Poseur (7 page)

The tide of the crowd guided him to the exit, through the corridor and into the sun. He blinked, taking a moment to adjust
his eyes to the light. Jake was on Accutane, and one of the side effects — sensitivity to light — made exiting buildings somewhat
of a challenge.

It was a small price to pay.

When Jake and Janie first transferred to Winston last year, their skin had gone from bad to worse. Pores gave way to pimples.
Pimples gave way to pustules. Pustules gave way to pustules with pimples.

Which was to say, even their zits had zits.

“We’re lepers!” they had cried to their parents, wringing their hands and running through the house.

“Good,” their dad muttered, tightening a string on his twelve-string guitar. “We can send you to a colony.”

But Mrs. Farrish booked them an appointment with a dermatologist.

Dr. Kinoshita spent the entire appointment connected to a swivel stool with little wheels that squeaked. Instead of walking,
Dr. Kinoshita pushed his feet to the floor and launched. He rocketed across the smooth, white tiles. He swung an enormous
mirror in front of their faces and stared with one unblinking, magnified eye. He was a cyclops. A cyclops on wheels.

“This is a very bad case of acne,” he declared, slapping his hands to his knees. Jake and Janie looked at each other. Can
you say, “duh” ?

“We’ve tried everything,” their mother sighed.

“I’m going to ask you two a question.” Dr. Kinoshita laid a hand on Mrs. Farrish’s shoulder. “I call it ‘the paper bag test.’
It’s very easy, only one question long, and the question is this: when you go outside, do you feel like wearing a paper bag
over your head?”

“More like an entire paper luggage set,” Jake said.

Dr. Kinoshita nodded. “There’s a medication called Accutane,” he explained, “but I only prescribe it to people with acne so
severe they feel like they can’t go outside in public.”

“Well, I feel like I can’t go outside in public, and my skin is fine,” joked their mother. Dr. Kinoshita chuckled. Her children
were unamused.

“Does this stuff actually work?” Jake couldn’t help but feel suspicious.

“Well, everyone is different. But let’s just say all of my patients have been very happy with their results.”

“Doesn’t this medication have side effects?” Mrs. Farrish interjected. Jake and Janie groaned in dismay. Their mother wasn’t
going to let a little thing like side effects stand in the way of clear skin, was she? They could turn into twin Hulks for
all they cared! As long as their green skin was blemish-free,
who the hell cared
?

“It does have some,” Dr. Kinoshita confirmed, handing their mother a glossy paper insert, “but it’s important to keep in mind
—”

“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Farrish gasped, her eyes darting down the list. “Hair loss? Rectal bleeding?” Jake and Janie looked at
each other. Okay. No one wanted to be a balding butt bleeder, not even the Hulk.

“Keep in mind most of those reactions are extremely rare,” Dr. Kinoshita replied. “I’ve never experienced anything like —”

“What have you experienced?” Mrs. Farrish interrupted again.

“Chapped lips. Dehydration. Sensitivity to light. . . .”

Mrs. Farrish lowered the list to her lap. “So, what’s in this pill? Jack Daniels?”

Dr. Kinoshita chuckled again. “No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, drinking should be avoided while taking this medication.
It lowers tolerance significantly.”

“Right,” Jake responded with a thoughtful nod.

“What do you mean ‘right’?” his mother interrogated. “Are you
drinking
?”

“Also,” Dr. Kinoshita interrupted, “this medication causes
severe
birth defects. If you decide to take it,” he advised, turning to Janie, “you
must
use some form of birth control.”

Mrs. Farrish trilled with laughter. “Oh, I don’t think
that’s
necessary,” she chortled, oblivious to her daughter’s mortified glare. Janie’s utter lack of sexual experience was one thing.
But that it should prove the subject of her mother’s hilarity!

It was a little much.

“So then we can get it?” Jake asked, his tone hopeful.

“Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Farrish wiped a tear from her merry eye. She turned to take a good look at her two children. They
seemed to really want this. They were practically salivating out of their zit-encrusted mouths.

“I suppose it’s up to you guys,” she sighed.

When Jake’s eyes finally focused outside of the Kronenberg Theater, he spotted his sister exiting the Showroom. Juniors and
seniors were allowed off-campus lunches, a privilege Janie seemed impatient to use. She punched the crosswalk button like
a woodpecker as Jake broke into a trot, catching up to her just as the light turned green.

“You goin’ to Baja Fresh?” he asked, following her into the street.

“Get away from me,” she replied.

“What? Why?”

Janie stopped in her tracks, planting her foot like a kick-stop. “Did you see what happened in the Showroom?”

“No,” Jake said, confused. “What happened?”

Janie narrowed her eyes. “Nothing,” she seethed, steaming ahead.

“Wait!” He grabbed her bony elbow. “What happened?”

“I guess you were too busy flirting with the enemy to notice!”

Jake blushed. “We weren’t flirting.”

“Ha.”

“We’re just — friends!” he sputtered. “Besides — who are you? My keeper?”

Janie darkened with fury and Jake stepped back. His sister could be a little intense. “Don’t you remember anything?” she asked.
“She’s the one! She called me ‘Pompidou’ for like a whole semester!”

“She did?”

“You seriously have the memory of a goldfish!”

“Yeah, well, better than the memory of an elephant.”

“I am not an elephant!”

Jake folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the ground. How was it he and his sister were actual twins? They weren’t
even the same species!

“How did this even happen?” Janie eked out, her eyes now growing glassy. “How are you guys quote-unquote
friends
? ”

Before Jake could answer, a nasal beeping distracted them both. They looked up to find Charlotte’s gleaming, cream-colored
Jag lumbering at the curb. She leaned toward the window, her glossy black curls tumbling across the shoulders of a slouchy
gray hoody. At first Janie was confused. Charlotte Beverwil wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoody. Then she noticed a small object
glint next to the zipper. An Amnesiac pin. Janie blanched in horror.

She was wearing her brother’s sweatshirt.

“Hey!” Charlotte called to Jake, flashing a dazzling white smile in Janie’s direction. Janie pretended not to notice.

“Just gimme a sec,” Jake said, sidling up to her car. The engine greeted him with a throaty purr. Music wafted through the
window like cigarette smoke.

So did cigarette smoke.

“We’re heading to Kate Mantellini,” Charlotte announced, ashing her gold-tipped Gauloise into the street. “Wanna come?”

“Oh.” Jake bobbed his eyebrows in surprise. An invite to Kate Mantellini, the expensive chopped-salad mecca on Wilshire Boulevard,
could mean only one thing: he had passed the Best Friend Test. Jake’s instincts were correct. After a brutal (but necessary)
bathroom interrogation, Kate and Laila conceded Jake’s new status as “hottie.” On a scale of one to five butterflies, he earned
a staggering
four and a half
(his unfortunate lack of a British accent worked against him). Using her brand-new Treo, Kate reported Jake to the student-run
site: Winston’s Most Wanted. Jake Farrish was instantly inducted.

He glanced into Charlotte’s backseat, where Kate and Laila sat staring into identical black MAC compacts. At the moment of
his attention, the compacts snapped shut. They turned, smiling their synchronized, glossimer smiles.

“Well?” the two girls asked in unison.

“Um . . . ,” Jake turned to check on his sister, but she was half-way down the block. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I guess I’m
down to be abducted.”

Jake reached for Charlotte’s passenger-side door. The lock released with a luxurious click and he ducked inside, sinking into
the buttery leather seat. Charlotte leaned toward him. Her leather seat crackled. Her eyes snapped with light. And she didn’t
smell like cigarettes at all. She smelled like orange blossoms. She smelled like summer rain.

She smelled a little like his grandmother.

“Ready?” Charlotte asked.

Jake didn’t have to answer. He’d already shut the door.

With the exception of Amelia, Janie’s Canson Field Sketchbook was her best friend. She’d flip through magazines and draw the
things she wanted, the things she needed, the things she
had to have.
When she got bored, she drew things that didn’t exist. She window-shopped her imagination and drew what she found. Gossamer
baby doll dresses and mermaid-tailed cocktail dresses. Cap sleeves and poet sleeves, bell sleeves, ballet sleeves. Skirts
with slits and skirts with pleats. Military jackets, puffy jackets, pea coats, and trench coats. She drew petticoats. Hip-huggers
and sailor pants, cowboy hats and pillbox caps. Frills and fringe, bows and buttons, ribbons and sashes, buckles and zips
and ties and clips.

She drew all the things she
would
wear, someday — as soon as she worked up the nerve.

But that day, as she sat down for lunch at the Baja Fresh in Beverly Hills, Janie drew for another reason altogether. She
flipped open her sketchbook, readying her graphite pencil like a thunderbolt. She stabbed the paper with electric force. This
wasn’t a drawing. This was, in the tradition of Dr. Frankenstein and other mad scientists,
a creation.

First she drew her model: a slender girl with bobbed light-brown hair and killer legs (resemblance to self — pure coincidence).
She drew a t-shirt, black and slashed around the shoulders, a haphazard crosshatch of red stitching around the collar. She
penciled in a pair of shorts. Short-shorts. Janie edged the contours with the tip of her eraser, creating the effect of reflecting
light. Only one material reflects light like that: vinyl. And she’d cut these from the slickest, tightest, hottest vinyl available.
They’d stick to her skin like Fruit Roll-Ups. They’d come in artificial cherry red.

She’d call this little number “Sweet Revenge.”

High heels came next. Black, with rounded toes and platform heels, ribbons laced to the knee. Janie squinted at her work,
adding an inch to each heel for good measure. More than three steps in shoes like these and she’d be timber, sprawled on the
floor and down for the count. But these shoes weren’t made for walking.

They were made for standing around and looking pissed.

Janie moved on to accessories. Nothing over-the-top: just a few leather bracelets, some safety pins, five earrings, eleven
rings, two chain-link belts, and . . . a tattoo? She frowned, nibbling on her last remaining cuticle — she just couldn’t decide.

“Number h’eighty-two? H’eighty-two, order ready.”

Janie scooted her chair back and approached the counter.

“Thank you.” She nodded, transporting her order to the salsa bar. Janie studied her options: pico de gallo, salsa fresca,
chipotle, chopped cilantro, lime slices, pickled jalapeños. She unwrapped her order, adding a little bit of everything. Okay,
so she tended to over-accessorize, even when it came to tacos.

“Ouch,” exclaimed an unidentifiable male voice.

Janie glanced up at the guy standing directly next to her. He looked like a less grumpy version of Heath Ledger, one of Janie’s
absolute favorite actors. He was tall and strong, with well-wrought limbs and smooth golden skin. His longish hair, which
was flecked with more gold, ended in soft flips around his ears. His hands appeared capable and calloused (Janie could only
guess) from surfing, and he was dressed for the beach: olive green board shorts and rubbery flip-flops, an oversized brown
sweatshirt. In short: he looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t talk to her in a million years.

And yet.

“How can you
handle
that?” He regarded her salsa-soaked taco with something close to awe.

“Oh,” Janie replied, somewhat shell-shocked. “It’s really not that hot.”

“Well.” He grinned, revealing a to-die-for set of dimples. “Maybe not for you.”

Maybe not for
her
? What was
that
supposed to mean?

With all the courage she could muster, Janie allowed their eyes to lock. To her surprise, they seemed familiar. What was it
about that half-moon shape? That chlorine blend of blue and green?

“Evan!”
At the sound of his name, Heath Ledger Boy diverted his attention from Janie to Joaquin Whitman, who had his face pushed
against the outside window. “We’re outta here, dude,” called Joaquin, fogging the glass with his pot breath.

“I’ll
be
there.” The boy whose name was Evan waved him away.

“You go to Winston?” Janie blurted in disbelief. Had he really escaped her attention all this time?

“I just transferred senior year,” he replied. “It’s sort of a long story.”