once they started kissing, it felt good. And then it felt really good. Which is
exactly when Jake stopped feeling bad for Nikki, and started feeling bad for someone else.

  “I can’t do this,” he declared, pulling back. “I’m sorry.” Jake closed his eyes to the spinning room. “That was really stupid.”

  When he opened his eyes, he expected Nikki to be looking right at him, crushed. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking through the door, which, to both of their confusion, had changed back to see-through glass.

  They must have stepped on the dome while they were kissing.

  When she finally looked at Jake, she didn’t look crushed. She looked terrified. About twenty feet away, in a weird, haphazard frock, Charlotte stood like the Angel of Vengeance. She clutched a bottle of Cristal like a medieval weapon. Strobe lights flashed across her face like lightning.

  “Charlotte!” Jake called. “Wait!”

  He pushed Nikki aside and exploded from the dressing room, weaving through the crowd. A clot of grinding dancers blocked Charlotte’s path long enough for him to catch up. “Charlotte!” He reached for her arm.

  “Don’t touch me!” The bottle of chilled champagne slipped through her fingers, smashing across the floor.

  “Charlotte,” he pleaded. “It was an accident!”

  “No!” She shook her head. “I saw you!”

  “I know, but you’ve got to believe me. I don’t even know what happened. I just got really drunk and . . .”

  “You had one glass of champagne!” Tears began to stream down her cheeks.

  “I think it’s the Accutane.”

  “The what?!”

  “It’s this medication . . .”

  “Is it for multiple personalities?” She trembled, wiping the hot tears from her face. “Because it’s not working!”

  “It’s for my skin. For my acne,” Jake pleaded again, feeling miserable. The last thing Jake wanted to do was remind Charlotte of who he used to be, and who, in his darker moments, he believed he still was: a zit-encrusted, pus-infested loser. Charlotte’s silence was deafening. With all the courage he could muster, Jake looked into her cold, pool-green eyes. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking.