Poseur (5 page)

She felt
positive.

It sort of made her want to gag.

It also made her shut the door behind her.

The Girl: Melissa Moon

The Getup: Black velour Juicy Couture pants, silver Jimmy Choo stilettos, pink and black D&G t-shirt, Bvlgari diamond studs

Melissa Moon glided her platinum Lexus convertible down Sunset Boulevard, blasting CD-Seedy’s latest album-gone-platinum:
Mo’tel.
Damn, she loved this album.
Mo’tel
was the first album to truly address the built-in conflicts of growing up half black, half Korean in South Central, Los Angeles.
In her favorite track, “Gimme All Your Love, Gimme All Your Money,” Seedy describes the night his black father met and fell
in love with his Korean mother (during a routine robbery of her family’s liquor store.) Some people found it offensive. Melissa,
on the other hand, thought it was genius.

Not that she was biased.

In addition to being the world’s most controversial rapper-cum-producer, Seedy (aka Christopher Duane Moon) was also her dad.
For the Moon family, rap was about as traditional as Bing Crosby at Christmas. Not that they listened to Bing Crosby at Christmas,
preferring Seedy’s holiday album:
Chestnuts Roasting and I Open Fire.

Melissa laid into the gas with the strappy toe of her metallic Jimmy Choo stiletto. The convertible picked up speed, transforming
her Japanese Hair Straightened hair into a thousand lashing whips. She flinched, pulling it back into a ponytail.

“Whoooooo!”
someone called from a passing Escalade. Melissa was used to it. Her face had launched a thousand SUVs.

With her sultry eyes, dusky complexion, and Angelina pout, Melissa had the kind of beauty people liked to call “exotic.” But
she loathed the term. It was like, exotic according to
who
? Some milk-fed white guy with a picket fence up his butt? Early on in their courtship, her boyfriend, Marco Duvall, made
the mistake of saying she looked “foreign.” Her immediate response was, “Look,
I’m
the one who grew up here. If anyone ‘looks foreign,’ it’s
you
!”

Marco had recently moved from Tucson.

Roots were important to Melissa. Even though she lived in a Bel Air palace, she wasn’t about to let the general public forget
where she grew up: South
Central,
people. In a
duplex.
And then she’d put a hand on her hip, daring you to judge her. To her endless disappointment, no one ever did. But come on,
they weren’t crazy. Her dad had Melissa tattooed on his
fist.
We’re not talking her name, either. We’re talking her entire baby picture.

Melissa came to an intersection at Sunset Boulevard and North Beverly Drive and pulled to a stop. She removed her Christian
Dior sunglasses, exhaling cinnamon breath on the tinted-pink lenses. A sudden wolf-whistle penetrated her left eardrum, but
Melissa knew better than to pay attention. Unfortunately for her, her dog did not.

“Emilio Poochie, no!” Melissa cried as her tan-and-cream toy Pomeranian leapt into her lap. “In the back,
now
!” Within two seconds, Emilio sat quivering in the backseat, his army green driving goggles slipping off his tiny face. Melissa
sighed, sinking her venti cappuccino into the cup holder. She leaned over and popped open the glove compartment, straining
to locate her lint roller. By the time she did, the Lexus was straddling two lanes.

Melissa kept one hand on the wheel and went to work on her black Juicy pants. She liked to think of herself as the style child
of J.Lo and Condoleezza Rice. Which is to say as much as she was about ghetto glam, she was also about Commanding Worldwide
Respect. Which is exactly what Juicy pants accomplish — when they aren’t covered by dog hair.

She lifted her chin to the rearview mirror once her task at hand was completed. “I’m sorry I yelled, baby. Forgive me?” Emilio
put his paws on the back of her black leather seat and licked her diamond-studded earlobe. Of course he forgave her.

He was a dog. But he wasn’t stupid.

By the time the Lexus glinted onto Winston Drive, Melissa’s Juicys were in top form. Marco hated those Juicy pants. He compared
them to a “Beverly Hills lawn at night”: black, immaculate, and impossible to break into.

Not that he said that out loud.

“MuhLISuh!” his baritone voice hollered across the Showroom. Melissa half-waved her cappuccino hand, cranking the wheel with
the other. Marco loped toward her, his bulging arms and muscular back straining the fabric of his
I’D RATHER BE IN BUCARAMANGA
t-shirt. A rawhide necklace grew taut against his thick, strong neck. His hundreds of springing soft brown curls, which all
the girls loved and Marco hated, were crammed into a plush, forest green Kangol hat.

“Wait up!” he panted, trotting alongside the Lexus.

“Can you
not
see my eyes are on the road?!” she snapped, nearly plowing into a girl in a bright green miniskirt. She screamed as the car
jerked to a halt, inches away from the girl’s bare thighs. The girl wavered and lost balance, planting her barely-clad butt
on the hood with a loud
whump.

“Are you okay?” the girl squeaked.

“Get offa my car,” Melissa replied. “Please.”

The girl sprung to her feet as if the Lexus were a hot plate. Not that Melissa noticed. The sudden stop had triggered a cappuccino
explosion, the effects of which were still seeping into her brand-new D&G t-shirt. Melissa stared down at the spot, and from
the look on her face, you would have sworn it was blood.

She wasn’t the only one.

“Omigawd-uh!” a high-pitched female voice squawked, sounding the alarm. Marco froze as a soft flapping filled the air — soft,
but terrifying — like a flock of winged monkeys. He turned around, bracing himself. Sure enough, six or seven girls in flip-flops
were headed straight for him. They arranged into perfect V formation, with Deena Yazdi, Melissa’s self-appointed best friend,
at the head. Over the summer, Deena had streaked her jet-black wavy hair in red, copper, and blonds. The majority of the highlights
fell on either side of her attractive, if somewhat horsy, tanned face. Her nose-jobbed nostrils were tiny and pinched — as
if they perpetually sensed something foul. Her eyes, lined with the usual smoky Chanel eyeliner, bulged out with exaggerated
concern.

“OmiGAWD-uh!” she squawked a second time. (In times of stress, Deena kind of sounded like an evangelical preacher.) “What
happen’d-uh?”

“It’s okay,” Marco explained, waving her off. “She almost hit this girl.”

“Who?” Deena peered around. Apparently, the girl had already fled for her life. “Did you
see
what she did to Melissa’s shirt?”

“To Melissa’s
shirt
?” Marco gaped, incredulous. Deena narrowed her eyes.

“You — are so — rude.”

“She almost hit someone and you’re talkin’ about a shirt!”

“That is not the point-uh!”

Marco was about to tell Deena what she could do with her “point-uh,” when Melissa stepped out of her car. He stepped back,
taking in the whole picture.

“Damn,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You look fine.”

“No,” Melissa pointed out, “I have a stain.”

“Yeah,” her devoted boyfriend indulged an eyeful of her coffee-spattered double-Ds. “Your stain is
fine
.”

She rolled her eyes, holding out her keys: “Just . . . park the car, okay?”

“Here.” Deena presented Melissa a small bottle of Fiji water. “Maybe you can still get it out?”

“No way,” Melissa pursed her lips. “This shirt is dry clean only.”

“That sucks-uh!” Deena exclaimed, her face crumpling at the injustice of it all. Until she remembered the vanilla latte in
her right hand. “Wait.” She plucked off the lid and (making sure Melissa saw her) dumped the contents all over her bright
white Theory tank top.

“Deena — you are crazy!” Melissa gasped.

“As if I’d let you go through this alone,” her best friend declared with pride. In the face of that kind of logic, the V-Formation
had no choice but to follow suit. One by one, they dribbled their Doppios, capsized their capps, and slopped their sugar-free
chais. Their t-shirts steeped like tea bags. Their padded bras plumped like sponges. Together they squealed, each at a pitch
higher than the last, until they achieved OPTIMUM FREQUENCY, that decibel level unique among girls, though typically reserved
for ice-cold pools and flirtatious games of “tag.” Still, despite their volume, they might as well have been invisible.

Melissa stood in the center of it all and clapped her hands to her mouth. She shook her head, not making a single sound.

But she was the one to watch.

Glen Morrison stood at the Assembly Hall entrance, strumming James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” on his buttercup-yellow guitar.
Students streamed by like salmon heading upriver. On the occasion one deigned to notice him, Glen dipped his head in greeting.
Then he’d shake his floppy gray hair from his eyes and smile.

He maybe had to do this twice.

In 1967, Glen and a bunch of other hippie parents founded Winston Prep as a “non-traditional alternative” to other private
schools in Los Angeles. They sat in a “non-hierarchical” circle and discussed their “non-biased” vision. In terms of education,
Winston stressed a “non-stress” approach. Instead of exclusivity, Winston offered
creativity.
Instead of competition, Winston offered
conversation.
Winston nurtured the heart as well as the head. Winston
cared
about
caring.

Their vision survived about as long as a quart of milk. Forgotten in the back of a van with no air-conditioning. In Death
Valley.

Nevertheless, Glen strummed on.

Assembly Hall consisted of one enormous, ballroom-sized space. Sunlight streamed in through tall French windows, and the leaves
of the weeping willows shimmered behind the glass. There were no chairs to sit on or desks to hide behind. Everyone, students
and teachers alike, sat on the smooth, brushed concrete floor. For all appearances, students sat wherever they liked. If you
paid attention, however, you’d notice everyone sat in the same spot every day. A strict seating chart was in place — and your
spot on the floor, just like your spot in the lot, depended entirely on your social ranking. But while parking spots had to
do with what you drove, floor spots had to do with who you were. And who you were was defined by
what you wore
. And, of course, how you wore it.

The least popular Winstonians sat in the center of the floor, known as “Ground Zero.” The goal was to sit as far from Ground
Zero as possible. The farther you got, the more popular you were. The most coveted seats on the floor were those at the outermost
point — in this case, a seat against the wall. A wall seat was a clear sign to the student body that you’d made it.

Melissa and her friends sat along the sunniest part of the East Wall. East Wallers looked like they spent their lunchtime
hot-tubbing with Snoop Dogg. East Wallers wore form-fitting, brand-name clothes that sparkled when they walked. East Wallers
were all sass. Basic Rule: if you can’t match your stilettos to your nail jewels,
sit someplace else.

Charlotte and her friends sat on the west side. West Wallers were the so-called “indie darlings” of Winston Prep. West Wallers
looked like they spent lunchtime gallery-hopping with Sofia Coppola and Chloë Sevigny. West Wallers dressed in understated
yet expensive fabrics: silk, cashmere, sheer cottons. West Wallers were all class. Basic Rule: if you can’t pair vintage capris
with couture flats,
sit someplace else.

Janie and her friends sat toward the back, near the middle: this was No Man’s Land. Nomanlanders looked like they spent lunchtime,
well . . . eating lunch. Nomanlanders wore Sevens jeans and Banana Republic t-shirts — and that’s when they were feeling
really
stylish. Nomanlanders dressed to be ignored, and they were. Basic Rule: Um, Nomanlanders didn’t need one.

“Good morning, everyone!” Glen crowed, cupping his hands to his mouth. He tucked his wiry gray bangs behind his ears and cleared
his throat, waiting for them to
simmer down.
As usual, they didn’t. Glen watched them with a mixture of impatience and fear, like an inexperienced chef on television.

“Welcome to the first Town Meeting of the year!” he called out, inciting a riot of hoots and hollers. “I know it’s the first
day and we’re all excited to see each other after a long and hopefully restorative summer break. But we have a lot of very
important announcements that require your undivided attention. So eyes on me. Let’s do our best to focus.”

At that, all 314 students assumed butterfly position on the brushed concrete floor. A hush fell over the crowd. Glen clasped
his hands, pleased. But (predictably) his sense of success was short-lived. He realized their attention, though undivided,
was focused on decidedly
non-Glen
subject matter. In other words, their eyes were very clearly
not
on him — but on someone else. Someone behind him.

Which is why he turned around.

Janie entered the assembly hall, mortified to find every single pair of eyes fixed on her. She tugged at the hem of her green
miniskirt and stared at the ground. She knew what they were thinking:
here comes Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s new hood ornament. Make way for Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s personal speed bump.
Check out Janie Farrish, Melissa Moon’s latest roadkill.
Except, of course, she was worse than roadkill.