Poseur (2 page)

The Girl: Petra Greene

The Getup: Still in her pajamas (oversized
SAVE THE UNICORNS
t-shirt)

On the other side of the hill, in the ten-bedroom Beverly Hills estate her mother dreamed up as a “tasteful fusion of Mount
Olympus and Versailles,” Petra Greene was sleeping through her alarm. Again. She made the mistake of setting her radio clock
to Mazzy Star, whose monotonous, dreamy tones only served to plummet Petra deeper into an REM state. If it hadn’t been for
her sister Isabel’s sudden, piercing screams, she may never have woken up.

“What’s going on?” Petra yawned upon entering the kitchen. She wiped some invisible sand from her wide, hazel-green eyes and
stretched, pulling the frayed elastic from her honey-blond hair. Her unleashed ponytail spilled to her waist in a chaos of
tangles, some of which were dangerously close to dreads. Still, even at 7:28 a.m., with no makeup and little to no sleep,
Petra Greene looked like a goddess. If the Victoria’s Secret supermodel Laetitia Casta had a little sister, Petra would be
it. (And Laetitia would be the ugly one.)

Lola, the Greenes’ tireless nanny, was on her knees, wrestling six-year-old Isabel into a tight, navy blue pinafore. Four-year-old
Sofia, obedient and already dressed in her own pinafore, watched her sister with quiet fascination. The Greenes adopted Isabel
and Sofia from an orphanage in China when they were just two years and four months old, respectively. To hear her parents
tell it, “You can’t save the world. But if you can provide two
terribly
unfortunate little girls the opportunity to grow up in a stable, loving environment, then why not?” Petra had to laugh. Sure,
her parents were loving and stable — if you compared them to the beleaguered staff of an underfunded Chinese orphanage. Compare
them to anyone else, however, and they were who they were: complete and utter nutcases. Her mother was clinically depressed,
but she was small potatoes compared to Petra’s father, who was, according to Mrs. Greene, a sociopath. “Imagine if Pinocchio
not only ignored Jiminy Cricket but slowly fried him to death under a magnifying glass,” her mother once explained to a bright-eyed,
nine-year-old Petra. “
That
would be your father.”

To make up for her insane parents, Petra became particularly devoted to Sofia and Isabel. Even when they screamed their heads
off, she was a pillar of unconditional love and patient support.

“She no like the new uniform for school,” Lola explained with a heavy sigh. Isabel let out another earth-shattering scream.

“Come on, Iz.” Petra crouched to the floor. “Let me see. . . .”

Lola sat back as Isabel turned toward her older sister, red-faced and clenching her fists. In addition to the navy blue pinafore,
Isabel wore a white button-down shirt with a starched lace Peter Pan collar. Her immaculate white socks folded neatly above
her patent leather Mary Janes, and her stick-straight black bob was held in place by an argyle headband.

“She
have
to wear,” Lola explained, half to Petra, half to Isabel. “Is rule.”

“No!” Isabel cried, stomping her foot.

“Isabel,” Petra began slowly, “are you the kind of girl who’s rude to people?”

“No . . . ,” Isabel replied with considerably less force.

“Then apologize to Lola.”

“Sorry, Lola,” Isabel muttered to the floor. And then, working herself up again, she whimpered, “I wan . . . I wann-wear my
. . . Sponge! Bob! Shirt!”

“I know, Iz . . . ,” Petra sighed. “But you have to wear the uniform. You know that.”

“But YOU don’t,” Isabel pointed out, her face puffing at the injustice.

“You’re right. That doesn’t seem very fair, does it?” Sofia and Isabel shook their heads. “Okay,” Petra frowned. “Let me put
on my thinking cap.” She reached for her oversized sunflower print coffee mug and placed it on top of her head. Sofia giggled
while Isabel sniffed, wiping her nose. Petra closed her eyes, as if to summon the thinking cap gods.

“I’ve got it,” she announced, and swiftly removed the coffee mug.

“What?” Isabel asked.

“
I’ll
wear a uniform to school too,” Petra explained. “Except I don’t have one, so you guys will have to make it for me, okay?
You can pick out
whatever you want.
And I won’t argue and I won’t scream and I won’t cry because . . .” She paused for effect. “It’s my
uniform.
And I’ve
got
to wear it.”

“We can pick out whatever we want?” Isabel’s eyes widened.

“That’s right.”

An expression of pure delight broke across her six-year-old sister’s face. “Come on!” she ordered, pulling Petra by the hand.
“We have to get you dressed
now
or you’ll be late for school!”

Janie and Jake shared custody of their mom’s old Volvo, a black 240 DL sedan. The car, like the Farrish twins, was born sixteen
years earlier, which meant
technically
they were all the same age. However, as Jake explained to his parents on the eve of his and Janie’s birthday last year, one
human year is
actually
the equivalent of seven for a Volvo.

“Like a dog,” Janie had chimed in.

“Exactly.” Jake lay a supportive hand on his sister’s shoulder. “According to my calculations, you’re about to bequeath to
us a one-hundred-twelve-year-old mode of transportation.”

“I mean, is that safe?” Janie continued. Her brother tilted his head and pressed his lips together as if to say
I’m not so sure.

They knew it was a long shot, but maybe their parents would do something cool. Like enable their loving children to arrive
at Winston
in style.
For once.

“Like a cute new MINI Cooper?” Janie suggested.

“No!” Jake blurted, shooting her the Death Glare. “What she meant to say,” he corrected, returning a modified gaze to their
parents, “was a Mercedes CLS 600.”

“I’ll look into it,” Mrs. Farrish replied. But, of course, she didn’t. Neither of them did.

Their parents were actually kind of selfish, when you thought about it.

The commute to Winston took twenty to thirty-five minutes, depending on traffic. The first five minutes belonged to Ventura
Boulevard, the San Fernando Valley’s main drag. Jake sped down the wide, four-lane street, and Janie watched the slender trunks
of palm trees whip by. The early morning sky was the gray of wet cement, and the streetlights were still on. The twins passed
by DuPar’s Coffee Shop — where Valley kids gather on weekend nights — and stopped at Laurel Canyon Boulevard. To their right,
in front of the Wells Fargo bank with the mosaic tile mural of “The Old West,” a bunch of people protested the war. To their
left, in front of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a bunch of people protested the protesters.

Janie looked out the window and sighed. If only they could take a right, she thought. They could get on the 101 South and
head over to the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts that Amelia attended. In eighth grade, Janie and she made plans
to apply to L.A.C.H.S.A. together. Amelia would apply for music, Janie would apply for visual arts, and together they would
start new lives as Tortured Artists. But then Janie and Jake were awarded academic scholarships to Winston Prep, the impossibly
exclusive private school in the Hollywood Hills. Winston was an oppor-tunity she could not — according to her education-obsessed
parents — turn down. And so Janie and Amelia, who’d gone to the same schools since second grade, went their separate ways.
Amelia took a right where Janie took a left. While Amelia got to be the Tortured Artist, Janie just got to be tortured.

As they pulled into Laurel Canyon, Janie faced ahead. As usual, their Volvo was last in an endless line of cars coursing uphill
like the interlocked teeth of a shiny new zipper. Every time Jake eased on the brakes, the black Volvo released a low, moaning
noise like a dying whale. After three dead whales, Janie flipped on the radio. In a matter of seconds, the noise was replaced
with “I Will Remember You,” by Sarah McLachlan, which was, in their humble opinion, a trillion times worse.

“I will remember poooop . . . ,” Janie crooned.

“Will you remember peeee . . . ?” Jake crooned back.

Jake slid in the new Franz Ferdinand CD, ending their sophisticated duet. Janie loved Franz Ferdinand. The driving beat made
her want to spin around and dance and cheer, but the lyrics made her want to lie down, stare at the ceiling, and cry. Maybe
because their music pulled her heart in opposite directions, Franz Ferdinand reminded her of Paul Elliot Miller.

Oh, Paul. Would she ever see him again?

The Volvo continued to wheeze up the hill, passing the dramatic ruins of a house that collapsed in the mudslides the year
before. Janie thought it looked cool — all those huge slabs of broken concrete, crumbling plaster and shattered glass in the
grass. Like a modern art sculpture, she thought. Unfortunately, Jake thought the same thing:

“Ah yes,” he announced. “My
pièce de résistance.
”

When they reached the top of the hill, Jake turned right, taking the car down Mulholland. Janie leaned back into the cracked,
tan vinyl seat, remembering the lyrics to that old R.E.M. song her parents liked: “If I ever want to fly . . . Mulholland
Drive . . . I am alive.”

Michael Stipe could feel alive all he wanted. Janie, on the other hand, felt something else. She felt, suddenly, inescapably,
on her way to Winston Prep
— the exact
opposite
of alive. Janie pulled at the hem of her miniskirt, letting it sink in for the first time. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t
nervous. She was fine.

But then her brother took a sharp left. Were they really on Coldwater Canyon already? The Volvo sailed across a dip in the
road, and Janie gripped the sides of her seat. She was going to be sick.

“Wait,” she squawked.

“What?” Jake replied, still staring straight ahead.

“We need to go home.”

“What?” He scrunched his forehead. “Why?”

Wasn’t it obvious? She was Clashing! With a capital
C.

Clashing with a capital
C
is different than clashing with a lowercase
c.
Lowercase
c
clashing is, like, wearing gold earrings with a silver necklace. Or leopard print with zebra print. Or black pants with navy
blue socks. At the end of the day, lowercase
c
clashing is just sort of ugly. And just sort of ugly isn’t the end of the world.

Clashing with a capital
C
, on the other hand, is. Because Clashing with a capital
C
is when what you’re wearing doesn’t match
your entire life:
Laura Bush in a string bikini, Marilyn Manson in yoga pants, 50 Cent with a parasol.

Janie Farrish in a bright green micro-mini.

Her early morning rush of confidence vanished like a hallucination. Why oh why had she decided to wear this skirt? What had
she been thinking? Even if she did have nice legs, micro miniskirts were the uniform of attractive people, not her! Janie
stared down at her upper thighs in horror. She looked like a complete and utter poseur.

She turned to her brother with pleading eyes.
Please, God. Pleasepleaseplease make him understand.

“I,” she began. She was calm. She was rational. “I kinda just realized . . . I can’t wear this.”

“What?”

“I need to go home and change.”

Jake looked closely at his sister, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. Janie exhaled, basking in her brother’s sympathy. He
could be really great when he wanted to be.

Then he burst into laughter.

“Jake!” She pushed his shoulder. “I’m not joking!”

“I know,” he continued to laugh. “That’s what makes it so funny.”

Janie watched in horror as Winston Assembly Hall came into view, peeking through the branches of the school’s trademark weeping
willows. Winston Prep was comprised of one large U-shaped stucco building and some small neighboring bungalows. The main structure
used to be an apartment complex, and not just any apartment complex, but an old-school 1930s Hollywood Spanish-style complex.
The central quad featured terracotta tiles and stucco walls. Staircases spiraled down from classroom doors. There were wrought-iron
banisters, multitiered fountains, and classical archways. From a distance, the school looked like a gigantic, peach-colored
wedding cake. Up close, it looked like a Mexican prison.

At least it did to Janie.

Jake put on his blinker. Janie’s heart jumped up, somersaulted, smacked itself unconscious, and splashed into the icy pool
that was her stomach.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

“Parking,” Jake replied, shifting the clutch.

“You’re parking in the
Showroom
?”

“Uh . . . yeah.” Jake responded, as if that made perfect sense. As if they hadn’t always parked underground. Janie felt a
little woozy. She’d always been a little scared of heights, and the Showroom was her highest peak yet. Even if it was, technically,
ground level.

The Showroom was Winston’s crowning glory (in addition to their stellar academic reputation, of course). It featured cars
most people only dream about. These were drive-into-the-sunset cars. Speeding-through-the-Alps cars. Escaping-in-a-hail-of-gunfire
cars. Seriously. Most kids at Winston were so rich, cars were just another accessory, as accessible (and in some cases, disposable)
as gummy bracelets. From BMW to Mercedes, Porsche to Ferrari, Hummer to Prius — no brand went unrepresented, no engine went
un-revved.