Blondetourage

by Allison Rushby

  Another yikes! Okay. Now I'm really out of here. Carefully, I place the cat down on the floor and he pads off.

  'I might go find everyone now,' I tell JJ, keeping my voice and my movements even. Kind of like I'm defusing a bomb. Blue wire or red wire? I can never remember. Forget Rich Girls, I should have watched more 24. 'You know, meet all the other students.'

  'Good idea,' JJ's voice is equally calm and even (like I said, she's worked for plenty of celebrities before. She knows a 'situation' when she sees one). 'Now, Anouschka, I think we should get on with planning this week's menu.'

  That's my cue. I turn and bolt.

  Excess baggage

  'Are you looking for someone?' the black-haired, black-eyelinered, black-clothed, hovering black-cloud attitude emo girl sitting at the far table asks me.

  Before I answer, I glance over hesitantly at the woman standing at the front of the small desk-filled room, who's obviously our tutor. She's busy talking on her cell phone and gives me a 'sorry about this – bad timing' smile and motions to the class to keep going on with their work and that she'll be back in a minute. Then she squeezes past me and ducks out the same door I've just come in.

  I look back at the girl. 'Um ...' I start, before my brain freezes again. Oh, great. 'Guh', 'um'. I'm really on a roll this morning, aren't I?

  The girl clicks her fingers, remembering something. 'Oh, you must be Elli, right? Melinda told us you were coming some time today. You know, you look a bit shell-shocked. Almost like you've recently had an Anouschka run-in,' she gives me a slow once-over.

  'Oh, you're just hilarious, George,' the only other girl in the classroom chimes in in a very studied, very Anouschka-like tone of voice. For added emphasis, she shakes her blonde hair in a very dramatic, also very studied, Anouschka-like fashion.

  'Yeah, I'm laughing myself sick here. So, are you? And did you?' girl number one asks me again.

  I nod twice, answering both questions, all the time wondering what her real name is. It can't really be George. Can it? Then again, who knows around here? This place is starting to seem like planet Freak in the Weird system. Okay. Time to form a complete sentence. 'I'm Elli. I met Anouschka and Romy. And ...' I start, but then stop again, realising I don't know the cat's name.

  'Fluffy?' George says.

  Okay, if the hairless cat's called Fluffy, maybe her name really is George. I stand by my planet Freak comment.

  'George, you're so dumb,' the mini-Anouschka says, just like I'd heard Anouschka herself say to Romy minutes before.

  'Oh, please. Write your own lines,' George says in a bored tone, as if she's heard this a million times before (I'm guessing she has) and then turns back to me. 'Fluffy didn't have a name, or maybe Anouschka gave him one and couldn't remember both his name and her own at the same time, so I gave him one – Fluffy.' George's eyes challenge me to tell her she shouldn't be saying things like this about Anouschka, or that she shouldn't have named the cat, or that she should have picked a different name entirely. Something less ... bouffant, perhaps?

  It takes my brain a few moments to process all of what George has just said. But when I do, my heart stops, then starts up again to give a hopeful little beat. Hang on. Am I hearing this right? Did she just completely, utterly and totally bag Anouschka? Could it be that there's someone else in the world who isn't completely into the whole Rich Girls thing? Who thinks the girls are too stupid to live? (I'm waiting for the day they have to cross a busy road without the help of a camera crew.) Who can't wait for its ratings to wither and die and for the show to end mid-season? Who wishes their parental figure wasn't on the pay roll and that they could go to a proper school like a normal person rather than follow a ridiculous pair of nitwit girls around the world on their endless search for the latest handbag and thigh slimming treatments? In case you haven't guessed yet, this would be me.

  I nod dumbly back at George, praying that what I've just heard is for real. 'Good choice,' I say, nodding again. 'With the name, I mean. Fluffy. It's a cat classic. It'll never date.'

  And then, with that one comment, our eyes meet and there's an understanding – a pause in which I swear I hear George's heart beat a similar, hopeful beat (friends at first sight, I think you'd call it). And then, after that, I get a reaction from the entire class. George laughs, mini-Anouschka rolls her eyes and, of the two guys sitting at the table in front, one guffaws while the other one just sort of smiles at me.

  'Nice to know there's going to be someone else around here with their head screwed on,' George says, jumping up from her seat. 'I'm George. Short for Georgiana, but don't ever call me that unless you want to die a long and 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 the evolutionary cool scale. All of a sudden, I feel like I should be wearing a T-shirt with some kind of phrase on it myself. Not 'Free Tibet', though, like George's. More along the lines of 'I so obviously don't belong here', or 'Watch me make a complete fool of myself in two guhs or less'. Normal Girl. Ha! I wish. Normal Girl is something to strive for where I'm concerned.

  Okay, enough. Take a deep breath. One long, deep (surreptitious) breath. It's always hard starting at a new school, right? I frown slightly with this thought. How would I know? Like I said, up until now, it's been a long succession of one-on-one. Me and a tutor. And JJ and a new kitchen somewhere. Vienna. Tokyo. Somewhere else.

  But I can do this. I know I can.

  I look around the room slowly. Damage control. That's what I need. And maybe I'm blowing things out of proportion, because it's not really looking too bad as things go. Everyone's talking among themselves now (they could hardly wait for me to start spewing forth scintillating conversation, could they?). But nobody is saying anything about Sydney being tragic. And they don't even mention my truly tragic pun, so that's a good sign. Maybe I should say something else? You know, kind of try again? I decide on what I think might be a Normal Girl question in the hope of gaining some conversation control. I clear my throat with a little cough.

  'So, um, what are you guys studying today?'

  George makes a face. 'You don't want to know. Science, mostly – Biology.'

  I try not to look like it's my lucky day. Biology's one of my favourite subjects. Luckily, before I can embarrass myself again by doing something stupid like gushing about Biology, George continues, 'Don't worry, though, it's just the normal kind. We don't do special Rich Girls Biology or anything.'

  Toby guffaws again at this. 'Can you imagine? What would that be like? We'd be spending our days doing things like developing champagne where the bubbles never go flat.'

  George snorts in reply, 'How to stop nails growing so your perfect manicure never gets wrecked.'

  'A way to keep puppies and kittens small and cute forever so they'll always fit in your designer carrier,' Rhys adds.

  I have to laugh at the image this conjures up.

  'Bonsai Fluffy!'

  Everyone laughs at this (phew!).

  'How about spray-on goop that hides cellulite?' Toby adds next.

  Ashleigh stops the flow of our thoughts with a shocked gasp. 'Anouschka doesn't have cellulite!' She takes a quick look at each of the other three regulars. 'Does Romy?' she focuses in on George. And, for some reason, she seems excited by this prospect – that Romy might have a dimple or two on the old upper thigh area. 'You know, it wouldn't surprise me. I saw her eating a Snickers bar the other day. It was a fun size one, but still ...'

  'Ooohhh ... a fun size Snickers bar,' George snorts again. 'Alert the press on next week's feature story! Or have you already, Ashleigh? How people find this stuff interesting, I'll never know.'

  I almost gasp at this. So it's true! Really true! George really does despise the whole Rich Girls thing. Almost, it seems, as much as I do. I suppress the urge to run over and hug her to the ground. And while the guys certainly don't seem to have as much venom about the show as George does (and she definitely has more than I do), they're joking about it at least. That's a start.

  'George, you know you're not supposed to ...' Ashleigh begins, but is cut off as the tutor enters the room again.

  Which is my cue to slide off the table and into the seat next to George.

  'Sorry about that,' the tutor says. 'Hello. You must be Elli. I'm Ms Hocking, but everyone here calls me Melinda. You've met the rest of the students?'

  'Yes, thanks.' I glance over at George and she gives me a sassy grin back. Instantly, I feel a hundred per cent better. Like I'm not alone in the world. Maybe even like I should pop out and buy myself a new T-shirt. One with a different phrase altogether. Perhaps one that says, 'Woohoo! Finally, someone gets me!'

  Melinda gives me a quick smile, then focuses her attention back on the entire class. 'Great. Well, as it happens, I've got some news.'

  Everyone, including me, sits up.

  'Pack your bags, kids, we're off.'

  George slumps down in her seat, groaning a world-weary groan. 'Where now?'

  'Apparently we need to up the stakes. Ratings are down. Thus, we're taking Romy and Anouschka on a little shopping jaunt.'

  Huh? I frown slightly as I watch Melinda start packing up her teaching materials, not understanding why we're going to have to pack our bags to go shopping. I mean, I know the Rich Girls shop hard, but even the shops in Manhattan close overnight, right? Where could we be staying? We're only a block from Fifth Avenue as it is.

  Next to George, Ashleigh yawns, unimpressed. 'Where are we going? Milan?'

  Milan? What?! My eyes dart from Ashleigh, to George and then over to Melinda. She can't be serious. Milan? I'm going to Milan? Wait. No. Scratch that. Not me. I mean, the Rich Girls are going to Milan? Still, that would mean I'm going too.

  Up the front of the room, Melinda continues stacking her notes quickly and efficiently, like she's done this a million times before. 'Hmmm? Milan? No, I don't think so. Not this time.'

  My heart sinks. Bummer. Milan had sounded fun. I'd always wanted to go to Italy. All those amazing ruins and the art and ...

  'No, not Milan. Just Paris, London and LA this time.'

  Ooh la la!

  'Fluffy! Ow!' I reach up and unhook Fluffy's claws one by one from my hoodie (including the claw that happens to have worked its way through the fabric and is now embedded painfully in my neck). This accomplished, I then bring him down onto my lap, hoping that he'll behave himself and sit quietly so I can keep on typing. Of course, he doesn't. As soon as I release him, he springs up again and starts padding up and down on my legs, his claws now hooking and unhooking in and out of my thighs, right through my jeans. 'Hey!' I reach down and lift his chin so he's looking up at me. 'When we get to the apartment, you're so getting those weapons of pussy-cat mass destruction clipped, buddy.'

  'Mrow.' There's one more hook and unhook before he sits down, compliantly.

  'Thank you,' I sigh, my legs suddenly pain-free. And Fluffy's probably feeling twice the relief I am, considering he has twice as many legs. I'm guessing that while his owner flew first class, he didn't have the same luxuries in the plane's hold. At least he didn't have to spend ages in quarantine, because he has a kitty passport. (Who knew pets could have passports? Not me. I'm so behind the times ...) Sitting next to me, George shakes her head as she keeps right on typing, super-fast, on the keyboard of one of the plush business lounge's many computer terminals.

  'I can't believe how that cat has fallen for you in less than twenty-four hours. It's weird. Usually he hates everybody. You always have to make sure you keep your bedroom door closed because he has this nasty little habit of...'

  I raise one eyebrow, knowing exactly what she's going to say.

  'What?' George asks me.

  'Well, if you moved house every second day, you'd probably want to mark some territory as your own as well.'

  I get a snort in return. 'I do move house every second day, remember? Right along with him. I haven't felt the urge to pee on anyone's duvet because of it.'

  I laugh at the thought of George squatting over everyone's duvets, doonas, bedspreads, quilts ... whatever you want to call them. 'Just try to remember it's not personal.'

  I glance at my screen again in the hope that, over the other side of the world, Steph is up and has IMed me back. N
ope. Not yet, anyway. Oh, well. I look back over at George once more. She's already told me she's IMing a cousin she hasn't caught up with in ages who's a fashion stylist in Milan. I can't believe these people have such cool relatives. Typical. I have no idea how I'm going to explain Stinky Jack to them. Fluffy re-positions himself in my lap once more and purrs contentedly. I reach down and play with his ears again. 'You know, I don't mind if he has doona issues. I think he's sweet.'

  George gives another snort. 'Sweet! Fluffy? Yeah, right. Here, watch this.' She ceases typing for a second and reaches her hand slowly out towards Fluffy. He eyes her off until she gets just that bit too close, then he hisses and takes a swipe at her with those razor-sharp claws of his.

  'See?' George brings her hand back in again to keep on typing. 'He hates me.'

  'He doesn't hate you. He just knows you're not that into him. Don't you like cats?'

  George shrugs. 'I like dogs better than cats, but that doesn't mean I don't like cats. I'm also a cat person. Non bed-wetting cats, preferably, but I'm still a cat person. It's only Fluffy that doesn't think so. In this case, I think it's personal.'

  I run one finger down Fluffy's nose, which I've already worked out he loves. 'Who knows what's going on in there?' I bring my finger up again to tap his forehead.

  'Not much, is my guess,' George answers, shoving another mini croissant in her mouth. 'Apart from hunting for fresh bed linen to use as kitty litter. Wow. These croissants are great. Though I guess they should be, seeing as we're in Paris and all. Hey, look. You've got an answer,' she points at my screen.

  I whip my attention around to my own computer once more. Steph.

  'Um, Fishkiller? ' I hear George ask.

  I laugh as I start typing. 'Let's just say Steph will be a large animals vet. Anything smaller than a horse isn't exactly safe where Steph is concerned. Especially animals as small as goldfish, as it turns out.'