Poseur #4: All That Glitters Is Not Gucci (7 page)

“Come on.” She smiled serenely, helping him off the
ground and slinging a long arm across his shoulders. “We can go get a shoe box and bury it.”

Paul exhaled a shuddering breath and quietly gulped, consoled. They walked on in silence. Sun filtered through the pines and
stroked their faces. At the corner, a sleek black Bentley purred to a stop.

“You know what would be so cool?” Petra ventured as they approached a dusty peach Spanish villa with a small replica of the
Statue of Liberty in the middle of the lawn. “If there was, like, an iPod you could just play, like, through your skin or
something? It’d be, like, wherever you went, you’d have this theme song, you know? Like you’d be approaching this group of
people and they’d just know you were coming and, like, what you were about, not ‘cause they
saw
you or anything, but because they, like,
heard
you.”

Paul stopped dead in his tracks, pulling Petra toward him by her slender waist. His mismatched eyes—one bluish-green, the
other greenish-brown—pierced hers with intensity.

“What?” she laughed, both a little turned on and a little weirded out.

“That,” Paul began, “is seriously the most genius thing I have ever heard. Petra, like,
how
did you just think of that? How the hell did you just think of that?”

“Um, I don’t know.” She glanced at him quizzically—was he joking?—and flushed. “I guess I just, like, thought
of it.”

“Seriously,” he proclaimed, shaking his head. “We should go home and patent that shit, like, right now.” He stared at her,
his eyes slightly bloodshot (he’s just stoned, Petra reminded herself), his face melting into that syrupy-lovesick expression
that’s so enthralling on a guy you adore and so repugnant on a guy you don’t. “Petra,” he marveled. “You’re amazing.”

“Awww,” Petra replied, encouraging him to continue walking.

“A human iPod,” he mused through the intermittent slap of his new Teva Bowen Stitch flip-flops. “An
iHuman
…”

“Speaking of music,” Petra blurted, valiantly pushing through the static. “I seriously cannot wait till Friday night. I mean,
the Troubadour
. You know Janis, like, practically
died
there, right?
Oh
,” she gasped, and grabbed her boyfriend’s thermal-clad arm, eyes alight. “Is it true Facehumpers might do a surprise set?”

“Wait a minute, you
heard
that?” Paul’s brow wrinkled with concern. “Oh,
man
. They approached us last week, but I was, like,
no. No goddamn way
.” He frowned. “Amelia better not be going behind my back, man.”

“Okay,” Petra pressed two fingers to her temple and closed her eyes. “Um, I thought they were, like, your favorite band of
all time?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “I
used
to like them. But now,
it’s, like, I listen to their music and it’s just so…” He paused to glance skyward. “
Angry
. It’s, like,
why
, you know? Why put that energy into the universe? It’s not helping anyone. It’s not helping
me
. It’s just… I want Creatures of Habit to be couriers of
beauty
, you know? Couriers of
peace
.”

You’re kind of being a courier of nausea right now
, Petra thought, heat prickling along her hairline like Malibu brush fire. Okay, she was code-red wigging out, and it wasn’t
just the chronic. She could deal with Paul’s new wardrobe—that was just superficial stuff—but denouncing the Facehumpers,
a staggeringly awesome band
he turned her on to
, because they were suddenly too
angry
? He had to be joking! It was one thing for Paul to give up studded belts and chipped black nail polish. But to give up on
anger
? What about the afternoon they spent smashing her parents’ wedding china in an alley? Or that night they ran screaming along
the beach, hurling rocks at the moon, cursing the names of those who’d dared to cross them? Was he planning to give that up,
too?

Thankfully, Petra’s cataclysmic thoughts were cut short by a deep buzzing in her crocheted hemp hobo bag. “Just a sec,” she
told Paul, sifting through a sea of rolling papers, gum wrappers, loose beads, and dollar bills to unearth her scuffed purple
Nokia. A text from Queen Moon (she’d entered her own name in Petra’s cell, and Petra didn’t care enough to change it):

CHECK EMAIL.

NYLON COVER NO GO.

WTF WTF WTF.

“What is it?” Paul inquired, noticing Petra’s solemn face. She sighed, showing him the tragic text. “Ah, man…”

“I know,” she agreed. Seriously? Melissa had sent
Nylon
the most persuasive e-mail of all time! “
Poor Melissa
,” she thought out loud. “She must be seriously buggin’.”

“Yeah, well,” Paul laughed. “That girl pretty much invented buggin’, so…”

“
Don’t be mean
.” Petra pushed his shoulder and beamed.
That he still had it in him!
She was endlessly relieved. “I know she comes off, like,
intense
or whatever. But that’s what’s so awesome about her. She’s passionate.”

“Well,” Paul responded in a gravelly voice, a promisingly naughty smile creeping across his gorgeous face. He gripped her
by the shoulders, pushed her up against somebody’s bougainvillea-covered four-car garage, locking her into his mismatched
gaze. “I guess I can identify.”

She smiled, a jolt of electricity surging through her entire body. “You can?” she almost whispered, lacing her voice with
sweetness.

He pressed his long and perfect body against hers, answering the way she hoped he would. More and more relief wrapped her
in its warm embrace, cocooning her from fear. His kiss was deep, exhilarating, and pure.

His kiss was real.

To my wretched and most wrong’d wrens:

It is with shock in my heart and outrage in my loins that I write to you of NYLON’S regrettable decision.

In a masterstroke of sartorial injustice, this
GAG-azine
has selected
Schizo Montana
to grace the cover of their
20 Under 20
issue.

Before this fateful day, I’d remained blissfully unaware of
Schizo Montana
and their nefarious misdoings. Fortunately, Mr. Gideon Peck, my faithful and formidable assistant, is a highly accomplished computer operator. Employing something called “Goggle,” he revealed to me the following exclusive facts:

1. When not colluding with the NYLON heretics,
Schizo Montana
“designs and manufactures t-shirts.”

2. A t-shirt is a lightweight pullover shirt, close fitting, with a round neckline and short sleeves.

Still, my cheated chickens, my unhappiest hatchlings,
we must not despair
. Before the kingdom, Valentino was bankrupt. Before she was a legend, Chanel was a steel welder. True stars are not always
immediately recognized, my lovelies. And the greatest stars burn brighter with time.

To standing on the shoulder pads of giants!

Teddy

The Getup: What difference does it make anymore?

The snow fell from the black night sky, drifting like ash, blanketing the landscape in eerie quiet. Miss Paletsky blinked
as the slushy granules stung her eyes. Icy gusts of wind penetrated her thin wool coat and gnawed her bones like a dog, bored
and deadly. She was on her back, looking up, and gripping a cold metal rail; her fingers stuck like tongues. Where
was
she?

As if to answer, the hard plank under her spine began to gently vibrate, and the iron rail to hum. In the faraway distance,
there was a long and ghostly wail.
A train
, she realized, and then the whole world began to quake. Planks clattered like broken rattles. The iron rail screamed. Miss
Paletsky struggled to move, but she couldn’t budge.

With horror, Miss Paletsky saw the train burst through the gray wall of drifting snow and come barreling toward her, blinding
her with its light. Black clouds churned from its tall black smokestack.

The conductor angled his face out of the window.

Ch’elp!
Miss Paletsky attempted to scream, but only produced the tiniest of squeaks, like a mouse flung by its tail through an open
kitchen window. The conductor’s thick ham hock of an arm waved wildly through the smoke.
He sees
me!
Miss Paletsky realized, praying for a squeal of brakes, the telltale shudder of iron and steel. She focused on the gesticulating
arm until, with dizzying clarity, a certain physical detail jumped out at her, obliterating all comfort.

She recognized that yellow armpit stain….

“Life is not Cinderella!” he cried as the train screamed in panic, rumbling closer and closer.
Yuri!
Miss Paletsky realized, a hot tear sliding from her eye.

Her life was officially kaput
.

But then, just as she’d made her peace with fate, a dark, cloaked figure swooped toward her and snatched her high into the
air. She landed with a thud, all the breath leaving her body, and then, in the same moment she thought that she was dead,
discovered herself thrown across a horse’s back. With a quavering sigh, she surrendered to the roiling, muscular surface,
breathing deep the earthy smell of animal sweat. The thundering sound of hooves met her ears like a lullaby.

Still, was she was safe? After all, she was not alone. A mysterious man sat mere inches away, his strong, straight torso like
a pillar. The back of his head offered her little clue: was he friend or foe? Savior or jailor? Here she was, tossed across
his horse like so much cargo; had her situation gotten worse?

Just then, a snowflake grazed her cheek, but instead of a feathery chill, it transferred actual warmth into her flesh.
Timidly, she lifted her head, looking around. They were in a beautiful orchard. The snowflake wasn’t a snowflake after all,
but a cherry blossom. They were everywhere, drifting from branches, pirouetting in the sun, and thickly carpeting the ground.

It was spring.

Miss Paletsky relaxed, and her heart slowed to match the horse’s easy, peaceful pace. She glanced again at the man and trusted
him, allowing herself to admire his perfect posture, his tall fur hat, his polished black boots. Then, her curiosity got the
better of her. Harnessing her every ounce of courage, she tapped the mysterious horseman’s broad and powerful shoulder.

He began to turn around—

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…

She gasped awake and sprang up from her green velvet office couch, tumbling her collection of tiny decorative pillows to the
floor. “One moment!” she replied, suppressing her panic.

How long had they been knocking?

What time was it?

Had school started already?

Miss Paletsky gathered her shabby possessions, rushed to her desk, and squished her thin blanket and lumpy pillow
into the drawer she’d used to store that day’s change of clothes: teal stirrup leggings, white crocheted cardigan, and a camisole
in pink zebra print.
Chert poberi!
She didn’t want to open the door wearing the same navy sweater and beige skort she’d worn the day before. Did she have time
to change?

Tap tap tap! Tap tap tap!

With a small grunt of exertion, she threw on a lime green blazer, and pulled her hair back into a fresh crushed velvet scrunchie.
She reached for a half-empty travel-size can of Suave hair spray, twisted the cap off with a quiet pop, and sprayed a foggy
cloud in the vague vicinity of her crunchy chestnut hair and, unthinkingly, her armpits. She took a deep breath and scurried
to the door. And then, as she wrenched it open, hair spray stung her nostrils. She inhaled sharply.

And sneezed like a greedy truffle-seeking pig.

“Bless you.”

Melissa Moon’s impossibly gorgeous father, i.e., the last person in the world she wanted to bless her in her horrifically
disheveled state, beamed down at her. Due to a morning hip-hop Vinyasa class and general Seedy Moonness, the music mogul exuded
strength, compassion, and serenity. In his presence, Miss Paletsky felt like something
planted next to a major four-lane highway, one of those sad, old bushes choked by toilet paper and tinsel.

“Good morning, Lena,” he intoned, his voice as rich and buttery as a meat-filled piroshki on Sunday morning. “How are you?”

Miss Paletsky had not seen him since the tragic Pink Party, and, well—wow. For somebody who’d lost his fiancée just days before,
he looked pretty put together.
Unlike me
, she scolded herself
, who looks like case of baskets
, Seedy was perfectly contained by his plush gray cashmere tracksuit and crisp white wife beater. A collection of gold necklaces
and flashy medallions glittered on his broad chest.

But nothing compared to the brightness of his smile.

“I am so ch’appy to
see
you, Mr. Moon!” Miss Paletsky exclaimed, discreetly shelving her hair spray behind a book. “I… I ch’ave to say I am
so sorry
about what ch’appened with me and Yuri at your party. I wanted to call you, but—”

“You have
nothing
to apologize for,” Seedy assured her, waving aside her embarrassment. “If anything, I should thank you. I mean… your music
was the only thing
about
that party that wasn’t toe-up. And you and Yuri didn’t ruin my party. Me and Vee ruined my party.”

Miss Paletsky nodded, fighting a lump in her throat. It was difficult to hear them paired off that way, even in past tense.
“You and Yuri.” “Me and Vee.” The former mortified her beyond measure (what did he think of her? Associated
with a man like that?), and the latter shattered her heart.

“That guy seemed pretty crazy, though,” Seedy observed, interpreting her cowed silence as fear. “Has he been leaving you alone?”

“Dah, yes,” Miss Paletsky replied, waving off his concern. “I am perfectly safe.” Why was he here? she wondered. Perhaps he
wanted her to pay for the damage Yuri caused? She could never afford it, even if, putting sentiment aside, she forced herself
to sell the contents of the Pink Party gift bag on Amazon. She liked the pink iPod nano, of course, which came loaded with
songs by a Fergie. She liked the Fergie.