Free Poseur #2: The Good, the Fab and the Ugly by Rachel Maude Page A

knew. She practiced yoga every day, set an egg timer for her daily Camel light, and had a different gorgeous boyfriend every four to six months, all of them younger than her, and all of them tall and lean with strong veins in their forearms, tribal tattoos, black plastic bracelets, and silver rings. They padded around the kitchen in their bare feet. Drank her orange juice straight out of the carton. And then they were gone. Sometimes Lydia referred back to them, but never with malice or anger. Smiling from the corner of her sun-drenched living room couch with the Peruvian blanket draped across the back, she’d muse out loud: “Olivier was nice,” or, “Cody was a sweetheart.” She’d hook a lock of Petra’s honeyed hair behind her ear, and push a playful finger into her chin: “You would have liked Raphael.” She’d exhale a steady stream of smoke and smile a sleepy smile. “He was a dreamer.”
    Unlike her
own
mother, Lydia was at peace.
    Petra emerged from her bedroom, tiptoed past her little adopted sisters Sofia and Isabel’s bedroom, and continued down the oatmeal Berber-carpeted hallway, beckoned by the all-too-familiar sound of weeping. As she approached the top of the stairs, however, the sound became more clear, the change as subtle as a siren which, speeding past, changes from major to minor key. Petra strained her ears, struck by a startling revelation.
    Her mother wasn’t crying.
    “Robert!” Heather Greene shrieked, sounding disconcertingly similar to one of the giggling idiot girls in her class. Petra crept down another few stairs, sliding and bumping along on her butt, until her parents came into partial view. Heather sat on their marble floor in a simple red shift dress, a black patent Manolo Blahnik stiletto on her right foot The other shoe hung from her father’s fingers. “Give it back!” she gasped with laughter, swiping the air.
    “Why don’t you ask
nice
?” her father joked, dangling the gleaming black sling-back like stolen candy. He was wearing acid-wash Diesel jeans with distressed pockets and cuffs, and red-and-cream Prada sneakers. Across the chest of his Raw 7 T-shirt, in an ornate Biblical font, were the words: LIVE FREE.
    “What are you guys
doing
?” Petra cried, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth, as shocked by the sound of her voice as her parents were. She stood up to flee, but it was too late. They were already staring up at her, stunned.
    “Young lady,” Robert intoned while Heather rose to her feet, tugging the skirt of her dress to cover her exposed lacy cream slip. She pressed her cabernet-stained lips together and stifled a laugh, burying her face in Robert’s shoulder while Petra looked on with horror. That she thought this was
funny.
It was just so, like,
pathetic.
    “Go to bed, Petra,” her father ordered while her mother snorted into his armpit. “Now.”
    “Don’t” — Petra gritted her teeth, balling her ink-stained hand into a tight fist — “talk to me like a child.”
    “Petra!” her mother gasped in genuine shock. “How dare you?”
    “How dare
I
?” Petra seethed, her tea-green eyes welling up with tears. “God, Mom. You don’t know
anything.
”
    “I know you’re in deep trouble.” Robert stepped forward, hardening his tone.
    “
I’m
in trouble.” Petra returned his threat with a menacingly contemptuous smile, and an expression of genuine concern flashed across his face.
Not for her,
her mind raced.
But for him.
His lips parted.
    “Pet . . .”
    But she’d already whirled on her heel and escaped down the hall. Rounding the corner that led to the maid’s quarters, she thudded downstairs and within moments was in the backyard, streaking across their perfectly manicured lawn, the wet grass pushing up between her toes and sticking to her ankles in itchy thatches. She pushed through the thick Cyprus hedge and rounded the edges of their glowing green swimming pool, avoiding the painted grin on the duck decoy which bobbed