Poseur Read Free Page A

kids gather on weekend nights — and stopped at Laurel Canyon Boulevard. To their right,
     in front of the Wells Fargo bank with the mosaic tile mural of “The Old West,” a bunch of people protested the war. To their
     left, in front of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a bunch of people protested the protesters.
    Janie looked out the window and sighed. If only they could take a right, she thought. They could get on the 101 South and
     head over to the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts that Amelia attended. In eighth grade, Janie and she made plans
     to apply to L.A.C.H.S.A. together. Amelia would apply for music, Janie would apply for visual arts, and together they would
     start new lives as Tortured Artists. But then Janie and Jake were awarded academic scholarships to Winston Prep, the impossibly
     exclusive private school in the Hollywood Hills. Winston was an oppor-tunity she could not — according to her education-obsessed
     parents — turn down. And so Janie and Amelia, who’d gone to the same schools since second grade, went their separate ways.
     Amelia took a right where Janie took a left. While Amelia got to be the Tortured Artist, Janie just got to be tortured.
    As they pulled into Laurel Canyon, Janie faced ahead. As usual, their Volvo was last in an endless line of cars coursing uphill
     like the interlocked teeth of a shiny new zipper. Every time Jake eased on the brakes, the black Volvo released a low, moaning
     noise like a dying whale. After three dead whales, Janie flipped on the radio. In a matter of seconds, the noise was replaced
     with “I Will Remember You,” by Sarah McLachlan, which was, in their humble opinion, a trillion times worse.
    “I will remember poooop . . . ,” Janie crooned.
    “Will you remember peeee . . . ?” Jake crooned back.
    Jake slid in the new Franz Ferdinand CD, ending their sophisticated duet. Janie loved Franz Ferdinand. The driving beat made
     her want to spin around and dance and cheer, but the lyrics made her want to lie down, stare at the ceiling, and cry. Maybe
     because their music pulled her heart in opposite directions, Franz Ferdinand reminded her of Paul Elliot Miller.
    Oh, Paul. Would she ever see him again?
    The Volvo continued to wheeze up the hill, passing the dramatic ruins of a house that collapsed in the mudslides the year
     before. Janie thought it looked cool — all those huge slabs of broken concrete, crumbling plaster and shattered glass in the
     grass. Like a modern art sculpture, she thought. Unfortunately, Jake thought the same thing:
    “Ah yes,” he announced. “My
pièce de résistance.
”
    When they reached the top of the hill, Jake turned right, taking the car down Mulholland. Janie leaned back into the cracked,
     tan vinyl seat, remembering the lyrics to that old R.E.M. song her parents liked: “If I ever want to fly . . . Mulholland
     Drive . . . I am alive.”
    Michael Stipe could feel alive all he wanted. Janie, on the other hand, felt something else. She felt, suddenly, inescapably,
on her way to Winston Prep
— the exact
opposite
of alive. Janie pulled at the hem of her miniskirt, letting it sink in for the first time. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t
     nervous. She was fine.
    But then her brother took a sharp left. Were they really on Coldwater Canyon already? The Volvo sailed across a dip in the
     road, and Janie gripped the sides of her seat. She was going to be sick.
    “Wait,” she squawked.
    “What?” Jake replied, still staring straight ahead.
    “We need to go home.”
    “What?” He scrunched his forehead. “Why?”
    Wasn’t it obvious? She was Clashing! With a capital
C.
    Clashing with a capital
C
is different than clashing with a lowercase
c.
Lowercase
c
clashing is, like, wearing gold earrings with a silver necklace. Or leopard print with zebra print. Or black pants with navy
     blue socks. At the end of the day, lowercase
c
clashing is just sort of ugly. And just sort of ugly isn’t the end of the