Poseur Read Free Page B

world.
    Clashing with a capital
C
, on the other hand, is. Because Clashing with a capital
C
is when what you’re wearing doesn’t match
your entire life:
Laura Bush in a string bikini, Marilyn Manson in yoga pants, 50 Cent with a parasol.
    Janie Farrish in a bright green micro-mini.
    Her early morning rush of confidence vanished like a hallucination. Why oh why had she decided to wear this skirt? What had
     she been thinking? Even if she did have nice legs, micro miniskirts were the uniform of attractive people, not her! Janie
     stared down at her upper thighs in horror. She looked like a complete and utter poseur.
    She turned to her brother with pleading eyes.
Please, God. Pleasepleaseplease make him understand.
    “I,” she began. She was calm. She was rational. “I kinda just realized . . . I can’t wear this.”
    “What?”
    “I need to go home and change.”
    Jake looked closely at his sister, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. Janie exhaled, basking in her brother’s sympathy. He
     could be really great when he wanted to be.
    Then he burst into laughter.
    “Jake!” She pushed his shoulder. “I’m not joking!”
    “I know,” he continued to laugh. “That’s what makes it so funny.”
    Janie watched in horror as Winston Assembly Hall came into view, peeking through the branches of the school’s trademark weeping
     willows. Winston Prep was comprised of one large U-shaped stucco building and some small neighboring bungalows. The main structure
     used to be an apartment complex, and not just any apartment complex, but an old-school 1930s Hollywood Spanish-style complex.
     The central quad featured terracotta tiles and stucco walls. Staircases spiraled down from classroom doors. There were wrought-iron
     banisters, multitiered fountains, and classical archways. From a distance, the school looked like a gigantic, peach-colored
     wedding cake. Up close, it looked like a Mexican prison.
    At least it did to Janie.
    Jake put on his blinker. Janie’s heart jumped up, somersaulted, smacked itself unconscious, and splashed into the icy pool
     that was her stomach.
    “What are you doing?” she gasped.
    “Parking,” Jake replied, shifting the clutch.
    “You’re parking in the
Showroom
?”
    “Uh . . . yeah.” Jake responded, as if that made perfect sense. As if they hadn’t always parked underground. Janie felt a
     little woozy. She’d always been a little scared of heights, and the Showroom was her highest peak yet. Even if it was, technically,
     ground level.
    The Showroom was Winston’s crowning glory (in addition to their stellar academic reputation, of course). It featured cars
     most people only dream about. These were drive-into-the-sunset cars. Speeding-through-the-Alps cars. Escaping-in-a-hail-of-gunfire
     cars. Seriously. Most kids at Winston were so rich, cars were just another accessory, as accessible (and in some cases, disposable)
     as gummy bracelets. From BMW to Mercedes, Porsche to Ferrari, Hummer to Prius — no brand went unrepresented, no engine went
     un-revved.
    The Showroom was called the Showroom because it was the only level of school parking located outside. Which meant your car
     was on display. And if your car was on display, then you were too. Which probably meant you liked to be looked at. More importantly,
     people liked to look at you, which could only mean one thing. You were popular.
    Popularity at Winston was easy to spot. There were obvious clues, like beauty, confidence, and style. And then more subtle
     ones.
Par example,
popular girls tend to attach their keys to purple squiggle bracelets. And they almost always have small, white wads of gum
     between their perfect, smiling teeth. And they call each other chica, bitch, and slut — and then they hug, squealing like
     they’ve won some kind of award.
    Which, in a way, they have.
    Popular guys were easier. Popular guys were just guys popular girls happen to like.
    There were exceptions, of course. Some kids were