Free Poseur #4: All That Glitters Is Not Gucci by Rachel Maude Page B

of
Godspell
programs they’d totally knocked over during their last brutally hot make-out session all splayed out on the floor. Clearly,
     nobody had been in there since they had. Which was awesome, like their private little sanctuary remained untainted, like a
     holy site. That was the bulletin board Evan had pressed her up against, the rickety table where she’d pressed up against him,
     and the light switch he was going to switch off after Janie Farrish came walking through that projection room door in all
     her smoking hot Janie Farrish splendor.
    Any minute now…
    Evan checked his cell. 12:27. He’d asked her to meet him at 12:20. Oh, well. Maybe she was, like, getting ready or something.
     Evan cupped his hand over his mouth and nose and checked his breath
. Sick.
He pulled a stick of BigRed out of his backpack and started to chew.
    12:28. Evan wasn’t sure where to sit. Should he just be standing there when Janie walked in, or was that sort of weird? Should
     he sit on the stool? Yeah, he’d sit on the stool. Or did that look even weirder? Like the way they made you pose when you
     took those dreaded class pictures every year. Like, sort of perched. Yeah, the stool was weird. Evan stood up again. He could
     be reading when Janie came in. That would look casual. But he only had textbooks in his backpack, and if he was standing there
     perusing a textbook when Janie came in, that would probably be even weirder than if he was perched on the stool. This sucked.
     He could be texting when Janie came in. That would look cool. Not to mention normal. He whipped out his cell. Again.
    12:29??
    Evan quickly tired of fake texting and emerged from the dark room on the off chance Janie had thought she was supposed to
     meet him in the theater itself, and not the projection room. Negative. The theater was empty, save for some wiry dude with
     a fro, standing on stage performing a monologue to an audience of zero.
    12:31.
    Maybe their text messages got, like, crossed?

    “What are we doing today?” asked Juliet, popping a ranch-flavored Soy Crisp into her Lipglass-slathered kisser. Crumbs of
     green-flecked seasoned salt stuck to the gloss while she chewed. Then a gentle wind wandered through the breezeway, adding
     a strand of her hair to the mess.
    “We’re going shopping at the Grove,” Carly announced, puncturing her Vita Coco box with a short pink straw, and regarding
     her friend’s mouth with disgust.
    “Oooh, yay!” trilled Juliet. “I heart the Grove! Where are we meeting?”
    “Nikki’s house,” answered Carly, folding her black harem pants–clad legs Indian style.
    “I can’t today,” replied Nikki, lifting her Red Bull suggestively. “I’m on the clock.”
    “What?” demanded Carly.
    “Poseur stuff,” clarified Nikki.
    “But it’s Fri-day!” whined Juliet. “And you’ve already worked, like, eleventybillion hours this week!”
    “Fashion never sleeps, bitches,” shrugged Nikki. “Emergency recon.”
    “
En ingles
?” Carly rejoined.
    “Well, I really shouldn’t be getting into this, but Melissa assigned me this top secret research project. I have to find out
     everything—like,
everything—
about the designers of this t-shirt brand called Schizo Montana. My job isn’t done till I have their birth certificates.
     And Melissa doesnot accept photocopies.”
    “Wow, intense much?” marveled Juliet. “Why does she need all that?”
    “I’d rather not say,” Nikki answered.
    “Translation: ‘I have no clue why she needs all that,’” mocked Carly.
    “Of course I know!” Nikki bristled. “Melissa shares everything with me. It’s just not for y’all’s ears.”
    “Nikki,” Carly began, crinkling her concealer-caked forehead and staring straight into her traitorous bestie’s cornflower
     blue eyes, “I know you’re lying right now. You totally have a tell.”
    “I do?” squeaked Nikki, in awe of the casual way Carly tossed around poker lingo. “What is it?”
    Carly