Poseur #2: The Good, the Fab and the Ugly (22 page)

Nothing says “Love me back, bitch” like a hundred-thousand-dollar car.

Charlotte detached the silver key from her purple squiggle bracelet, dangled it to Don John, and pushed open the heavy car door. She’d barely let go of the handle when he turned the ignition and revved the engine, scattering the squirrels in an instant (except for the fattest of the bunch, who merely froze).

“Ta!”
her dear friend cried, flinging his polo-clad arm in farewell. And then, before Charlotte could tell him he had lip gloss on his teeth, there came a whirl of autumn leaves, car exhaust . . .

And he was gone.

Charlotte squared her puffy-sleeved shoulders and crossed the street. The quiet house appeared to watch her, its rectangle windows opaque yet curious, like the eyes of a long lost friend. Drawing closer, she succumbed to nostalgia, as if on some unconscious level, she
did
recognize this place. But how was that possible? How could a house she’d never seen before feel familiar? She reached the sidewalk, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the walnut tree, sending a fleshy green pod to the earth with a hollow
thwop
. . . .

And it hit her.

She’d drawn this house in kindergarten — always a square, two windows, and a triangle roof. (Okay, most kindergartners drew that house, but
still.
) Arriving home from school, she’d dutifully surrender the drawings to their
dame de la maison,
Blanca, who secured them to the stainless steel doors of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. As soon as Charlotte went to bed, however, Blanca would remove them, returning the fiberglass starfish magnets to the shallow cutlery drawer and the crayon drawings to a clear plastic bin labeled storage.

Georgina Malta Beverwil disapproved of clutter.

When Charlotte awoke to find her houses gone, she drew another. And when
that
house disappeared, she drew another. How many hundreds of triangles had leaped from the tip of her crayon, how many thousands of squares, before that fateful day in first grade when Madame Lefevre, her ballet instructor, changed her life? “I wee-quire all my students to do zaire own
mending,
” she’d informed Charlotte in her croaking French frog-voice, handing her a painted tin box. Inside, she’d found eight gleaming spools of thread, a pair of mother-of-pearl fabric shears, two fresh needle packs, a felt tomato pincushion, and — most precious of all — a pewter measuring tape no larger than an oyster’s shell. Without a moment’s hesitation, she traded her crayons for needles, her paper for bolts of fabric, and resolved “from now on” to create only what she could
wear.
That way, wherever she went, her creations went right with her.

And she’d never wake to find them gone.

“Charlotte!” Janie swung the screen door open and serenely glided to the front porch — which is to say, tripped over the welcome mat and crashed into a set of hanging wind chimes. As the agitated metal pipes clamored for attention, she cringed:
how
did her mother find that sound soothing? All she could think of was runaway ice cream trucks and psychotic clowns.

“Ha!” she gasped, attempting a “cool girl who could laugh at herself” sort of thing (she sounded more like the actor who gets stabbed offstage in a Shakespeare play.) “You’re
early,
” she observed through gritted, smiling teeth.

“Well, early is the new late!” Charlotte chirped, kissing each of her flushed cheeks. She eyed the black folder in Janie’s hand, and beamed. “Is that . . . ?”

“It
is.
” Janie linked Charlotte’s petite arm with her own, guiding her like a blind man down the porch stairs.

“Oh, before I forget” — Charlotte patted her hand — “Melissa wants us all to wear formal gowns for tomorrow morning. She wants us to present the Trick-or-Treater in costume, but like
themed
— so we’re all dressed like Oscar winners.”

“You mean, like,
dead
Oscar winners?” Janie asked, lowering her voice.

“She didn’t specify.” Charlotte, too, lowered her voice and frowned. “Why are we whispering?”

“No reason.” Janie brightened as they achieved a fair distance down the drive. “I just thought we could take a walk. See the sights.”

“Oh,” Charlotte exhaled in disappointment, craning around. “I was kind of looking forward to seeing where you lived. Your house is so charming.”

As Janie measured Charlotte’s chlorine gaze for glimmers of irony, a familiar putter sounded at the end of the street. She looked up, all but wilting with relief.

“Jake!” She released Charlotte’s arm, scampering to the curb. Her brother eased on the brake and buzzed down the passenger seat window, blasting the air with music — something over-the-top angry and drum-infested. “Did you get my message?” Janie yelled.

“Ye-es,” he replied, gazing past her shoulder to meet Charlotte’s ready-for-a-challenge gaze. “Thanks for being so specific.” He grimaced at his sister, increasing the volume. “I’ll be going now.”

“No, wait!” she cried as he eased on the gas. She staggered alongside the slowly moving car, clutching the bottom of the window. “Can’t I borrow the car?”

“No Volvos for Judas.” Jake fake-smiled. “Besides,” he braked. “I told Tyler we’d meet up at Pins on Pico.”

“Omigod.” Janie fluttered her eyes shut, balling her hands into fists of prayer. “Charlotte’s house is
right on the way.
Can you please just drop her off?”

“Janie!” An appalled Charlotte squared her shoulders and rapidly approached the car, immaculate brown suede shoes a-clacking. “Did you just ask him to give me a
ride
? Don John’s picking me up in an hour.”

“I know, but . . .” Janie glanced between them both, scrambling for an explanation. “Mom’s really sick,” she confessed, focusing on Jake.

“She is?” both of them replied, briefly united by concern.

“It’s just a bad headache,” Janie amended, going for realism. “But, maybe it’s not the best time for guests. And I should probably stick around, you know, in case she needs something?”

Through the open car window, Jake and Charlotte locked eyes. Janie could tell Charlotte was waiting for her brother to make the first move, but he just sat there, brain-dead as always, while the stereo barfed a continual stream of testosterone.

“You know what,” Charlotte snipped, returning to Janie, “I think I should just . . . wait on the lawn, or something.”

“For an hour?” Janie fretted.

“I’ll be fine.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Jake. “I think I have a receipt or something I could read.”

“Okay, why are you guys
being
like this?” Janie clenched her fists, stamping her foot in frustration. “Charlotte.” She whirled to face her unlikeliest friend. “Did you
not
just tell me yesterday that Jake’s the only person who makes you laugh?”

Charlotte’s dainty jaw dropped in indignation, but rather than allow her the time to retaliate, Janie thrust an accusing finger at her brother. “And he cried into his
cereal
about you, so don’t
even
think he doesn’t realize how stupid he was.”

Charlotte closed her mouth and glanced at Jake, who gripped the steering wheel and stared at the horn, humiliated beyond belief.

“It’s the
truth,
Jake,” Janie barked. “You
miss
her. And Charlotte, you miss him. So why don’t you two just get over yourselves and be friends so I can stop being in the middle of this starting
now.
Charlotte?”

Charlotte blinked, fiddling the ends of her heart-printed neck scarf. “Yes?”

“Get in the car!”

Less than twenty seconds later, Janie sailed into the house, kicking the door shut behind her. She leaned against it, heart pounding in her chest, exhilarated by a sense of her own awesomeness. She couldn’t
believe
she’d just done that. She couldn’t believe it had actually worked! Without another peep of protest, Charlotte slid her annoyingly perfect butt into the cracked vinyl front seat, Jake politely lowered the music, and together they took off for the hills. Janie smiled, congratulating herself for a job well done.

But just as she traipsed toward her bedroom, eager to call Amelia and share her latest exploit, her mother pushed out of the laundry room, a bunched white towel in her hand, and blocked her cheerful path.

“Janie.” She frowned, pinching the white towel at either corner and shaking it out. “What is this?”

“Oh.” Janie hesitated, taking a small step backward. She bit her lower lip and cringed. “It’s a dress?”

“Did you use one of my
best
bath towels for this?” her mother asked, balling the dress into her hip. She shook her head in slow amazement as Janie stared at the floor, quiet.

“I can’t believe this. I
just
bought these bath towels, Janie. They’re
brand
new.”

“But I used them for something creative,” Janie whined, daring to meet her mother’s eyes. She’d once used her mother’s only Chanel lipstick to write “Janie” over and over on the bathroom mirror, and just the word “creativity” got her off the hook.

Well, that, and the fact that she’d been five.

“Janie.” Her mother tensed. “You think I’m upset because you did something creative? I’m upset because my daughter would do something like this without
asking
me first. It’s basic courtesy. They’re my
best
bath towels and they’re
brand
new.”

“Okay.” Janie reddened with frustration. “I get it! All this drama over a towel from Bed, Bath & Beyond, I mean.” A rueful little laugh escaped her lips. “Seriously!”

Mrs. Farrish took a small sip of air, but did not respond, choosing instead to look at her daughter with a dubious eye of an art dealer evaluating a painting for its authenticity. “Janie,” she exhaled at last. “Why didn’t you invite that girl inside?”

“Wh-what girl?” Janie stammered like an idiot.

“Janie . . .” Her mother had to smile, she was so damn exasperated. “I could see you outside my window.”

Janie folded her arms across her chest, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “I . . .”

“You know what?” Mrs. Farrish winced and briskly shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Mom . . .”
Janie wavered, queasy with guilt. “It’s not that . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she exploded, throwing the dress in a white heap on the floor. “I’m
not
a fool, and I refuse to stand here while you treat me like one.” She tipped to the floor, retrieving the dress in a single swipe, and looked up, her eyes glassy with irony and disappointment.

“And
not
that it matters,” she concluded in a trembling tone, “but these towels are Ralph Lauren.”

The Girl (sort of): Don John

The Getup: Classic pique extra-small white polo by Lacoste, Ibiza plaid shorts by Juicy Couture, blue-and-white Linea Rossa boat shoes by Prada.

He pulled up to “Farrish manor,” sucking away on a See’s latte lollipop and singing along to his freshest, self-entitled mix, “Sunday Revolves Around Me!” What a joy it was — for the purring Jaguar and him both — to relieve the poor, abused stereo of that
depressing
French crap and put on something
fabulous.
He rolled down the window, pumped up the volume, and gyrated in his luxurious leather driver’s seat.

“Under my um-ber-ella . . . ella . . . ella . . . oh . . .
uh-oh!
” He straightened up in his seat, realizing he was not alone: there, just some ten feet away on the front lawn of Ashley Tisdale’s nose, a girl in a
very
retro bob sat alone, her face huddled into her knees, and her thin shoulders quaking in a way that suggested heightened distress. Don John cringed, waiting for it to go away.

“Ah, hello!” he called at last, rolling the window all the down. “Hello, there . . . crying girl on the lawn!”

Startled, she raised her tousled head and sniffed, her large gray eyes teary and pathetic. “Charlotte’s not here,” she announced, much to his surprise.
This
young urchin was the notorious Janie Farrish? Huh. A lot
prettier
than Charlotte ever let on. “She got a ride.” She cleared her throat, wiping her blotchy cheeks.

“Well, of course she did,” Don John clucked, spinning down the volume. “Girl’s never alone for long.” He returned to Janie, regarding her misery with a sudden, unwelcome wave of pity. He sighed. “
She
didn’t do this to you, did she?”

“No, no.” She attempted to smile, her pretty chin atremble. “I just have the worst life in the world, that’s all!”

“Well,
that’s relative,
” he declared, propping his soft chin on his chiseled arm, his Elizabeth Arden–bronzered face framed by the Jaguar window. “I mean, you could be
me,
” he dramatically sighed. “Unappreciated and alone.
Terribly
unloved.”

Janie looked up at him, stunned, and he sympathized. It
was,
after all, pretty hard to believe.

“Here!” He brightened, digging into his pink and green “Rockit” print LeSportsac tote. He flailed his polo-clad arm out the window, and a glinting gold object arced through the air, landing with a bounce on the grass. “I keep them around to make me feel better,” he explained as Janie got to her feet and padded across the lawn. “They totally work.”

Janie plucked the squarish, brightly foiled lollipop from the ground, turned it around in her hand, and smiled. “Thanks.” She looked up, smiling again. Don John shivered in his seat, genuinely moved by his small act of good will. “That’s really sweet.”

“Trick-or-Treat!” he cried, revving the engine.

And then he was gone.

The Girl: Blanca (last name unknown)

The Getup (by day): The loathed “maid’s uniform.”

The Getup (by night): Bright blue asymmetrical tank by Bebe, black leather mini from Wasteland on Melrose, knee-high lace-up black leather stiletto boots by Pleaser Shoes, exotic purple orchid from Mrs. Beverwil’s greenhouse.

“Look at this,” Nonna wavered at the foot of an ornately framed oil painting, blinking behind her black horn-rimmed glasses. In order to convince her granddaughter of the old adage, “There is more to life than Internets,” she had arranged a visit to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
Of all places,
Nikki thought with a heavy sigh. After eight hours on her feet, she’d collapsed into a wrought-iron garden bench, the only one in the gallery, wedging herself into the far right-hand corner. Her bench companion, a grizzled old man in a wilted brown hat, hummed under his breath. Nikki held her breath.