Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel by Rachel Maude Page A

sharply gasped.
“Omigod, you still like him.”
    “Oh, Don John!” Charlotte trilled with laughter, making a mental note to revoke his wardrobe and makeup-borrowing privileges—permanently.
     “No, no. It’s just that I don’t think it’s
realistic
, that’s all.” Her eyelashes fluttered as she arranged the bright topaz bangle on her wrist. “I mean,
Jake Farrish
going out with a
celebrity
?” Fighting a wave of queasiness, she managed to sniff, “Who’d believe
that
?”
    “I don’t get it,” his sister muttered. “
You
went out with him.”
    “I have an idea!” Charlotte gasped, giving Janie the brush-off she’d long perfected on panhandlers and Green Peace volunteers.
     “
Evan
can take her!”
    “Uh, excuse me.” Her brother planted his elbow on the back of his chair and twisted around. “Do I get a say in this?”
    “Are you waterlogged?” she inquired, digging her fists into her dainty hips. “It’s a romantic night with a beautiful celebrity.”
    He tuned her out, floating his eyes toward Janie. “Are you going?”
    “Evan!” she groaned, barely giving Janie time to part her Carmex-slathered lips. “Are you honestly suggesting
Janie
should take the celebriteaser as her
date
? They’re both
girls
, hel-lo? The whole point is to
attract
attention to the Treater. Not
deflect
it with idle gossip and
queer
-say. And
besides
”—she turned to Janie, oozing concern—“she probably wants to go with her
boyfriend
. No?”
    “Oh, um, I…,” she stammered, helplessly glancing at Evan. He had his back to her, hulking over his desk. No
way
would he let Janie see his face, which—assuming it reflected the state of his heart—looked like a little shriveled-up widow
     woman’s.
Of course she has a boyfriend,
he thought, feeling his shoulders tense. How had he been so
blind
?
    “Exactly,” Charlotte cut off Janie’s stammering and arced a reproving eyebrow at her brother. “So. Let’s be a little sensitive
     and say you’ll do this?”
    “Fine,” he agreed, inanely flipping through his take-home quiz. “I’ll do it. Whatever.”
    “Vive le frère!”
she squealed, ruffling the top of his golden head. “Oh, Janie!” She whirled around with open arms, squeezing her into a girl
     hug. “I take it back. You’re the brilliest brill in Brill-land.”
    “No,” Janie modestly protested, attempting to nonchalantly pry herself out of Charlotte’s mosquito clutches. She had a
strangling
desire to explain things to Evan, to tell him she didn’t have a boyfriend after all; it had been a silly misunderstanding.
     At the same time, what made her think Evan even cared? What if she assured him she was single only to have him look at her,
     like,
Why are you telling me this?
She pretended to focus on Charlotte and Don John—the two of them grasping hands, excitedly jigging in place—and debated what
     to do. But it was too late. Evan had pushed back his chair; he was getting to his feet; he was heading for the door.
It’s cool,
she assured herself.
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Does he? He doesn’t.
    And then, the moment before he left, he resolved the issue, lifting his chin in bro-ish salute.
    “Later, dude.”
    Dude?
Janie paled in horror. It was the ultimate four-letter word. The
gangrene
to every girl’s
girlness
. He might as well have
eviscerated
her stomach, captured the butterflies, and pinned them, wings still fluttering, to the gargling, acid wall. And wasn’t this
precisely
why she’d sworn
never
to have a crush on Evan Beverwil?
Not
because it led to butterfly death on a massive scale, but because it led to
total and complete humiliation
? She knew that. She
knew
! So, if she knew so much,
why
was she standing here, staring after him… whipped beyond all redemption?
    “Bye!” she chirped softly, raising her hand. But he’d already disappeared down the hall. She lowered her hand and squeezed
     her arm—hard—and stared at the open door. Why not just say