by Compai
“Halfway home and my pager still blow-in’ up.” Melissa cackled with delight. “Oh no. Step back, y’all! The man has a pager.”
“Melissa . . .” Petra pressed two fingers to her throbbing temple. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard you,” she admitted, melting the volume on Ice Cube and cracking her gum. Petra breathed a low sigh of relief, cast one wistful glance at her organic Kapok pillow, and crawled toward it on her hands and knees. Closing her throbbing eyes, she collapsed like a parched desert wanderer.
“Petra,” she heard Melissa whisper in her ear.
“Mmrph . . .”
“If you do not get your ass outta your house in two minutes, I will lean on this horn and blast you out of it.” Petra’s wide-set tea-green eyes popped open. “And then I’ll make it my life’s mission to hijack your sorry ass to Borneo, where you will spend the rest of your life looking for those vandalized tags because they are not in Borneo. They are on Rodeo Drive, where we left them. I feel it in my gut, and my gut does not lie — unlike certain Kumbaya-my-Lord blond chicks I may or may not mention!”
As Petra fumbled for an explanation, an abrupt Lexus car horn exploded across the stately Beverly Hills quiet. “Okay-okay-okay-okay!” she cried into the phone. The horn fell silent among the panicked twitter of a thousand treetop sparrows, not to mention the melancholy yowl of Job, her neighbor’s basset hound, and a maddening yip-yip-yip-yip-yip-yip-yip she could only assume belonged to the notorious E. Poochie.
“I’ll be down in a sec,” she surrendered, miserably.
“Down in a sec, ‘cause she know I don’t play,” Melissa rapped in sweet reply, returning Ice Cube to his original booming volume. Just before she hung up, Petra heard his thick baritone finish the verse:
“I got to say it was a good day.”
Not that she was an expert on the subtle nuances of Ice Cube. Still, Petra had a strong feeling his idea of a good day had nothing to do with Melissa Moon’s. She couldn’t imagine, for example, a four-minute-and-twenty-second rap song devoted to the pleasures of digging through trash bins behind Jamba Juice, even if that Jamba Juice was in Beverly Hills.
“Any luck?” Melissa called from the street corner where she’d spent the last twelve minutes investigating the gutter. So far she’d found a gum wrapper. Grasping the top of the trash bin, Petra heaved herself up and over the edge, landing with gymnastic grace onto the littered asphalt.
“Nada,” she answered, brushing her hands and pointedly ignoring the scandalized look of a Botoxed dinosaur in Taryn Rose flats walking her snow white Bichon Frise.
“Hey, baby!” A balding Mercedes driver buzzed down his tinted window and howled. “You like it dirty?”
“You better get your cheap-ass, pre-owned, C-Class Mercedes out of my face!” Melissa whirled, dark eyes flashing. Balding Driver grimaced (how did she know it was pre-owned?), and stepped on the gas. “Okay,” she breathed, returning her attention to Petra. “There’s just one more gutter we haven’t checked.”
“Melissa . . .” Petra reached into her crocheted hemp hobo, extracting the sole thing she held responsible for getting her into this mess to begin with: her purple Nokia. “School starts in fifteen minutes. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.”
“Since when do you care about being late?”
“Since when do you not care?” Petra pointed out, joining her at the curb. Melissa was wearing what she imagined Naomi Campbell might wear during a routine bout of community service: a belted, black silk romper, her “practical” blue and orange silk Dolce & Gabanna wedge pumps, and a poppy orange Prada turban (fashion’s answer to the hard hat). Despite herself, Petra smiled. Leave it to Melissa to turn the gutter into a runway.
“Come on,” Melissa begged, misinterpreting her bemused look. “Just five more minutes?”
“Fine,” she agreed with a dramatic groan. “But after five minutes we . . .” She gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth.
“What?” Melissa sprung to attention, scampering to her side. She excitedly clapped her hands. “Did you find something?”
But Petra looked stricken, not overjoyed. Swallowing a twinge of disappointment, Melissa followed the line of her companion’s tea-green gaze to a glittering pink granite medical office building, where just outside the revolving gilded doors, a man in his mid-forties and a very young brunette (practically their age!) were engaged in a totally disgusting, all-tongues-out kiss.
“Ew-uh.” Melissa cringed. “It is way too early for this shizzle. I’m going to tell them to get a room,” she laughed, taking a small step forward.
“Don’t!” Petra grabbed her hand, urgently yanking her backward. She squeezed Melissa’s long fingers, numb to the bite of her oversized topaz cocktail ring.
“Ow.” Melissa rebelled against her friend’s death-grip. “What’s with you?”
The middle-aged man pushed through the office doors, disappearing behind a double-flash of glass, and the beaming brunette strutted down the sidewalk, hipbones first. She pulled her phone out of her red purse, dropped it back again, and — with a swish of her mirror-smooth hair — rounded the corner.
“Do you know her or something?” Melissa frowned.
“No,” Petra offered, facing her friend with a feeble smile. She shrugged. “I just . . . I liked her purse.”
“Really.” Melissa dubiously scowled, still rubbing her hand. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
Petra followed her to the platinum Lexus convertible, but not without a surreptitious backward glance. She knew that office building. She knew, for instance, the revolving doors sounded two hollow clicks at the end of each revolution. She knew an immense bouquet of lilies waited at the end of the hall. She knew the bright bing of the elevator doors, the little red velvet-upholstered bench inside, the silent vertical ride to the fourth floor, and the black lacquered office door with the gold adhesive letters, so immaculately placed.
Which was all to say, she didn’t know that girl. But she did know the man. At least, she’d thought she known him. Until now.
Dr. Robert Greene. The most sought-after plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Her father.
The Girl: Miss Paletsky
The Getup: Charcoal trouser pants, white Ann Taylor Loft polyester-silk blouse with “fashion flounce” necktie, plastic blue bead necklace, skeleton earrings, Via Spiga leather pumps in “neutral.” Everything from Loehmann’s!
“Yes, I understand you require decision,” Miss Paletsky, Winston Prep’s special studies adviser, explained in her patient, Russian-accented English. “But do you ch’ave to ch’ave right now?”
She winced, holding the light beige plastic office phone from her ear as Yuri, the stocky, perspiring owner of the Copy & Print store on Fairfax, erupted on the other end. Of course he needed her to answer this minute! This was proposal of marriage, not proposal of . . . of toilet paper. So why does she treat him like toilet paper? Maybe she does not know her temporary worker’s Visa is about to run out? She knows! So what does she want — a miracle? Either she marries him now, or poka! She is shipped back to Russia like a dog!
Miss Paletsky sighed, gazing around her small, festively decorated office. In another mood, she might have asked Yuri if all marriage proposals included allusions to toilet paper and dogs. But she wasn’t in another mood — the mood to joke, to make light of what was no longer a laughing matter. It was true what he’d said. If she wanted to stay in America, marriage was her only option, and, as of that Tuesday morning, Yuri Grigorovich was her only offer.
Never mind she could barely look at him — let alone touch him.
“Normal behavior for a wife!” he’d reminded her that morning, calling down from their apartment building’s asphalt-papered roof. He sunbathed daily in a stained white wife-beater and black garter socks, a damp washcloth on his steaming, bald head, and a pink bottle of Water Babies spluttering in his fist. “Life is not Cinderella!”
Uch . . . She�
��d had to spend all of her bus ride to work repressing the memory.
A soft knocking pulled her attention to her dark green office door, where her latest decoration — a black-hatted cardboard witch — vibrated a bit on her yellow papier mâché broomstick. She returned the plastic receiver to her ear, smashing a clip-on dangling skeleton earring against her neck.
“Yuri,” she attempted to interrupt his crazed rant, “someone is at door.” Cupping the mouthpiece with her hand, she boldly raised her voice. “Yuri. I talk to you later, yes?”
Before he could respond, she hung up.
Sweeping the crumb-ridden remnants of her morning Lemonburst muffin into the wire-mesh trashcan under her desk, she flicked an automatic glance to the dark gray computer screen, examined her warped reflection, and sighed. “Come in!”
What she wouldn’t have given to go back in time, examine her face in a real mirror, check her teeth for poppy seeds . . . maybe apply a little Strawberry Lip Smackers. Because, contrary to her expectations, the door had opened not to reveal Glen Morrison — who would need to discuss upcoming HalloWinston Carnival logistics — but the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever seen. A slick blue-and-pearl-white Adidas tracksuit clung enticingly to his compact frame, and a glittering collection of gold chains drew attention to his gleamingly muscular chest. At her somewhat dazed nod, he glided into her office, walking in this way that was powerful, yet wounded — like a jungle cat with a slight limp.
“I’m Christopher Duane Moon,” he oozed in a voice like warm molasses, extending his strong brown hand. He flashed a blinding mega-watts smile. “Melissa Moon’s dad?”
She clasped his palm, and shook (all the way to the base of her spine). This was Melissa’s father? But he looked so young! Even if he was, say . . . thirty-three, a good five years older than she was, he was still young for a parent, especially a Winston parent. When Melissa was born he must have been, what . . . seventeen?
“I’m Lena,” she introduced herself, putting an end to her manic calculations.
“I was wondering if we could talk,” Christopher continued. “Is this a good time?”
“Oh yes!” She exhaled and nodded, inviting him to sit. He plopped on her green velveteen couch, sinking deep into the needle-point squirrel cushions, his knees expanded at a distractingly obtuse angle.
“It’s about my daughter,” he began. “I’ve been a little concerned.”
“We adore Melissa.” Miss Paletsky clasped her hands so they sat like a peeled potato in her lap. “She is one our most . . . energetic students.”
“Yeah, but she is obsessed with finding out who vandalized this contest of hers. . . .” He ran his ruby-bejeweled, and (she couldn’t help but notice) wedding ring–free hand around his perfectly shaved head. “I try to be a good father, Lena. A provider. Someone who sets things up for their kids, you know — so they can have access to a future they deserve.”
Miss Paletsky fiddled with the oversized blue plastic beads at her flushed neck. Never had she been so moved by a parent’s concern. He was so invested. So sincere.
And he’d so just said her name!
“But ever since this contest,” he observed, innocent to the effect he had on his trembling listener, “my daughter’s been looking backward not forward. I know it’s hypocritical, but . . . I just don’t think it’s healthy.”
“How is that hypocritical?”
“Well, you know,” he replied with a knowing chuckle. He leaned back into the pliant velveteen cushions, cradling his head in the hammock of his hands. “I kind of built my whole career on looking backward, right? Grudges, history, revenge — those are the building blocks of my business.”
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Miss Paletsky shook her head. As far as she could tell, he was either a history professor, a bounty hunter, or a Winston eighth grade girl. “What is it that you do, exactly?”
“For real?” Seedy sat to attention, and broadly grinned. “Christopher Duane, aka Seedy Moon?” He awaited recognition, but she responded with only a blank, befuddled look. “Lord of the Blings,” he persisted. “The Kimchi Killa? Oh man,” he flopped back against the cushions. “Don’t you listen to hip-hop?”
Miss Paletsky shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “My music tastes are more, well . . . classical.”
“Oh yeah?” He brightened in an unexpected show of interest. “You don’t happen to know where I could find a classical pianist, do you?”
“I’m a pianist!” she blurted, unable to restrain her excitement. If she’d needed a sign, then this was it. She imagined meeting him at his recording studio, musician to musician — they would be professional at first, but gradually consumed by a simmering sexual tension. She would win him over with the Beethoven. No! Prokofiev. But wait, she was getting ahead of herself. All she really wanted was a small opportunity to get to know him outside her office, adult to adult . . . and after she’d applied some Lip Smackers.
“You’re a pianist,” Seedy repeated, amazed at his luck. “You’re not free this Saturday morning, are you?”
A perfectly timed burst of sun shimmered through the willow leaves at her window and sparkled like champagne. “I’m free.” She beamed.
“Would you be down to come by my house and play for us? Vivien — sorry, that’s my fiancée. She thinks it’s important for us to hold some kind of audition first, so . . .”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Miss Paletsky stammered, attempting to hide her disappointment. Of course, he had a fiancée! She chastized herself. Life is not Cinderella. “What is this for, please?”
“Oh yeah.” Seedy covered his eyes and briskly shook his head. “Didn’t I say? It’s for my engagement party. It’s not until December, but we’re trying to get everything set early, you know.”
“Mm!” Miss Paletsky replied, plastering her face with her best flight-attendant smile. All at once the sparkling sunlight reminded her less of champagne than of a sudden blow to the head. “It is good to prepare,” she murmured, thinking of the festivities involved for her potential engagement to Yuri. Probably Yuri’s mother would throw a chicken bone at her head and call it a day.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Seedy invaded her thoughts with a knowing smile. “What’s a rap artist playing classical music at his engagement party for, right? Well, believe me, this is all Vee, not me. Woman calls all the shots.”
“Well, I look forward to it,” Miss Paletsky the Russian Robot Flight Attendant assured him, ushering him toward the door. “And in the meantime I will think up some solutions for your daughter.”
“Hey, that’s great,” a somewhat confused Seedy replied, obligingly exiting her office and stepping into the breezy corridor. He turned around with another dazzling smile. “Talk about killing two birds with one stone, right?”
“Exactly,” she agreed, and politely waved before retreating into her office and closing the door. She slumped into her swivel desk chair, staring with bewilderment at the gray computer screen, which revealed the cruel state of her plastic clip-on skeleton earring: tangled in her hair like a trapped, semi-crazed bug. Had it really looked like that for their entire conversation?
Of course it had.
Willing herself to focus, Miss Paletsky slid open her top desk drawer and extracted a floppy, pocket-sized book: her English Idiom Dictionary. She thumbed the onionskin-thin pages until she found the desired entry.
When you kill two birds with one stone, you resolve two difficulties or matters with a single action.
She sighed, tracing and retracing the phrase with her finger. After a moment, the phone rang, jarring her from her trance. Ch’ello. It was Yuri. He wanted her to know just one more thing. She stopped him mid-sentence, stunning him into a rare silence. All it took was a single word. It fell from her mouth like a stone.
“Yes.”
“Alright, that’s twelve fifty,” Melissa announced, her coffee-black eyes eschewing that lame-ass classroom wall clock for her far more glamorous diamond-and-sta
inless-steel, pink crocodile-strap Gucci watch. Raising her pint-sized silver Tiffany gavel, she rapped her desk four times — one tap for each girl. There was languid Petra, lying on her stomach by the blue plastic recycling bin; delicate Charlotte, perched like a pedigreed cat on the sun-drenched windowsill; and, of course, plainie Janie, the only member boring enough to sit at a desk. At least Melissa had the savvy to pick the teacher’s desk, advantageously positioned at the front of the class and gleaming with a solid sense of its own importance — just as she did.
“It is with great regret that I begin this POSEUR meeting with some upsetting news.” She sighed, resting her gavel next to her pristine white sparkle notebook. “Petra and I went to Rodeo Drive this morning, and despite a thorough and optimistic investigation, our best efforts have proved . . . futile.”
“Oh, quelle tragédie!” Charlotte sighed, swooning against the windowpane. Seriously, she couldn’t care less who the culprit was. “Can we puh-lease change the subject?”
“Change the subject?” Melissa clutched her poppy-orange Prada turban in shock. “I’m sorry, but justice has got to be served.”
“But justice has been served,” Janie countered. At Melissa’s flashing attention, she ran a nervous finger under and around the green rubber band on her wrist. “I mean, in a way . . .”
“We did get our label name out of this,” Petra leaped to her assistance.
“Exactement,” Charlotte sang, having smoothed the A-line skirt of her green and gold floral Blugirl dress. She returned to Melissa with her haughtiest glare. “Frankly, Melly, I find this little grudge of yours . . . how do I put this?” Her porcelain forehead scrunched in thought. “Boring. I mean, you might remember I was cheated on at that party, but have I given it a second thought? No. I moved on.”
“That’s so inspiring,” Melissa cooed, sweetly batting her Shu Uemura curler-curled lashes. “But before we quote-unquote move on,” she tightened her tone, “can I ask you just one question? ‘POSEUR.’That’s a French word, right?”
