Poseur (6 page)

Roadkill had the decency to die.

In order to get to her seat in No Man’s Land, she would have to weave through the vast crowd of kids sitting on the floor.
Under normal circumstances, walking through the crowd was no big deal. But today she was wearing the micro-mini. All someone
would have to do was look
up
and then . . . oh God. She couldn’t even think about it.

Janie was faced with a choice: assume her rightful place in No Man’s Land and risk everyone seeing her underwear, or sit down
exactly where she was. Except exactly where she was happened to be the Back Wall. The Back Wall (aka “Ganja Ghetto”) belonged
to kids cool enough to spend lunch break in celebrity rehab. Basic Rule: if you don’t resemble the best-looking member of
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,
sit someplace else.
But for once, Janie didn’t care. Especially since she was wearing her Valentine panties from Target. The pair with
IN YOUR DREAMS
printed over and over in a tiny, bright pink font.

She found an empty space next to Joaquin Whitman and, even though he smelled like patchouli and pickles, Janie folded her
knees and sat down. To her surprise, Joaquin greeted her with a gentle smile and a singsong, “wha-a-tsu-up?”

“Whatsup,” she replied, half-wondering if his cheeriness was some kind of setup.

“Chillin’.” Joaquin nodded, adjusting the headphones to his nano. He smiled, bobbing his head like a dashboard ornament. Janie
breathed a sigh of relief. Joaquin didn’t seem to care if she sat there at all. He was even
nice.

She craned her neck, scanning the great stretch of No Man’s Land for Jake. He was nowhere to be found. With heavy heart, Janie
turned west. Her instincts were right. There he was, sitting next to
her.
Janie wished she could say her brother looked out of place but he didn’t. With his new tousled haircut and dewy complexion,
his threadbare cowboy shirt and beat-up Converse All Stars, Jake Farrish looked like your basic West Wall poster child. Janie
watched as Charlotte Beverwil removed her canary-yellow headband and pushed it through Jake’s hair, laughing. Jake took the
whole thing in stride.
Ugh,
Janie thought.
Who does he think he is?

Just then, Bethany Snee, one of Janie’s only friends at Winston and fellow Nomanlander, caught her eye.
Who does she think she is,
Bethany’s fat fish-lips appeared to mouth to Farrah Frick, a freckly redhead with an annoying laugh. Janie blushed as Farrah
turned around to give her a scandalized look. Before long the two girls were cupping hands to each other’s ears, whispering
their gossipy heads off. Janie tried not to think about what they were saying, but she couldn’t help herself. Were they making
fun of her skirt? Did they think she was full of herself ? Would they still let her eat lunch with them? Did they think she
was on drugs? Now that she was sitting at the back wall, did
everyone
think she was on drugs?

Janie squeezed her eyes shut. If only someone would come to school in an outfit more insane than hers. An outfit so what-was-she-thinking
out
there, her micro-mini would look mild in comparison. Janie tried to imagine what that outfit would look like, but she couldn’t.
And then, just when she’d given up. . . .

Petra Greene walked into Town Meeting.

Janie’s miniskirt was instantly forgotten.

The Girl: Petra Greene

The Getup: See it to believe it

Only two things on Petra Greene’s body escaped fervent debate: her left hand and her right hand. From the tips of her tapered
fingers to the delicate bone of her wrists, they were flawless. And because there’s no such thing as “finger implants” or
“wrist tucks,” Winston attributed her flawless hands to nature, genes, luck — whatever. Even her harshest critics agreed:
Petra Greene’s hands were 100 percent cosmetic surgery–free.

The rest of her features, however: definitely suspect. Beauty like hers just wasn’t natural. Or so everyone assumed.

Dr. Robert Greene was the most sought-after plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. In light of his profession, Petra’s looks were
universally pooh-poohed. She isn’t
pretty,
her dissenters insisted. She’s a
product
— the latest accomplishment of “Daddy’s magic wand.” It was just a rumor, of course, but a rumor even Daddy spread around.
When clients gushed over a prominently displayed photograph of his daughter, Dr. Greene would wink and say, “my best work
to date.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. Petra
was
his work — in the way all children are the “work” of their parents. If his patients thought he meant something else, well
then
that was their interpretation.

When Petra caught wind of her father’s comments, she wasn’t exactly surprised. As her mother uttered over brandy more than
once, Petra’s father was ruthless. In terms of price, his was the highest. In terms of dignity, his was the lowest. Dr. Greene
had a reputation for doing anything for anyone at anytime. (There was good reason Michael, Cher, Liza, and Angeline were
all
said to be his clients.) Petra sometimes wished operating rooms were run like car dealerships, so people could see her father
as he really was: the guy on TV telling you to
come on down.
“Come see the King of Collagen! The Baron of Botox!! The Lord of Lipo!!!” He’d holler and wave around a ten-gallon surgical
cap. He’d juggle his scalpels and laugh like a maniac.

But no one saw her father like that.

No one, that is, except Petra.

Her therapist informed her
she didn’t hate her father — she hated his behavior.
But no, Petra seriously hated her father, which is why she did everything humanly possible to wreck the perfect looks God
gave her. She would not be his free advertising. She refused. She would float around in ratty smocks and moth-eaten sweatshirts.
She would never wash or brush her hair and she would never, ever wear makeup again — not even ChapStick.

Seriously.

In terms of rebellious acts, Petra Greene’s ranked number seven in Winston’s all time top ten, knocking Billy Bresler — who
torched a tennis net in 1989 — to number eight. At Winston, not caring how you look is
way
more subversive than arson. And Petra really,
really
didn’t care.

Town Meeting proved no exception.

Six hundred hungry eyes watched her float across the room. She wore a pink ballet slipper on her right foot, a black ballet
slipper on her left. The fallen hem of her wine-red linen skirt dragged along the floor, and a mop-gray thermal bunched under
her baby-tee. A shredded scarf dangled from her neck as a string of fake pearls fought for breath. Her yellow t-shirt, which
looked about ten sizes too small, read:
PROPERTY OF SPONGEBOB.
As a final touch, Petra topped her matted locks with a lopsided paper Burger King crown.

Still, you know how Johnny Depp insists on accepting roles that ruin his looks? And yet — despite the scissor hands in one
film, the mouthful of rotting teeth in another — he manages to be mind-blowingly beautiful? Petra Greene suffered from the
same sort of disease. Try as she might, she couldn’t
not
be pretty. In fact, the less she cared, the more you stared.

It was really quite tragic.

“Take a seat, Petra,” Glen nodded as she sat down, her skirt blooming like a wine-red mushroom cloud. “It’s nice to see you.”

And wasn’t that the truth?

Winston Prep lifted the term “Town Meeting” from the Quakers, a centuries-old community of nonviolent Christians who — if
they were anything like that guy on the oatmeal box — considered pirate hats the absolute height of fashion. Which is to say,
the similarities between Winston Town Meetings and Quaker Town Meetings began and ended with the name.

Winston Town Meetings were all the same: boring announcement after boring announcement until the ultimate reward of boring
bagels, accompanied by only slightly more compelling individualized cream cheese packets. Then, while the seventh graders
sat consuming their carbs (upperclassmen knew better), Glen reminded them that, in addition to announcements, Town Meeting
provided a platform for
community expression.

“Come on, guys!” He scanned the meeting for volunteers. “Town Meeting doesn’t
have
to be boring!”

That was the most boring announcement of all.

No one in their right mind took advantage of community expression, which expressed one thing and one thing only: I am a big
fat loser. Take Owen Meyer, for example. In commemoration of the thirteen-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, Owen had
performed an a cappella rendition of “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam,” and then — to the shock and mirth of all present
— he actually
cried.
After that, everyone called him Owen Crier, which made him cry more, which only proved the point. Eventually he moved to
Texas, which students dubbed the Lone Tear State, but only for about a day. By the next, Owen and his blotchy face were forgotten.

“I did a lot of thinking over the summer.” Glen looked off into the distance, nostrils flaring like a conquistador. “I thought
about the way Town Meeting used to be. And then I thought about the way Town Meeting is
now
— strained of creativity like so much pulp from orange juice.
Even though the pulp is the most nutritious part!
”

He bored into them with his sternest look.

“I realized we need to make some serious changes around here,” he announced. Students shifted their weight and exchanged worried
glances. What, exactly, was Glen capable of ? Was he allowed to ground them? Send them to boarding school? Military school?
ITT Tech?

“I’d like to introduce our new director of Special Studies.” Glen turned toward the right corner of the room. “Miss Paletsky.”

That no one knew what a “special study” was really didn’t matter; the insult was obvious. Everyone knew “special” was synonymous
with “retard,” even Glen. But before they could cry out in protest, Winston’s newest teacher approached the microphone.

One thing you could say for the new director of Retard Studies: she knew how to dress the part.

Her clothes looked like something you’d trade for cigarettes behind the Berlin Wall. Meaning they were, like, eighties — but
in a very non-cool way. She had paired high-waisted tan stretch pants with a magenta leotard and an asymmetrical white leather
belt. Her boots were little white spikes. Her kitten-face earrings were clip-on. She smelled like apples and menthol and Suave.
She looked about twenty-eight years old, roughly the same age as her lipstick, which was roughly the color of borscht.

The forces of fashion had united against her. And yet. She was cute.

You could tell by the way some of the male teachers straightened in their seats. For the most part, Winston faculty hulked
like vultures. They slumped at laptops. They stooped over coffee. They wilted by dry-erase boards. Winston faculty earned
their bad posture in college, having slowly collapsed under the weight of their brains. Most of them graduated from Stanford
or Yale, which was sort of depressing when you thought about it (you know
they
thought about it, like, all the time.)

Miss Paletsky pressed her hands to her thighs and tipped into a little bow. “Ch’ello, stewdents,” she murmured into the mic.
Her voice was both breathy and Slavic, a strange mix of Marilyn Monroe and Dracula.

“Ch’ello,” she repeated, a little louder this time.

Glen cupped his hands to his mouth. “Community Expression needs our help!”

Miss Paletsky knitted her brow, confused by his random, enthusiastic outburst.

“Ye-es,” she continued with a timid smile. “This ‘Community Expression’ is not so popular. But as the new director of Special
Studies, I’m here to fix it.
So.
What is Special Study? Special Study is class that you, the
stewdents
create. It can be anything you like, and as long as your study is approved, you have
one period each week
to meet. Which means —”

“You must have a minimum of four students!” Glen interrupted, bursting with excitement. “That’s no less than
four
to qualify as an official class. Every Special Study must involve
legal
and
age-appropriate
activities. Which means absolutely no drugs, no sexual activity, and no violence of any kind! If you have an idea, please
talk to Miss Paletsky. All it takes is four or more interested students and it’s official: your very own Special Study is
good to go!”

With a grave look of concern, Miss Paletsky observed Glen pump his fist. She returned her gaze to the students, smiling bravely.

“Okay!” Glen continued, still beaming like the Patron Saint of Dorks. “Town Meeting dismissed!”

Jake had two classes lined up before lunch: Advanced Physics and French Cinema. (Guess which one Charlotte was in?) Advanced
Physics took place in an unremarkable Winston classroom (mahogany desks, chalkboards, French windows with spectacular canyon
views), and French Cinema didn’t take place in a classroom at all.

Thanks to the generous contribution of Alan and Betty Kronenberg, the Winston campus came equipped with a 100-seat movie theater.
Except for the screen, which was state-of-the-art digital, the theater was straight out of the twenties. Creamy silk curtains
hung in scalloped pleats. Chairs held out arms of warm red velvet. The seashell-shaped sconces fanned the walls with golden
beams. There was even a ticket booth with a window that opened and shut like a brass accordion. The more sophisticated students
dismissed the theater as “cheesy,” but then they’d sink into their seats, tip their heads back, and sigh. The black ceiling
twinkled with a galaxy’s worth of tiny white lights.

As far as cheese goes, this stuff was world-class brie.

Charlotte invited Jake to sit with her in the back row — and he accepted. The lights went down and the title came up. The
first film of the year was a black-and-white French classic called
Les Quatre Cents Coups.

“Four Hundred
Blows
?” Charlotte translated the title with a coy smirk. “
This
should be interesting.”

“Dude,” Jake replied. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” Charlotte threw back her long neck and laughed, breezy as a wind
chime. Jake stole a quick glance at the soft shadow between her breasts. When he looked up he noticed Kate Joliet, Charlotte’s
best friend, staring back — disgusted. Jake looked ahead and pretended to focus on the film.

After class, Charlotte excused herself to the bathroom, her two best friends in tow. The two girls had spent the film staring
at Jake in this super-critical way — and Jake thought he knew why.
Why
was why. Charlotte sat next to him? Why? Laughed at his jokes? Why? Asked to borrow his sweatshirt when the air kicked in?
Why?

Once they asked, Jake could kiss his luck goodbye. Because once they asked, Charlotte would realize: she really didn’t
know
why. Before long
why
would become
what
(had she been thinking?) and
how
(could she let this happen?) and
where
(could she blow him off ?) and
when
(as soon as possible).

Jake watched the object of his affection drift toward the exit, growing smaller and smaller, like a balloon he’d let go by
accident. As a kid, he would have thrown a tantrum. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets
and shrugged it off. It was just a balloon. It was just a girl.