Pish Posh Read Free

there that Dr. Piff was a chronic liar and that she would think no more about it. But still, when she picked up her sandwich to take a bite, she found that she had lost her appetite.
    The customers in the restaurant were no longer watching her. In fact, they had forgotten all about her, since she had clearly chosen the Nobody and they were safe. Her eyes drifted over to the princess of Thailand, who was only two years older than she was. The princess had stopped throwing bits of baguette, and now she had engaged one of her bodyguards in a sword fight, using their utensils. She was laughing loudly, and all the bodyguards were laughing, too. She was acting just like the girls at Clara’s school, which was very unbecoming of a princess. In a fit of pique, Clara thought that she would have the princess declared a Nobody. That would stop her laughing! But then, she knew that was impossible. That was the problem with royalty—they almost never became Nobodies, even when they acted like savages.
    Clara rose and walked up to her mother.
    â€œI’m going home,” Clara said.
    â€œSo soon?”
    Just then, Prim LeDander and her friend Bitsey Fopah walked through the door. They were both terribly thin, terribly rich, and, amazingly, without eyebrows.
    â€œHello, ladies, and how are—” Lila started, but when she noticed the pale, smooth skin where their eyebrows should have been, she stopped.
    â€œAre you looking at our eyebrows, darling?” Prim asked.
    â€œNot at all.” Lila quickly collected herself. “Why on earth should I look at your eyebrows?”
    â€œWe’ve had them waxed,” Prim said in a quiet, confidential voice.
    â€œIt was dreadfully painful,” moaned Bitsey.
    â€œIt’s all the rage,” said Prim. “On account of the upcoming medieval costume exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. ”
    â€œThe women were born without eyebrows back in the Middle Ages, you see, ” Bitsey explained, and she raised the skin where her eyebrows should have been to show just how shocking this piece of information was.
    â€œNonsense, Bitsey! They simply plucked them all out.” Prim turned to Lila. “It makes the eyes look wider, you see. ” She opened her eyes wide to demonstrate.
    â€œExtraordinary!” Lila exclaimed.
    â€œThe museum is going to choose the ‘Face of the Middle Ages’ among New York’s high society—” Bitsey said.
    â€œOf which we are most certainly the highest,” Prim added.
    â€œâ€”and whomever they choose will have her face cast in a mold, out of which they will create the mannequins that wear the costumes in the exhibit. Can you imagine! Your own face being on permanent display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art! Oh, wouldn’t that make one’s friends revoltingly jealous!”
    â€œDeliciously so!” Prim agreed.
    Â 
    Clara went into the kitchen to say good night to her father, Pierre Frankofile. He was the owner of Pish Posh, but he was also the chef. Right now, he stood behind the shelves of gleaming metal where they put the plates of food, and was sautéing onions in a black-singed pan. He wore a white chef’s jacket and a white chef’s hat, and his round face was sweaty and pink.
    â€œI’m going home, Papa,” said Clara. She had to speak very loudly over the clatter of pots and pans and the roar of the dishwasher and the yells of the waiters calling their orders. The kitchen had at least ten other people working in it, chopping garlic, grilling meat, stirring soup, and in the back, washing racks of dishes and glasses in a giant silver dishwasher. Clara did not like the kitchen. It was dirty and hot and chaotic, and the workers were, of course, not the sort she cared to have anything to do with. In fact, she only ever came into the kitchen to say good night to her father.
    Pierre Frankofile turned away from his pan of onions to say good night to his daughter,