We all stare at her. Okay. Riiiiight. So the girl really is cuckoo. Still, at least the attention has moved away from me and my guhs. She's welcome to the sniffing limelight.
Next to Romy, Anouschka sighs a bored sigh (most likely because the limelight isn't on her).
"Romy, you're so dumb." I hear her say for about the millionth time (this is one of her trademark lines—calling her best friend dumb. Nice, huh?). "Will you cut it with the party tricks already? This is serious. We need to have a little chat with our new chef here…" She glances at JJ.
"JJ," JJ says. "We've met before."
"Of course." Anouschka flicks JJ's comment away with one hand. People's names obviously aren't important to her. Not JJ's, anyway. J-Lo's and Jay-Z's and Jesse J's, she could probably remember. She continues, "I gained two pounds last month with that Japanese chef. Two pounds! Can you believe it? That better not happen on your watch, CC!" She glances JJ's way once more.
"JJ," JJ says calmly, and has the good sense not to say anything about that two-pound addition of Anouschka's.
Anouschka rolls her eyes and ignores JJ's name correction yet again. "Don't you have anything to say about that, Romy? Two pounds, I said! TWO POUNDS!" She whips back around again, looking for some kind of reaction from her bestie.
Romy is, of course, off in Romy dreamland, where she mostly resides (with her one-and-a-half brain cells to keep her company, if what I've seen on Rich Girls is anything to go by. The ads, that is. Like I said, I don't watch the show itself. Or only bits of it, as I pass by the couch, where my grandparents, Nan and Pop, JJ, and even the dog, Stinky Jack, are wedged in together, getting their sad weekly top-up of Rich Girls inanity).
"Hmmm? Oh. Two pounds. That's a shame," Romy finally manages to wake up and reply.
"WHAT?" Anouschka's head practically spins on hearing this, and my eyes widen as I watch her. Calm down! Geez, that girl really does have a temper, just like on the show. (Yes, yes, the show that I don't watch. Oh, all right, already. So sometimes I catch a bit of it. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to, but you can't help yourself.) In front of me, Anouschka continues her rant.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? Oh? I gain two pounds and all you can say is, 'Oh'? and 'That's a shame'?"
Romy shrugs. "Oh, that's, um…terrible?"
Glare, glare, glare. "I guess that's easy for you to say. You never gain any weight."
Another shrug from Romy. "I can't help it. It's not something I think about. Maybe you think about it too much?"
Silence.
And uh-oh. Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
I start to consider whether backing out of the room might be a good idea. You know, because I value my life and everything, but I'm also aware that any movement might draw attention to me. Instead, I watch as Anouschka's eyes slowly turn from glare-mode into two small slits.
"Romy, are you saying it's my fault I put on two pounds? Because I'll have you know…" And with this she reaches down, lifts up the bag by her feet that I haven't noticed until this moment, and dumps it unceremoniously on the countertop. "Even he gained half a pound on that dumb chef's food."
JJ steps forward to glance inside the now-hissing bag. "No cats in the kitchen," she says quickly.
"What?" Anouschka's wrath changes direction violently. "Did you just say something, CC?"
"JJ," JJ says, still amazingly calm. Seriously, I don't know how she does it.
The slits grow smaller still.
Okay. Really time to back away now. I don't want to be some Rich Girls road kill. I have plans for my life. Big plans. And I'm not going to leave them dead and dripping on the Rich Girls altar as some kind of Anouschka sacrifice.
Surprisingly, however, JJ doesn't look even slightly taken aback. I guess she's used to this kind of thing, having worked in celebrity kitchens for years now. The celebrity tantrum must be part of her daily routine. I see her mouth twist slightly, which I know means she's sizing Anouschka up and is about to take a different approach in the hope of getting her to do what she wants her to do (it doesn't work so well getting me to clean up my room anymore—I know all her tricks). Anyway, instead of shouting, or telling her off, JJ simply takes a step back and nods knowingly.
"It's the cat's energy, Anouschka. Apparently it can heighten the calorific effect of food. If the cat remains in the kitchen too long…"
I look on in disbelief. Is she insane? Is the Rich Girls brain-sucking bug some kind of super virus that has affected her already? I stare at JJ like she's a loon. The cat's energy? As if anyone's going to buy that. She just wants the cat out of the kitchen because it's not exactly hygienic to have it traipsing across the counters. Any idiot knows that.
Or, um…maybe not.
Anouschka sucks in her breath, horrified at JJ's words. "Oh. Oh, no. I had no idea. No wonder I gained weight. The stupid cat loved that no-good chef. He was always hanging around the kitchen begging for salmon scraps. See, Romy? I told you it wasn't my fault."
With a definite shake of her head, Anouschka's mood changes again just as scarily and just as fast, and she leans forward and deftly zips the cat out of his $2,500 Louis Vuitton Monogrammed Sac Chien. (The only reason I know this is because Steph told me. Personally, I like to refer to it as the Dumb Person's Dog Carrier. A plastic one you can hose out makes so much more sense.) With another hiss and a swipe of a paw aimed in Anouschka's direction, the cat jumps out of the bag, onto the counter, and then, just as quickly, makes his leap to freedom.
Freedom is, apparently, situated on my shoulders.
"Aaaggghhh!" I say, startled. (Well, at least it's not "guh" again.) But within seconds, I realize it's all okay. The cat isn't about to rip both my ears off. He is, in fact, purring. Carefully, I reach up and lift him off my shoulders and bring him around to cradle him in my arms. How sweet. He likes me.
I curl him up against me and…
Ergh.
I try not to show it on my face (because the poor thing probably knows it), but honestly, he has to be one of the most hideous cats on the planet. Not that it's his fault. It's his breed. I realize as soon as I get a good look at him that he's a Sphynx—a hairless job with gigantic ears, a pinched little face, and a muscly body.
"Mrow," he tells me, looking up into my eyes, and I can't help but laugh. It's like holding a warm, fuzzy peach. A very ugly, warm, fuzzy peach, but at least one with a lot of personality. He's a darling.
"You've still got the touch." JJ looks on. "Cats love Elli," she says to Romy and Anouschka. "When she finishes school, she wants to be a vet specializing in…"
"Stupid animal. He's always hated me! I knew I should have gotten that teacup poodle instead," Anouschka butts in, watching us and ignoring JJ, her eyes all flashing green, nasty and slitty again. Slowly, they move from the cat up to my face.
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 Homeland or something. "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.
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Being Hartley Page 24
