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

her husband’s outburst.
    “Certainly,” Ted agreed. “Giddy!”
    Ted Pelligan’s deliriously somber right-hand man, Gideon Peck, appeared soundlessly in the doorway. “The contract, sir,” Gideon
     announced, head bowed, his tone as weighty and apologetic as a doctor telling a patient he has two weeks left to live.
    “Splendid, bring it here,” Ted intoned.
    Gideon crossed the room in long slow strides, keeping his eyes trained on the Persian rug all the while. He presented a document
     to his gourd-shaped superior and then produced a gold Montblanc from the pocket of his Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo jacket. Then,
     with an even deeper bow of his already bowed head, Gideon made his exit.
    “So,” Ted began, “the last step in our little powwow today is for you all to put your John Hancocks on this here slip of tree,
     so we can get those Trick-or-Treaters into select stores as soon as possible. It’s a rare thing indeed for this sort of contract
     to be signed by the
parents
, and not the designers themselves, but
quel
can I
do
? Your precious saplings are ahead of the curve. Just think,” he sighed, clasping his small hands. “To have all your dreams
     fulfilled at such a young age! To be famous!”
    The lady in the peculiar glasses met his exclamation with a strange and fretful expression. Mr. Pelligan laughed, extending
     his Montblanc.
    “Madam?”

The Girl: Melissa Moon
    The Getup: Current/Elliot Love Destroyed boyfriend jeans, white Splendid V-neck t-shirt, black lace La Perla push-up bra,
     white gold Rolex, pink Uggs, Glow by JLO perfume
    “What are you doing over there, baby?” Marco Duvall called from across Melissa Moon’s high-ceilinged birdcage-shaped bedroom.
     It was halftime, and Marco had finally turned away from the Lakers versus Celtics game to find his girlfriend still hunched
     over her gold-trimmed princess desk, poring over a stack of documents.
    “Lissa!” Marco repeated, chucking a frilly, corn dog–shaped pillow at his annoyingly studious girlfriend.
    It hit her square in the ponytailed head—he had great aim—and landed at her pink Ugg-clad feet, causing Emilio Poochie, the
     toy Pomeranian who’d been slumbering there, to leap up, clearly annoyed. And E-Poo wasn’t the only one.
    “Marco! Can you not see that I am
working
?”
    “Okay, okay, chill,” mumbled Marco, from his nest on the overstuffed bed. “I just thought we were gonna watch the game together.”
    “Well, the game is on, and we’re together.”
    “Yeah, baby, whatever you say,” answered Marco, stretching so his Winston Falcons jersey lifted to reveal his flawless, b-ball-toned
     abs. Melissa didn’t even look his way. Damn. He couldn’t stretch forever. He tried a different tack.
    “I’m starving. You want to take a break and make me some of Melissa’s famous mac ’n’ cheese?”
    “No, Marco, I do not,” Melissa snipped. “I have a lot of homework and I really don’t have time to take a break.”
    “A’ight,” shrugged Marco. “It’s cool. I’ll just starve.” He eyed Melissa for a response—anything—but her espresso brown eyes
     remained trained to the pages in front of her and showed no signs of budging.
    “You can’t take one day off?” Marco whined.
    “Nope,” Melissa snapped back. “Not unless it’s Christmas, New Year’s, or Usher’s birthday.”
    Marco gave up and headed downstairs to fashion some sort of crude snack himself. He was perpetually starving; Marco ate every
     hour, and he could kill a quart of milk in a single sitting, but he never gained a pound.
    Melissa pushed her pound cake–colored Chanel reading glasses up the bridge of her smooth straight nose and reread the page
     in front of her for the gazillionth time. Nikki Pellegrini had done her research. She had found out every possible detail
     about the founder of Schizo Montana. From his name (Ariel Berkowitz), to his shoe size (7), to his BarMitzvah venue (the FOX lot), Nikki had left nothing out.
    So