by Compai
Charlotte thought about the garden upstairs, about the lemon trees in their terracotta pots, the small manicured Cyprus, the lavender, the rambling rose. She thought about the night jasmine blooming on the trellis and the checked blanket under it, the careful way she’d spread it out, pinning the corners with bowls of blueberries and raspberries. She thought about her straw picnic basket, which she’d packed to the point of bursting: baguettes and cheese, quiche and apples, figs and chocolate-covered almonds. There were pears in gold foil and petite Madeleines. The tiniest pots of caviar. She’d lit the way with flickering tea lights and, last but not least, sprinkled the path with Sweet Tarts. She tossed them by the handful, like bird feed — like wedding rice. She made sure every single Sweet Tart was green.
“Omigod,” she breathed with a chilling little laugh. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”
“Charlotte,” Jake pleaded again, this time reaching for her hand. She writhed from his grasp like a fish, escaping in a flash. He stood in the middle of the dance floor. The broken champagne bottle glinted at his feet. Five minutes ago, that bottle was worth over 7,000 dollars. But Jake didn’t know that.
All he knew was that it was worth nothing now.
His stomach surged with something sour.
Melissa staggered out of the Prada store with the heavy clear globe in her hands. The built-in fan was turned off and all the white tags had settled to the bottom. She lowered it to the ground, slipping off Petra’s hideous Bjorn clogs to pin the globe in place. The last thing she wanted was to see it rolling down the street — yet another departed guest. Except “departed” was the wrong word.
“Kicked out” was more like it.
“Well, it’s official,” Charlotte sighed, joining her on the street. “We’re banned from Prada for life.”
Melissa closed her eyes. Vivien was going to love this. “I can’t believe it.” She shook her head. “This is so unfair!”
“Ah well,” Charlotte sighed. “C’est la vie.”
“Easy for you to say.” Melissa narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t my boyfriend who vomited all over the dance floor.”
“He is not my boyfriend! Anymore!” Charlotte warbled, turning pale.
As if that’s the important detail, Melissa thought. And not that Jake Farrish’s vomit caused a stampede of epic proportions. Poor Jake. After Charlotte dumped him, he couldn’t hold it together. And once he couldn’t hold it together, he realized he couldn’t hold it down. The vomit came up like a geyser, spewing a distance of at least ten feet. At first no one noticed. But then Kate Joliet slipped, landing smack in middle of the acrid swamp of barf. She shrieked at the top of her lungs.
And then all havoc broke loose.
Melissa could still hear the sounds of their screams, the thousand flailing hands clawing for the exit. They weren’t sure why they were running, just that everyone else was running, which was reason enough to run. But then Bronwyn Spencer’s Sergio Rossi heel spiked the train of Deena Yazdi’s floor-length midnight blue gown, sending Deena into a full-on frontal free-fall — right into the crotch of a female mannequin. A conga line of mannequins toppled like dominoes, crashing their way toward the last mannequin in line: a gigantic man mannequin. He was ten feet tall and absolutely ripped. The female mannequins collapsed at his feet like hysterical groupies. Man Mannequin teetered back and forth; then he toppled to the floor, mere inches away from Laila Pikser’s beloved black alligator Dior pumps. Laila screamed as Man Mannequin came apart on impact, his gigantic limbs rolling downstairs like renegade logs. His giant torso came last, thudding downstairs like the world’s angriest parent. Then came the horrible, inevitable sound of shattering glass. The party was over.
So, it seemed, were their lives.
Imagine Janie’s confusion when, at around 12:15 a.m., she and Evan rolled up to find the once raucous Prada store empty, dark, and still as a tomb. As Evan eased on the brakes, Melissa, Charlotte, and Petra stepped toward the street, lining at the curb like ducks in a row. Janie sunk down in her seat.
The ducks looked angry.
“Well, if it isn’t the Fast and the Furious,” Melissa scoffed, sucking in her cheeks. “Nice of you to show up,” she added. All eyes were on Janie, which Petra seized as an opportunity to spark up a joint.
“Come on,” Evan replied, his hand on the gear shift. “We just went for a ride.”
“Oh, I bet you did,” Charlotte sneered, eyeing Janie’s disheveled hair. Their eyes met. “Keep your hands off my brother,” Charlotte snapped.
Evan gritted his teeth. “Shut up, Charlotte.”
“Oh, whatever, Evan,” Charlotte retorted. “I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”
“What are you talking about?” Janie got out of the car and slammed the door. “Where’s Jake?”
“Jake had to call a cab,” Petra replied, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
“Why?” Janie asked, whirling on Charlotte. “What did you do?”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed. “What did I do?!”
“Thanks to your brother,” Melissa announced, “we’re banned from Prada for at least the next three years.”
“Oh, who cares about Prada!” Charlotte snapped, her eyes growing glassy. “Prada n’exist pas!”
Melissa gasped. She didn’t have to understand French to know blasphemy when she heard it.
While the girls continued to bicker, Petra slipped out of Melissa’s excruciating crystal-beaded stilettos and into the comfy Bjorn clogs stranded on the sidewalk. She felt numb with relief, so numb it took her seconds to register the clear globe rolling down the street. She stood there and stared, then, using all the energy she had left, she said: “Um . . . you guys?”
The three girls followed her pointed finger and peered down the street. In an instant, they were off, neck and neck, like a pack of Saratoga racehorses.
“Who are you betting on?” Evan joked, joining Petra on the sidewalk. She sucked on her dwindling joint and looked pensive.
“No one.” She inhaled and held her breath. “They’re all losers.”
“Not Janie,” Evan insisted. Even in high heels, Janie was yards ahead of Melissa and his sister. Evan watched the leaping shadows of her perfect legs through the thin gauze of her pale yellow dress. A familiar tightening in his stomach cued him to look at something else. He stared at a gray wad of gum on the street.
“Not Janie?” Petra teased, watching his somber face. “Guess you guys did touch each other.”
Evan shook his head. “Why do girls think everything’s so sexual? It’s so annoying.”
Petra blushed, averting his gaze. At the other end of the street, Janie, Charlotte, and Melissa continued to scramble. The clear plastic globe had cracked against the gutter and split into two perfect halves.
“That’s just great!” Melissa yelled as a few Ferraris whooshed by. Hundreds of white tags lifted into the air and scattered across the street. Janie, Charlotte, and Melissa darted around, scooping up as many as possible. Another car sailed by, horn blaring.
“I should probably . . . help them,” Petra muttered. Evan’s Porsche responded with a guttural purr. Petra looked up as he zoomed down the street. She sighed, heading toward the girls. One of the white tags floated down the sidewalk. She leaned over to pick it up, unfolding it as she walked. A single word was written inside:
Melissa sat on the sidewalk, going through the tags one by one. She shook her head in disbelief, and her heart began to beat faster.
“What the hell is this?” The stiff, white tag trembled between her fingers. “Some kind of joke?”
“They all say the same thing,” Charlotte realized, unfolding another tag. Janie nodded in stunned agreement.
“‘Poseur,’” she read out loud, lowering a tag to her lap.
“Someone did this.” Melissa trembled. “Someone broke into the ball and did this.”
“Or everyone just happens to think one of us is a poseur,” Petra suggested.
&n
bsp; “It’s ’cause we dressed in each other’s clothes,” Melissa glared at Janie. “I knew that was a bad idea!”
“Right,” Janie bristled. “But we’d be less poseury if we did nothing.”
“You know what’s poseury?” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Valley rats who hang out in Beverly Hills.”
“Ha!” Janie huffed. “What about acting French when you’re obviously American?!” At that, Melissa stifled a laugh. Charlotte’s eyes shot darts of pure evil.
“Like pretending to be some ghetto chick when you grew up in Bel Air is any better?” she seethed. Melissa’s face froze, but Charlotte persisted. “Or what about acting like you’re famous when you’re nobody?”
“Oh lord.” Petra shook her head. “This is sooo immature.”
“Oh please!” Melissa erupted. “You’re, like, the worst poseur ever!”
Petra folded her arms and frowned. “Really.”
“Come on,” Charlotte agreed with a roll of her eyes. “You act all natural when, chances are, you’ve had plastic surgery. You’re really rich, but you dress like a beggar. And you go around like this nice person, when, you know what? You’re just too stoned to be mean.”
“And we’re the immature ones,” Melissa snorted.
“Okay,” Petra countered. “All of you know nothing about my life. But go ahead! Act like you do! ’Cause that makes you the worst kind of poseur there is.”
“Oh boo!” Charlotte wiped away a pretend tear.
“Petra . . .” Janie reached for her hand. Without thinking, Petra slapped it away.
“No, I’m out!” she announced, tearing down the street. “I can’t believe I ever got involved with you . . . you . . . people!”
“Here, here.” Charlotte folded her arms.
“Good riddance!” Melissa headed in the opposite direction. “I cannot wait to be on my own!”
“WAIT!” Janie refused to be left alone with Charlotte. “Don’t we still have to share a ride home?”
The two girls stopped in their tracks.
Five minutes later, The Trend Set sat in the cab of the Beverwils’ storm gray Bentley, arms folded across their chests. “After this — I’m out,” Petra muttered.
“Me too.”
“Threesome.”
“Foursome.”
Charlotte’s driver, Julius, started the car and pulled out onto North Rodeo. The four girls stared out their separate tinted windows. Outside, the white tags flipped along the asphalt, picking up dirt and grime.
Tomorrow they’d be gray as ashes.
After a few tearful sessions on her forest-creature couch, Miss Paletsky agreed to dissolve The Trend Set. But, she pointed out, Winston was too far along in the semester for the girls to sign up for something else. She reinstated their Wednesday block of time as a one-hour study period. The girls were ecstatic — until Miss Paletsky explained study periods were a) not opportunities to socialize, and b) strictly “in house.” In other words, no off-campus privileges allowed.
How quickly ecstasy turns to ick.
The off-campus ban was a pain in the ass, but socializing, it turned out, wasn’t hard to resist. The only kids who weren’t in class were twenty random seventh graders who happened to have a free period. It wasn’t like the Four Formerly Known as The Trend Set were going to talk to them.
At the same time, they definitely weren’t going to talk to each other.
By the time Wednesday arrived, the girls had resigned themselves. They studied. Melissa planted herself on a bench by Doggie Daycare. While Emilio Poochie slobbered away on a dried pig’s ear, she thumbed through the library copy of When Bunnies Brood: The Emotional Lives of Animals. Charlotte found a tranquil windowsill where she could read Frock and Roll: The ABCs of Dressing like a Rock Star. Janie stretched out in the shade of the Winston weeping willows, secured her headphones, and pressed PLAY . “Écoute et répète,” a recorded voice said in enunciated French. “I love my friends. . . . J’adore mes amies.”
“J’adore mes amies,” she repeated to the trees.
Only Petra crawled to her usual spot on the hill behind the gym, where she dug through her bag and pulled out her most illicit stash to date. . . .
The latest issue of W. The latest issue of Allure. And, of course, the latest issue of Vogue.
The bell rang and Janie stuffed her iPod contraband out of sight. She headed for her locker, careful to avoid Petra’s gaze. She brushed past Charlotte without a word. She ignored Melissa and her circle of shrieking friends. Janie slammed her locker shut and headed for Spanish IV. It wasn’t until she’d achieved a safe distance that she allowed herself to look the way she felt: pathetic. She missed The Trend Set, but she was the only one. That much she knew for sure.
Petra, Melissa, and Charlotte felt the exact same way.
Petra’s parents left for Date Night (which Petra renamed “Hate Night”), leaving her in charge of Sofia and Isabel. Despite their older sibling’s protests, the two sisters always insisted on playing Barbie. When Petra tried to explain the dangers of Barbie in a post-feminist world, the little girls gasped for air and pretended to die. When Petra noticed their dolls were uniformly blond and blue-eyed, she went out of her way to secure them Asian Barbie alternatives.
“THESE ARE DUMB!” her sisters had cried. The next day Petra found Island Fun Miko and Flying Hero Kira decapitated on the lawn.
But that evening, Petra tried not to worry about Sofia’s and Isabel’s developing self-image. They played “Going Shopping,” and Petra painted a delicate snowflake on her south wall. She reserved one wall for each of the four seasons, but her favorite wall was winter. As she dabbed her brush into a blob of silver paint, her cell phone chirped to life.
“Can I get it?!” Isabel panted with excitement.
Petra put down her paintbrush and nodded.
“Hello, Greene residence?” Isabel answered like a hotel concierge. “May I ask who’s calling, please? Yes . . . just a moment.”
“Who is it?” Petra whispered, taking the phone. Isabel shrugged, returning to Malibu Fun Whitney.
“I don’t remember,” she said. Her older sister sighed, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Petra. I was looking for my fuschia disco skirt, which is the only thing that goes with my black cashmere tank, and I realized you still have it.”
A long call-waiting beep interrupted Charlotte’s voice. It was Melissa. Petra glanced at the pirate’s chest in the corner of her room. She’d forgotten all about it.
“Can you hold on for a sec?” she asked, clicking to the other line.
“You have my strawberry-print t-shirt,” Melissa answered, cutting to the chase. “You need to bring the chest to school on Monday.”
“Can you hold on?” Petra said, clicking over to Charlotte. “Hey. I’m just gonna bring the chest to school on —”
“Are you kidding me?” Charlotte interrupted. “I refuse to be seen with a pirate’s chest at school.”
“Hold on,” Petra sighed, clicking back to Melissa.
“Fine,” Melissa sighed. “I’ll just come over to your house.”
“You can’t,” Petra panicked. Her parents were due home from Hate Night, which meant they were bound to be fighting.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Charlotte sighed a second later. “I have a date at Chinois tomorrow night. That skirt is crucial to the whole aesthetic.”
“Bring the chest to my house,” Melissa replied once Petra relayed Charlotte’s complaint. “Tell Charlotte and Janie to be here at eight-thirty.”
“Okay,” Petra sighed, snapping her phone shut. She sent Isabel a stern look. “I’m hiring a new secretary.”
“I’m not your secretary,” Isabel replied. “I’m your boss.”
“Yeah,” Sofia echoed.
Petra smiled. “My mistake,” she apologized. Then she shook her head and dialed Janie’s number.
Janie told Petra she’d pick her up, and no — she didn’t
mind if her little sisters came along. Sofia and Isabel sat in the backseat, their faces frozen into masks of dismay. Why didn’t Janie’s car have a mini-fridge? Where was her DVD player? Why was there silver tape on the door?
What was that weird noise?
By the time they pulled up to Melissa’s massive gold-embossed gates, Sofia and Isabel were brimming with questions.
“Hey,” Melissa greeted them at the front door. She was wearing Baby Phat cargo knickers with a pink mesh top over a white tube top. On her feet were white plastic platform mules to match her glossy white Chanel sunglasses to match the white square tips of her French manicured nails.
“Charlotte’s already here,” she said. Sofia and Isabel stayed behind to pat Emilio Poochie’s slumbering body. Petra and Janie carried the pirate’s chest by its ornate brass handles and followed Melissa into a grand wood-paneled hallway. A long row of glossy photographs and platinum records glinted behind thick panes of glass. Melissa kicked a pink Pilates ball out of the way and led them into a sunken, shag-carpeted “meet and greet” room. Charlotte waited by Seedy’s gleaming white Steinway Grand, her delicate hand resting on the music stand. She looked like she was posing for a society portrait.
“Okay.” Petra nodded, lowering the mahogany chest to the floor. She paused, noticing with horror the white shag carpeting, which, upon closer examination, looked like fur.
“Relax,” Melissa assured her. “It’s fake.”
The girls crowded around the chest, fitting the locks with their four keys. Petra lifted the lid. Gone were the neat, folded stacks they remembered. During the journey, the perfect piles had toppled. Clothes tangled together in chaos, like something washed up on the beach.
As Charlotte pulled out her fuchsia disco skirt, Janie’s red t-shirt clung to the silk ribbon.
“Sorry,” Charlotte apologized, detaching the tank and handing it to Janie.
“Oh wait,” Melissa said, handing Petra her jeans. “These are yours.”
“Wait,” Petra reached inside the waist and pulled out a sock.