Blondetourage Read Free Page A

excruciating death.
This is Ashleigh and Toby and Rhys.'
    'Um, hi,' I give a small, half-wave. As it turns
out, Ashleigh is the Anouschka stand-in. Toby is
the guffawer. He looks like a long-time guffawer,
too – maybe the class clown. Rhys is the ... well, I
don't know what he is, the smile didn't give much
away, but apart from whatever else he is, he's definitely
the resident hot guy in my books.
    'And on behalf of us all,' George continues, with
a sweeping gesture, 'I'd like to say welcome to the
Blondetourage.'
    The Blondetourage. I have to laugh at this. 'Um,
thanks!' I tell her. 'So your parents all work on the
show?' I move over now and slide my butt on top
of the closest spare table, so I can sit and swing my
legs and (hopefully) look slightly cool. Like all my
tutors let me get away with sitting on the desks.
    George nods. 'My mom's the makeup artist.
Ashleigh's mom is the executive producer, Toby's
mom is a stylist and Rhys's dad is a personal
trainer.'
    Well, that explains his nicely toned muscles,
then. I manage to tear my eyes away from Rhys
for a second and back to George. 'Right.'
    'So, your mom's the new chef, huh?'
    Hmmm. The way George says 'new' makes me
wonder how many chefs they've been through.
I'm guessing the two non-existent pounds on
Anouschka's thighs have probably seen a lot of
chefs come and go.
    'That's right. She's the new chef on the chopping
block,' I say, then instantly want to gag myself.
Where did that come from? Bad Pop Pun Land,
that's where. I've been Southern Hemisphere
spring holidaying with the grandparents a couple
of weeks too long, methinks. I try to cover my
words up by saying something else.
    'We flew in from Sydney this morning.' There
we go. Jet-setting. Jet-setting's good, right? And
Sydney's a groovy place to hang out for a while.
If it's good enough for Nicole Kidman, Russell
Crowe and Hugh Jackman, it's good enough for
these guys. Or it will be if I leave out the following
few facts, that is:
    1. Up until yesterday, as I mentioned, JJ and I
were spending a bit of between job downtime
with my grandparents (Nan and Pop of Bad Pop
Pun Land fame) and assorted family members,
including my cousin Steph.
    2. Before Steph and I would head out to the beach
or somewhere similar for the day, Nan would
pack me up a sandwich, a frozen drink, an apple
and some baked goodie or another and wave me
off from the front gate.
    3. Sometimes Pop would walk me halfway to
Steph's house, as far as the park, to exercise
himself and his ancient terrier, Stinky Jack, who
spends his retired dog days making some very
nasty smells.
    4. When I got home, Nan would make me a
snack and I'd take in a bit of black and white
TV (yes, apparently black and white TVs do
still exist).
    5. If Nan was cooking dinner we'd have two veg.
and something like rissoles, steak or sausages (with
whichever bottled condiments took your fancy
and, of course, a big plate of buttered bread).
    6. If I ate all my dinner, I would be offered a treat,
like baked custard, or ice-cream and topping, or
...
    7.Sorry to bore you. If you're still awake, I'm sure
you know the granny drill.
    I could hardly admit to much, if any, of this,
could I? These people look like they don't even have grandparents. Gorgeous Rhys, oh-so-polished
Ashleigh, 'Free Tibet' T-shirted George and goofy-in-a-cool-way
Toby look like their parents bought
them from a downtown shop that was so hip it
only opened fifteen minutes ago (wait, make that
ten minutes ago. No ... eight minutes). They all
scream NYC-sanctioned kid. And I ... what do I
scream?
    As I take them in, I try really hard to tell myself
it doesn't matter. Rich Girls is stupid, right? Isn't that
what I always say? But I also know this isn't a Rich
Girls thing. It's just an everyday 'where do I fit in?'
thing. Who was I kidding before in the Rich Girls kitchen, thinking I was Normal Girl? After years
of being tutored all by myself, I realise I have no idea. I don't even reach Normal Girl heights on