Poseur by Compai Read Free Book Online Page B

Farrah Frick, a freckly redhead with an annoying laugh. Janie blushed as Farrah
     turned around to give her a scandalized look. Before long the two girls were cupping hands to each other’s ears, whispering
     their gossipy heads off. Janie tried not to think about what they were saying, but she couldn’t help herself. Were they making
     fun of her skirt? Did they think she was full of herself ? Would they still let her eat lunch with them? Did they think she
     was on drugs? Now that she was sitting at the back wall, did
everyone
think she was on drugs?
    Janie squeezed her eyes shut. If only someone would come to school in an outfit more insane than hers. An outfit so what-was-she-thinking
out
there, her micro-mini would look mild in comparison. Janie tried to imagine what that outfit would look like, but she couldn’t.
     And then, just when she’d given up. . . .
    Petra Greene walked into Town Meeting.
    Janie’s miniskirt was instantly forgotten.
    The Girl: Petra Greene
    The Getup: See it to believe it
    Only two things on Petra Greene’s body escaped fervent debate: her left hand and her right hand. From the tips of her tapered
     fingers to the delicate bone of her wrists, they were flawless. And because there’s no such thing as “finger implants” or
     “wrist tucks,” Winston attributed her flawless hands to nature, genes, luck — whatever. Even her harshest critics agreed:
     Petra Greene’s hands were 100 percent cosmetic surgery–free.
    The rest of her features, however: definitely suspect. Beauty like hers just wasn’t natural. Or so everyone assumed.
    Dr. Robert Greene was the most sought-after plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. In light of his profession, Petra’s looks were
     universally pooh-poohed. She isn’t
pretty,
her dissenters insisted. She’s a
product
— the latest accomplishment of “Daddy’s magic wand.” It was just a rumor, of course, but a rumor even Daddy spread around.
     When clients gushed over a prominently displayed photograph of his daughter, Dr. Greene would wink and say, “my best work
     to date.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. Petra
was
his work — in the way all children are the “work” of their parents. If his patients thought he meant something else, well
     then
that was their interpretation.
    When Petra caught wind of her father’s comments, she wasn’t exactly surprised. As her mother uttered over brandy more than
     once, Petra’s father was ruthless. In terms of price, his was the highest. In terms of dignity, his was the lowest. Dr. Greene
     had a reputation for doing anything for anyone at anytime. (There was good reason Michael, Cher, Liza, and Angeline were
all
said to be his clients.) Petra sometimes wished operating rooms were run like car dealerships, so people could see her father
     as he really was: the guy on TV telling you to
come on down.
“Come see the King of Collagen! The Baron of Botox!! The Lord of Lipo!!!” He’d holler and wave around a ten-gallon surgical
     cap. He’d juggle his scalpels and laugh like a maniac.
    But no one saw her father like that.
    No one, that is, except Petra.
    Her therapist informed her
she didn’t hate her father — she hated his behavior.
But no, Petra seriously hated her father, which is why she did everything humanly possible to wreck the perfect looks God
     gave her. She would not be his free advertising. She refused. She would float around in ratty smocks and moth-eaten sweatshirts.
     She would never wash or brush her hair and she would never, ever wear makeup again — not even ChapStick.
    Seriously.
    In terms of rebellious acts, Petra Greene’s ranked number seven in Winston’s all time top ten, knocking Billy Bresler — who
     torched a tennis net in 1989 — to number eight. At Winston, not caring how you look is
way
more subversive than arson. And Petra really,
really
didn’t care.
    Town Meeting proved no exception.
    Six hundred hungry eyes watched her float across the room. She wore a pink ballet