Blondetourage (2 page)

With a definite shake of her head, Anouschka's
mood changes again just as scarily and just as fast
and she leans forward and deftly zips the cat out of
his $1500 Louis Vuitton Monogrammed Sac Chien.
(The only reason I know this is because Steph told
me. Personally, I like to refer to it as the Dumb
Person's Dog Carrier. A plastic one you can hose
out makes so much more sense.) With another hiss
and a swipe of a paw aimed in Anouschka's direction,
the cat jumps out of the bag, onto the bench
and then, just as quickly, makes his leap to freedom.

Freedom is, apparently, situated on my shoulders.

'Aaaggghhh!' I say, startled. (Well, at least it's not
'guh' again.) But, within seconds, I realise it's all
okay. The cat isn't about to rip both my ears off.
He is, in fact, purring. Carefully, I reach up and
lift him off my shoulders and bring him around to
cradle him in my arms. How sweet. He likes me.
I curl him up against me and ...

Ergh.

I try not to show it on my face (because the poor
thing probably knows it), but honestly, he has to be
one of the most hideous cats on the planet. Not that
it's his fault. It's his breed. I realise as soon as I get a
good look at him that he's a Sphynx – a hairless job
with gigantic ears, a pinched little face and a muscly
body. 'Mrow,' he tells me, looking up into my eyes
and I can't help but laugh. It's like holding a warm,
fuzzy peach. A very ugly warm, fuzzy peach, but at
least one with a lot of personality. He's a darling.

'You've still got the touch,' JJ looks on. 'Cats love
Elli,' she says to Romy and Anouschka. 'When she
finishes school, she wants to be a vet specialising in
...'

'Stupid animal. He's always hated me! I knew
I should have got that teacup poodle instead,'
Anouschka butts in, watching us and ignoring JJ,
her eyes all flashing green, nasty and slitty again.
Slowly, they move from the cat up to my face.

Another yikes! Okay. Now I'm really out of
here. Carefully, I place the cat down on the floor
and he pads off.

'I might go find everyone now,' I tell JJ, keeping
my voice and my movements even. Kind of like
I'm defusing a bomb. Blue wire or red wire? I can
never remember. Forget
Rich Girls,
I should have
watched more
24.
'You know, meet all the other
students.'

'Good idea,' JJ's voice is equally calm and even
(like I said, she's worked for plenty of celebrities
before. She knows a 'situation' when she sees one).
'Now, Anouschka, I think we should get on with
planning this week's menu.'

That's my cue. I turn and bolt.

'A
re you looking for someone?' the black-haired, black-eyelinered, black-clothed,
hovering black-cloud attitude emo girl sitting at
the far table asks me.

Before I answer, I glance over hesitantly at the
woman standing at the front of the small desk-filled room, who's obviously our tutor. She's busy
talking on her cell phone and gives me a 'sorry
about this – bad timing' smile and motions to the
class to keep going on with their work and that
she'll be back in a minute. Then she squeezes past
me and ducks out the same door I've just come in.

I look back at the girl. 'Um ...' I start, before
my brain freezes again. Oh, great. 'Guh', 'um'. I'm
really on a roll this morning, aren't I?

The girl clicks her fingers, remembering something.
'Oh, you must be Elli, right? Melinda told
us you were coming some time today. You know,
you look a bit shell-shocked. Almost like you've
recently had an Anouschka run-in,' she gives me a
slow once-over.

'Oh, you're just hilarious, George,' the only
other girl in the classroom chimes in in a very
studied, very Anouschka-like tone of voice. For
added emphasis, she shakes her blonde hair in a
very dramatic, also very studied, Anouschka-like
fashion.

'Yeah, I'm laughing myself sick here. So, are
you? And did you?' girl number one asks me
again.

I nod twice, answering both questions, all the
time wondering what her real name is. It can't
really be George. Can it? Then again, who knows
around here? This place is starting to seem like
planet Freak in the Weird system. Okay. Time
to form a complete sentence. 'I'm Elli. I met
Anouschka and Romy. And ...' I start, but then
stop again, realising I don't know the cat's name.

'Fluffy?' George says.

Okay, if the hairless cat's called Fluffy, maybe
her name really
is
George. I stand by my planet
Freak comment.

'George, you're so dumb,' the mini-Anouschka
says, just like I'd heard Anouschka herself say to
Romy minutes before.

'Oh, please. Write your own lines,' George
says in a bored tone, as if she's heard this a million
times before (I'm guessing she has) and then turns
back to me. 'Fluffy didn't have a name, or maybe
Anouschka gave him one and couldn't remember
both his name and her own at the same time, so I
gave him one – Fluffy.' George's eyes challenge me
to tell her she shouldn't be saying things like this
about Anouschka, or that she shouldn't have named
the cat, or that she should have picked a different
name entirely. Something less ... bouffant,
perhaps?

It takes my brain a few moments to process all
of what George has just said. But when I do, my
heart stops, then starts up again to give a hopeful
little beat. Hang on. Am I hearing this right?
Did she just completely, utterly and totally bag
Anouschka? Could it be that there's someone else
in the world who isn't completely into the whole
Rich Girls
thing? Who thinks the girls are too
stupid to live? (I'm waiting for the day they have
to cross a busy road without the help of a camera
crew.) Who can't wait for its ratings to wither and
die and for the show to end mid-season? Who
wishes their parental figure wasn't on the pay roll
and that they could go to a proper school like a
normal person rather than follow a ridiculous pair
of nitwit girls around the world on their endless
search for the latest handbag and thigh slimming
treatments? In case you haven't guessed yet, this
would be me.

I nod dumbly back at George, praying that
what I've just heard is for real. 'Good choice,' I say,
nodding again. 'With the name, I mean. Fluffy. It's
a cat classic. It'll never date.'

And then, with that one comment, our eyes
meet and there's an understanding – a pause in
which I swear I hear George's heart beat a similar,
hopeful beat (friends at first sight, I think you'd
call it). And then, after that, I get a reaction from
the entire class. George laughs, mini-Anouschka
rolls her eyes and, of the two guys sitting at the
table in front, one guffaws while the other one just
sort of smiles at me.

'Nice to know there's going to be someone else
around here with their head screwed on,' George
says, jumping up from her seat. 'I'm George. Short
for Georgiana, but don't ever call me that unless
you want to die a long and excruciating death.
This is Ashleigh and Toby and Rhys.'

'Um, hi,' I give a small, half-wave. As it turns
out, Ashleigh is the Anouschka stand-in. Toby is
the guffawer. He looks like a long-time guffawer,
too – maybe the class clown. Rhys is the ... well, I
don't know what he is, the smile didn't give much
away, but apart from whatever else he is, he's definitely
the resident hot guy in my books.

'And on behalf of us all,' George continues, with
a sweeping gesture, 'I'd like to say welcome to the
Blondetourage.'

The Blondetourage. I have to laugh at this. 'Um,
thanks!' I tell her. 'So your parents all work on the
show?' I move over now and slide my butt on top
of the closest spare table, so I can sit and swing my
legs and (hopefully) look slightly cool. Like all my
tutors let me get away with sitting on the desks.

George nods. 'My mom's the makeup artist.
Ashleigh's mom is the executive producer, Toby's
mom is a stylist and Rhys's dad is a personal
trainer.'

Well, that explains his nicely toned muscles,
then. I manage to tear my eyes away from Rhys
for a second and back to George. 'Right.'

'So, your mom's the new chef, huh?'

Hmmm. The way George says 'new' makes me
wonder how many chefs they've been through.
I'm guessing the two non-existent pounds on
Anouschka's thighs have probably seen a lot of
chefs come and go.

'That's right. She's the new chef on the chopping
block,' I say, then instantly want to gag myself.
Where did that come from? Bad Pop Pun Land,
that's where. I've been Southern Hemisphere
spring holidaying with the grandparents a couple
of weeks too long, methinks. I try to cover my
words up by saying something else.

'We flew in from Sydney this morning.' There
we go. Jet-setting. Jet-setting's good, right? And
Sydney's a groovy place to hang out for a while.
If it's good enough for Nicole Kidman, Russell
Crowe and Hugh Jackman, it's good enough for
these guys. Or it will be if I leave out the following
few facts, that is:

1. Up until yesterday, as I mentioned, JJ and I
were spending a bit of between job downtime
with my grandparents (Nan and Pop of Bad Pop
Pun Land fame) and assorted family members,
including my cousin Steph.

2. Before Steph and I would head out to the beach
or somewhere similar for the day, Nan would
pack me up a sandwich, a frozen drink, an apple
and some baked goodie or another and wave me
off from the front gate.

3. Sometimes Pop would walk me halfway to
Steph's house, as far as the park, to exercise
himself and his ancient terrier, Stinky Jack, who
spends his retired dog days making some very
nasty smells.

4. When I got home, Nan would make me a
snack and I'd take in a bit of black and white
TV (yes, apparently black and white TVs do
still exist).

5. If Nan was cooking dinner we'd have two veg.
and something like rissoles, steak or sausages (with
whichever bottled condiments took your fancy
and, of course, a big plate of buttered bread).

6. If I ate all my dinner, I would be offered a treat,
like baked custard, or ice-cream and topping, or
...

7. Sorry to bore you. If you're still awake, I'm sure
you know the granny drill.

I could hardly admit to much, if any, of this,
could I? These people look like they don't even
have
grandparents. Gorgeous Rhys, oh-so-polished
Ashleigh, 'Free Tibet' T-shirted George and goofy-in-a-cool-way
Toby look like their parents bought
them from a downtown shop that was so hip it
only opened fifteen minutes ago (wait, make that
ten minutes ago. No ... eight minutes). They all
scream NYC-sanctioned kid. And I ... what do I
scream?

As I take them in, I try really hard to tell myself
it doesn't matter.
Rich Girls
is stupid, right? Isn't that
what I always say? But I also know this isn't a
Rich
Girls
thing. It's just an everyday 'where do I fit in?'
thing. Who was I kidding before in the
Rich Girls
kitchen, thinking I was Normal Girl? After years
of being tutored all by myself, I realise I have
no
idea. I don't even reach Normal Girl heights on the
evolutionary cool scale. All of a sudden, I feel like
I should be wearing a T-shirt with some kind of
phrase on it myself. Not 'Free Tibet', though, like
George's. More along the lines of 'I so obviously
don't belong here', or 'Watch me make a complete
fool of myself in two guhs or less'. Normal Girl.
Ha! I wish. Normal Girl is something to strive for
where I'm concerned.

Okay, enough. Take a deep breath. One long,
deep (surreptitious) breath. It's always hard starting
at a new school, right? I frown slightly with this
thought. How would I know? Like I said, up until
now, it's been a long succession of one-on-one. Me
and a tutor. And JJ and a new kitchen somewhere.
Vienna. Tokyo. Somewhere else.

But I can do this. I know I can.

I look around the room slowly. Damage control.
That's what I need. And maybe I'm blowing things
out of proportion, because it's not really looking
too bad as things go. Everyone's talking among
themselves now (they could hardly wait for me to
start spewing forth scintillating conversation, could
they?). But nobody is saying anything about Sydney
being tragic. And they don't even mention my truly
tragic pun, so that's a good sign. Maybe I should
say something else? You know, kind of try again?
I decide on what I think might be a Normal Girl
question in the hope of gaining some conversation
control. I clear my throat with a little cough.

'So, um, what are you guys studying today?'

George makes a face. 'You don't want to know.
Science, mostly – Biology.'

I try not to look like it's my lucky day. Biology's
one of my favourite subjects. Luckily, before I can
embarrass myself again by doing something stupid
like gushing about Biology, George continues,
'Don't worry, though, it's just the normal kind. We
don't do special
Rich Girls
Biology or anything.'

Toby guffaws again at this. 'Can you imagine?
What would that be like? We'd be spending our
days doing things like developing champagne
where the bubbles never go flat.'

George snorts in reply, 'How to stop nails
growing so your perfect manicure never gets
wrecked.'

'A way to keep puppies and kittens small and
cute forever so they'll always fit in your designer
carrier,' Rhys adds.

I have to laugh at the image this conjures up.

'Bonsai Fluffy!'

Everyone laughs at this (phew!).

'How about spray-on goop that hides cellulite?'
Toby adds next.

Ashleigh stops the flow of our thoughts with a
shocked gasp. 'Anouschka doesn't have cellulite!'
She takes a quick look at each of the other three
regulars. 'Does Romy?' she focuses in on George.
And, for some reason, she seems excited by this
prospect – that Romy might have a dimple or two
on the old upper thigh area. 'You know, it wouldn't
surprise me. I saw her eating a Snickers bar the
other day. It was a fun size one, but still ...'

'Ooohhh ... a fun size Snickers bar,' George
snorts again. 'Alert the press on next week's feature
story! Or have you already, Ashleigh? How people
find this stuff interesting, I'll never know.'

I almost gasp at this. So it's true! Really true!
George really does despise the whole
Rich Girls
thing. Almost, it seems, as much as I do. I suppress
the urge to run over and hug her to the ground.
And while the guys certainly don't seem to have as
much venom about the show as George does (and
she definitely has more than I do), they're joking
about it at least. That's a start.

'George, you know you're not supposed to ...'
Ashleigh begins, but is cut off as the tutor enters
the room again.

Which is my cue to slide off the table and into
the seat next to George.

'Sorry about that,' the tutor says. 'Hello. You
must be Elli. I'm Ms Hocking, but everyone
here calls me Melinda. You've met the rest of the
students?'

'Yes, thanks.' I glance over at George and
she gives me a sassy grin back. Instantly, I feel a
hundred per cent better. Like I'm not alone in
the world. Maybe even like I should pop out and
buy myself a new T-shirt. One with a different
phrase altogether. Perhaps one that says, 'Woohoo!
Finally, someone gets me!'

Melinda gives me a quick smile, then focuses
her attention back on the entire class. 'Great. Well,
as it happens, I've got some news.'

Everyone, including me, sits up.

'Pack your bags, kids, we're off.'

George slumps down in her seat, groaning a
world-weary groan. 'Where now?'

'Apparently we need to up the stakes. Ratings are
down. Thus, we're taking Romy and Anouschka
on a little shopping jaunt.'

Huh? I frown slightly as I watch Melinda start
packing up her teaching materials, not understanding why we're going to have to pack our bags to
go shopping. I mean, I know the Rich Girls shop
hard, but even the shops in Manhattan close overnight, right? Where could we be staying? We're
only a block from Fifth Avenue as it is.

Next to George, Ashleigh yawns, unimpressed.
'Where are we going? Milan?'

Milan? What?! My eyes dart from Ashleigh, to
George and then over to Melinda. She can't be serious.
Milan? I'm going to Milan? Wait. No. Scratch that.
Not me. I mean, the Rich Girls are going to Milan?
Still, that would mean I'm going too.