Poseur #2: The Good, the Fab and the Ugly (24 page)

“You actually think it’s okay for her to go outside dressed like that?” Petra dropped her jaw in shock.

“Oh, Petra.” Her mother frowned, waving off her concern. “It’s
Halloween.
And do you have any idea how much
time
I spent looking for that costume? They were sold out everywhere!”

Isabel flew to her mother’s side, hugging her knees to her tear-streaked face. “See?” She glared at Petra, gaping her indignation. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, but it took Petra a good twelve seconds to realize it was the door.

“Hi, everyone!” Charlotte sailed into the kitchen, dragging behind her the layered skirts of a gorgeous midnight blue silk Oscar gown. Whatever traumas Petra had unwittingly inflicted on her sisters evapo-rated in the instant.

“Wow . . . ,” Isabel breathed. “You look so
pretty.
”

“As do
you,
you sweet thing,” she lied through her teeth, leaning in to kiss Heather on the cheek. She dangled the black Barneys bag to Petra and smiled. “I brought you one of Mother’s.”

“Oh, how
is
your mother?” Heather oozed to her older daughter’s instantaneous annoyance. Her mother
loved
to act as though she and Georgina were on the best friend-y terms, even though they barely knew each other. Last year, Georgina called the house to invite Heather to a charity benefit for Muscular Dystrophy — along with five hundred other people — and Heather acted as if she’d invited her to come over to paint toenails and braid each other’s hair.

“She’s wonderful, thank you,” Charlotte oozed in return. “She’s in New York, actually. Daddy’s on location.”

“I’m just going to change,” Petra blurted, eager to escape this soul-crushing exchange of pleasantries. It killed her to see her mother act so sweet and polite for a perfect stranger. If only she could act that way around her own family once in a while.

“Oh wait!” Charlotte chirped, and with a reassuring pat on Heather’s arm, kneeled to the floor, where a second Barneys bag sat at her feet. Reaching inside, she peeled apart the layers of tissue, extracted a small, delicious-looking object, and presented it with a flourish, rising to her size six feet.

“Le Trique or Treat-aire!” she announced with a merry laugh. Heather gasped.

“Isn’t that
extraordinary.
”

“Let me see! Let me see!” Isabel cried, jumping up and down.

“You’re a master,” Petra intoned, squeezing her tiny elbow, and wishing for one fleeting instant she’d learned how to sew. But of course she hadn’t. Needles and thread had been permanently ruined for her by her father, who used them daily to turn human beings into creepy Hollywood clones. “Melissa and Janie are going to die.”

“You think?” Charlotte grinned.

“Puh-lee-ea-ea-se!” Isabel reached for the exquisite couture bag, whimpering in despair.

As Charlotte presented the Trick-or-Treater to her little sister,
warning her to be gentle,
Petra bounded upstairs, her black Barneys bag in tow. She whisked into her bedroom, yanked off her pajamas in record time, and tipped the bag on its head, spilling the gossamer gold-embroidered white cotton dress to the floor. Kicking it apart, she stepped inside, tugging the light-as-breath fabric along her enviably lissome frame, located an invisible side zipper, and zipped. Quickly, she turned to the mirror and froze, flushing. Her family so strongly emphasized the importance of beauty, she rebelled by shirking it altogether. She hadn’t dressed up in so long, her reflection blinked back like a stranger.

“Petra!” Charlotte called, knocking softly on her door. “Sorry, but . . . we’re going to be late.”

Petra pushed open her bedroom door, blushing at the sensation of Charlotte’s appreciative gaze. “Petra,” she gushed. “You look . . .”

“Thanks,” she breathed, and beckoned Charlotte to follow her downstairs. She cut through the foyer, swinging open the heavy front door.

“Oh!” Charlotte gasped, stopping in her tracks. Turning on the blue silk heel of her Manolo Blahnik boutonnière pump, she bounded into the kitchen, returning moments later, the black Barneys bag clutched to her chest.

“Wouldn’t want to forget this!” she nervously tittered, shaking her perfectly coiffed head.

“Omigod,” Petra proclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart. “I can’t even
think
about it.”

The door shut behind them with a resolute thud.

The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

The Getup: Restored ruffled silk and antique lace bow top, from Paris 1900, green silk petticoat skirt by Omo Norma Kamali, blue silk boutonnière stiletto pumps by Manolo Blahnik.

The Girl: Janie Farrish

The Getup: Multitiered lilac cotton petal dress by Lanvin, silver flip-flops by Haviannas.

The Girl: Petra Greene

The Getup: Long dress in white cotton with gold embroidered daisies by Charles Chang Lima, gold flip-flops by Haviannas.

The Girl: Melissa Moon

The Getup: Strapless black chain-link glitter gown with tulle overlay by Versace, silver satin stilettos by Dolce & Gabbana, and (coming soon!) the Trick-or-Treater by
POSEUR
.

“Omigawd-uh!” Deena teetered across the Showroom wearing too-small white kitten mules, a white satin corset, a bobbing pair of marabou-feathered angel wings and a tiny pink card in her hand. Melissa had arrived to school forty minutes early, sliding the paper inserts into locker vents, taping them to bathroom mirrors, classroom doors, and tree trunks, and scattering the rest along the Showroom floor (after Miss Paletsky’s go-ahead, of course). She realized she could have asked Venice, but ultimately was glad she didn’t. She wanted the satisfaction of doing the job herself. Not to mention the peace of mind Venice wouldn’t screw it up.

“ ‘It’s October first . . .’ ” Deena clattered at her side, reading the card in a dramatic voice. “ ‘Do you know where your candy is?’ ” She widened her purple-shadowed dark brown eyes in anticipation. “What is this?” she whinnied. “Where’s my candy?”

“Read the back,” Melissa laughed, watching Deena’s face as she flipped the card on its head.

“ ‘
POSEUR
tells you where: Town Meeting, 8:00 a.m. Be there.’ ”

“And?” Melissa added, prompting her to read the tiny font.

“Can you read it?” She pouted, handing Melissa the card. She adjusted the glittering gold halo attached to her white headband. “I’d have to put on my reading glasses, and there are no glasses in heaven.”

“It says —” Melissa slammed her gleaming platinum trunk, returning the card to her friend — “in five seconds this card will
Britney
? You know, like, self-destruct?”

“
Oh
.” Deena rolled her eyes, pinched the card between her manicured finger and thumb, and fanned her somewhat horsey face. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

Melissa unzipped her patent leather messenger bag, removed a rubber band–bound pack of index cards, and rolled the rubber band until it leaped free with a snap. In the Jungle, kids were already opening their lockers, jumping back in surprise as pink cards fluttered to their feet, and the Showroom thrummed with discussion: What was this about? Was this lame, or was this cool? And were they getting candy out of it? Melissa ignored their curious glances and shuffled through her index cards, knitting her perfectly gelled eyebrows in concentration.

“AwrrrOOOooo!”
Marco howled from the other end of the parking lot, inviting the fawning attention and appreciative laughter of everyone within a thirty-foot radius. Everyone, that is, except his girlfriend. Undaunted, he pimp-walked his approach, swaggering his weight to one side, brushing his painted nose with the back of his hand. In addition to the standard T-shirt and track-pants combo, he wore an enormous white fox fur vest, plush brown slippers, and fuzzy tan ears to match.

“Holler,” Melissa murmured urgently under her breath. Town Meeting was starting in less than ten minutes, and she had yet to commit her speech to memory. “This Halloween, the trick is our treat, and the treat? Is
tuh-ricked out
!”

“Melissa,” a male voice hotly puffed against her neck.

“Ew!” She judo-smacked her boyfriend’s chest, pushing him off in disgust. “Tell me you did not just
lick
my ear.” She frowned, checking her floor-length black Versace gown for drool.

“Who
me
?” Marco replied with a devilish grin. He hooked a finger to his blue Louis Vuitton rhinestone-studded dog collar, and slid it around his muscular neck. “Why would I do that?”

“Omigod.” Melissa’s eyes darted to the heart-shaped name tag on his neck. She clapped her hand to her mouth, and gasped. “You are
not
Emilio Poochie!
Ah-hahahah!
” She grabbed her best-friend’s arm and squealed. “Deena, he’s Emilio Poochie!”

“I heard.” Deena shrugged, refusing to glance away from her black Bobbi Brown compact.

“Oh, Marco.” Melissa threw her arms around her boyfriend’s neck, peppering his face with butterfly kisses. “You are too cute!”

“I know.” Marco grinned, pressed his hand to the small of her back, and pulled her in close. Maybe it was on the sick side, but he’d had a
feeling
dressing up as Melissa’s dog might encourage a little bonus TLC. Now all he had to do was dress Emilio up as
him,
and he’d have Melissa all to himself.

“You know what you get,” Melissa purred into his ear, “if you’re a real good dog?”

“
Ho-kay,
this is giving me a bad case of bulimia.” Deena gagged, flicking Marco’s bicep as she passed. “Later, flea baiter.”

“Yeah, in a while, duck-child,” Marco muttered, still riveted to his flirtatious girlfriend. He put on his best puppy-dog face. “What do good dogs get?”

Melissa stood on her tiptoes and leaned in toward his ear — so close that as she opened her lips, Marco heard a soft
pop.
“They get . . .”

“Melissa!” a shrill trio of female voices cried out in unison, and Melissa landed on her heels with a startled thump, twisting around. Charlotte, Janie, and Petra huddled together, dressed to the nines in floor-length gowns, a shimmering vision of gleaming satin, foamy taffetas, ruffled cottons, and glittering diamond-embellished appliqués. They couldn’t resist a collectively smug look as they impatiently tapped their feet and reminded Melissa, Miss
Queen
of Punctuality, of . . .

“The time!” they cried in perfect unison, indicating their nonexistent watches.

“Oh, baby.” Melissa planted a distracted kiss on Marco’s cheek. “I’ll see you in Town Meeting, okay?”

“No problem,” he croaked, mustering every ounce of will power to summon a smile. As Melissa and her pack made their swift departure, traversing the Showroom in a conspiratorial huddle, he even called out, “Save you a spot!”

And it wasn’t until they were out of earshot that he tilted his head back, dropped his jaw, and yowled to the sky.

“NoooOOOoooo!!!!”

“Okay,” Melissa slammed the bathroom door. “Let me see it.”

Charlotte crossed toward the mirror, the pearly-gray tiles echoing under the heels of her pale blue buckled brocade pumps, and lifted the black Barneys bag from the sink. “Shall I do the honors?”

Unable to handle the suspense, Melissa snatched the bag from her hand, tearing the white tissue out in tufts. The crinkled sheets floated to the tiled floor, and Charlotte and Petra shared a giddy moment of eye contact, anticipating her reaction. Melissa stared into the mouth of the bag.

“Is this . . . ?” Melissa looked up, darting her gaze from girl to girl, each of them grinning. “Is this some kind of
joke
?”

“Excuse me?” Charlotte ruffled, wounded to her Pilates core. She’d spent
forever
on that thing, pricking her fingertips so many times they were
bound
to callous, and for what? Another one of Melissa’s childish tantrums?

“Petra told me she loves it!” she cried, stamping her tiny foot.

Melissa frowned, reaching into the bag. The stiff paper crackled around her bangled wrist as she lifted the object in one upward sweep, bobbing her perfectly gelled eyebrows.

Charlotte clapped her hand to her mouth.

“I don’t get it.” Janie, who had yet to see the new bag, winced in confusion. “What is that thing?”