Poseur Read online

  Text copyright © 2008 by Rachel Maude

  Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Rachel Maude and Compai

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Poppy

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.pickapoppy.com

  First eBook Edition: January 2008

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-316-02927-8

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  The Girl: Janie Farrish

  The Girl: Petra Greene

  The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

  The Girl: Melissa Moon

  The Girl: Petra Greene

  The Girl: Miss Paletsky

  The Girl: Janie Farrish

  The Girl (sort of): Don John

  The Girl: Blanca (last name unknown)

  The Girl: Melissa Moon

  The Girl: Petra Greene

  The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

  The Girl: Nikki Pellegrini

  The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

  The Girl: Vivien Ho

  The Girl: Janie Farrish

  The Girl: Amelia Hernandez

  The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil

  The Girl: Nikki Pellegrini

  The Dog: Emilio Poochie

  The Girl: Barney’s mannequin

  The Girls: Melissa Moon, Charlotte Beverwil, Petra Greene, Janie Farrish

  The Girl: Gretchen Sweet (aka “Naomi”)

  For my parents

  Melissa Flashman, tough-talking agent, fashionable friend: thank you for making it all happen. Cindy Eagan, editor extraordinaire: many thanks for your incisive feedback and conscientious advice, your humor, your cracking whip. To the lovely ladies of Compai: I am in awe. Jamie Mae Lawrence: without you, I never would have survived high school. And by high school, I mean, like . . . life. Ben Nugent: I will forever cherish our Chango days. I acknowledgeth thee. Annie Baker, kasha to my pickle, sponge to my bone, willow to my shrub, orangutan to my feral cat: you are the love of my life, and for that I am deeply resentful. Jess: Que’est-ce que c’est un gallumpher? You were my first idol, and I love you. Gabe: you scream into toy cell phones and throw them against walls. You snort horseradish at Canter’s. You’re like a brother to me, man. And I love you. Mom: you are the smartest, wisest, wittiest person I know. Thank you for showing me how to be a good person. And for telling my kindergarten teacher I did not have a learning disability. I love you. Dad: you took me to see The Little Mermaid. You bought me Doc Martens when they were cool. You made me steak and eggs the night before the S.A.T. Thank you for being present every day of my life. I love you.

  The Girl: Janie Farrish

  The Getup: Cream cashmere cardigan, vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt rags tank, yellow silk Miss Sixty flats, silver bangles, and it

  It was still there when she woke up, hanging neatly on the back of her closet door. It was still the same bright green — like a new leaf, like a traffic light set to go. It was the most spectacular thing she owned, and if some other sixteen-year-old girl had owned it, it would have been the most spectacular thing she owned too.

  But some other sixteen-year-old girl didn’t own it. Janie did.

  She’d found it at one of Jet Rag’s legendary dollar sales, forever sealing Janie’s opinion that Jet Rag was, and always will be, the best vintage clothing store in the universe. Not that she’d been to every vintage clothing store in the universe. She didn’t have to. Jet Rag was right there on La Brea Boulevard, a mere twenty minutes away from her house on the other side of the hills, and a mere minute away from the La Brea Tar Pits. All of L.A. is divided by those who cruise La Brea for the tar pits and those who cruise La Brea for Jet Rag. If you go for Jet Rag, chances are you’re sixteen, beautiful, and impossibly unique. If you go for the tar pits, chances are you’re six or sixty or really, really lame. (So there’s a black swamp in the middle of Los Angeles that burps up dinosaur bones. You can’t wear dinosaur bones. And if you can’t wear something, what’s the point?)

  Every Saturday morning, the Jet Rag staff dumps an enormous load of clothes in the middle of their cracked-asphalt parking lot and people seriously riot over them like those peasants in the French Revolution. Every piece of clothing costs exactly one dollar. Depending on what you find, a dollar ranges from incredible deal to insane rip-off. And since the deal-to-rip-off ratio is like a hundred to one, the rioting makes perfect sense. Everyone there wants to find it first.

  Par example: Janie’s best friend, Amelia Hernandez, found a mint condition, vintage wool houndstooth Yves Saint Laurent jacket. YSL jacket + $1.00 = incredible deal. On the flip side, Janie found a “Pinky and the Brain” t-shirt with bloodstains on it: Pinky and the Brain + bloodstains + $1.00 = insane rip-off. Janie was so grossed out, she actually puked up some of the orange juice she’d had for breakfast. Which meant the next person to pick up the shirt would have blood and barf to contend with.

  But the Jet Rag dollar-sale isn’t for the faint of heart. The Jet Rag dollar sale is for die-hard, hard-core fashionistas: the hippest of the hip, the slickest of the slick, the sickest of the sick.

  Well, and homeless people.

  That summer Amelia seemed to have all the luck. In addition to the Yves Saint Laurent jacket, she found a sexy little Western shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, a pair of blue suede kitten-heeled boots, and — the crème de la nonfat creamer — a vintage Sonic Youth “Goo” t-shirt that Janie had a sinking feeling was from the original nineties tour. Not that she wasn’t happy for Amelia. (She was even happier when the t-shirt turned out to be eighteen sizes too big for either one of them to actually wear.)

  By the end of August, Janie still hadn’t found anything. She was just about to surrender, to throw her empty-handed hands in the air, when she spotted it.

  It — to be specific — was a vintage green cotton miniskirt by none other than Mary Quant, the number one designer for such sixties fashion icons as Mia Farrow and the British supermodel Twiggy. Janie was beginning to think she looked like a sixties fashion icon. Maybe that sounds egotistical; it’s not. It’s not like guys fantasize about Twiggy, even if they do know who she is, which of course they don’t. Why would they? In her heyday, Twiggy looked like a cross between an alien and an eleven-year-old boy. Seriously, who’d want to take the shirt off of that? No self-respecting guy at Winston Prep, that’s for sure.

  Janie knew firsthand.

  She had always gotten straight As, and now, as she was beginning to discover, her grade average also applied to her bra size. Janie’s boobs, if you could dignify them with that term, were the great tragedy of her life. They were absolute traitors to the cause. Not that the cause was such a big deal — just her happiness, her dreams, her very will to live.

  If it hadn’t been for her legs, she might have been forced to do something drastic. Her legs — long and smooth and track team–toned — were her saving grace. Who cared if her bra looked like a pair of eye patches? She could pull off a miniskirt like nobody’s business. Which was why she was so happy to find it. That is, until she went home and tried it on.

  Then she was ecstatic.

  Janie felt like the kind of girl who zipped around London in an Aston Martin with Jude Law. The kind of girl who inspired older Italian men with cultivated taste to tip their hats in appreciation. The kind of girl who knotted silk scarves under
her chin and hailed cabs in New York City while enchanted tourists snapped pictures ( just in case she was famous).

  She felt like the kind of girl she wasn’t.

  It’d be one thing if girls like this didn’t exist (Janie could just tell herself she was holding herself up to some impossible standard), but girls like this did exist. And what was worse, she went to high school with them.

  That bit about Italian men? Actually happened to Petra Greene. The New York City cab story? Straight from the life of Melissa Moon. And London? The Aston Martin? With Jude without-a-flaw Law? Just another blip in Charlotte Beverwil’s everyday existence.

  But we’ll get to them later.

  This year would be different. This year Janie would show up at school wearing it. And it would redefine her, force all of Winston to pause and reevaluate their previous misconceived notions. It would banish forever their memory of her as an entering freshman; in a world of double 66 Gucci totes and monogrammed Kate Spade organizers, Janie had arrived sporting an ink-stained Everest backpack. In a world of eyebrows tended to biweekly by professional “browticians,” Janie had arrived with two self-plucked “tadpoles” on her face (or so she was informed by the appalled Charlotte Beverwil). In a world of flawless complexions, Janie had arrived with a spackle of zits on her cheeks, chin, and chest. At Winston Prep, acne was widely perceived as a historical malady, like smallpox or polio. No one actually got those things anymore . . . did they? Janie’s new, elite peers eyed her with suspicion, like she’d just rolled in from some contaminated Third World country.

  It was the acne that did her in. At the end of ninth grade, Janie Farrish’s chin ranked number two on the Winston yearbook’s “don’t” list. (Tommy Balinger — who streaked the Winston vs. Sacred Heart girls’ badminton championship wearing nothing but two shuttlecocks on his nipples — made number one.)

  But today was the first day of tenth grade, a whole new beginning. Janie’s eyebrows were smooth and arched, her ink-stained backpack long disposed of. Best of all, her complexion was perfect: clear and fresh and sun-kissed. For the first time in years, Janie could see her actual face: her neat, strong nose and defined jaw line, her extra-high cheekbones. Her upper lip, fuller than her lower lip, perpetually pouted. And her enormous gray eyes, shadowy with lashes, looked soft and shy. Sometimes — when the sun was shining and she’d had a good amount of sleep, when sweet songs played in her head and her bangs fell the right way, when the sky rose like a peaceful blue parachute and the world was on her side — Janie realized she was pretty. But the feeling was so fragile and new, the slightest setback made it disappear. The sun ducked behind a cloud, her bangs flipped the wrong way — and that was it. She felt ugly again. Which feeling was the right one? She honestly couldn’t tell.

  Janie plucked her new green skirt from the plastic hanger. She pulled it past her trim knees, shimmied it up around her thighs, lined up the seams, and zipped. Her “new” rags tank (she’d scissored the sleeves off her Black Sabbath t-shirt the night before) slipped down her right shoulder, exposing a bright turquoise bra strap. She turned to face the mirror, greeting herself with her best self-assured smile.

  She was ready.

  Even though he woke up forty-five minutes late, Jake Farrish was already dressed and eating breakfast before his twin sister. Jake didn’t waste too much time constructing his look, if that’s what you chose to call it. His mom preferred to call it his “look away.”

  Not that her opinion mattered.

  Jake pretty much wore old cords, faded seventies cowboy shirts, black Converse, and his gray United States of Apparel hoody with the Amnesiac pin every day. His hair he rewarded with his greatest investment of time — a whole five and a half minutes. (Who knew the distribution of one dime-sized blob of wax required so much attention?) When he was done, he inspected himself from all angles, furrowing his brow like James Dean. Not that Jake looked like James Dean. With his mussed black-brown hair, porcelain skin, and flushed cheeks (interrupted only by a trilogy of beauty marks), Jake resembled a brown-eyed Adam Brody. Of course, Jake hated that comparison.

  “I do not look like that guy!” he’d insist every time his sister put in the Season One DVD of the tragically canceled O.C.

  “Don’t look at me,” came Janie’s reply. “ I think you look like Summer.”

  The Farrish kitchen was small and square, and the appliances old and broken-down. Not that their mother used those words. Mrs. Farrish preferred the term “temperamental,” as in “temperamental appliances require special treatment.” Jake and Janie were warned to be “gentle” with the dishwasher, “careful” with the microwave, and “mindful” of the freezer door. If Mrs. Farrish had her way, the twins would tip-toe around the kitchen like it was a mental ward. She acted as if slamming the refrigerator door would drive the toaster to suicide.

  By the time Janie entered the kitchen, Jake was well into his second bowl of Cheetah Chomps. “Hey,” she said, staring into the fridge and doing her best to look casual. She could feel her brother assessing her outfit the way overprotective brothers sometimes do. Jake was fundamentally hypocritical when it came to female fashion. The equation went something like this:

  Girl + Miniskirt = Smokin’

  Girl + Shared Genetic Material + Miniskirt = Repulsive

  She opened the fridge, letting her straight brown hair fall like a curtain across her face. Janie would not look away from the fridge until Jake said something. She sort of hoped he’d tell her she looked like a slut. Then she could just toss her hair back, arch one cool eyebrow, and thank him for the compliment.

  “Dude,” he began at last, “did you know cheetahs can achieve speeds of up to seventy miles per hour?”

  Janie slammed the fridge shut. What kind of guy reads the back of a cereal box while his sister, his own flesh and blood, was tricked out like a wanton whore?

  “Wow, Jake,” she scowled. “What an amazing and fun fact.”

  “Whoa . . . ,” he continued, hunching over his cereal like a caveman. “One of its natural predators is the eagle. How awesome is that? Like the eagle’s all . . . bwa! And the cheetah’s all, I don’t think so!”

  With that, he unleashed a mighty eagle-cry and karate-chopped the air for a full fifteen seconds. Janie watched him, doing her best not to crack a smile. She folded her arms and asked the inevitable.

  “Um . . . are you retarded?”

  “Yes,” he replied. He scooted his chair back and pointed at his sister with his spoon. “What are you doing dressed like that? You look like a skanky-ass ho.”

  “Come on” — she grinned, tossing him the car keys — “we’re gonna be late.”

  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 a
nd 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!”