Chapter One My best friend, Dionne, is normally like way energy-enhanced. The girl doesn't know the meaning of the word decaf.
So I knew something was whack when De stumped into homeroom Monday morning in a brutally subdued earth-hued ensemble. Way back to nature and so not my pal De, who's been sucking smog-filled air since she was neonatal. Her extensions totally lacked drama, drooping sans accessories around her shoulders. She collapsed into her desk next to mine just as our homeroom teacher, Mr. Mazza, started barking out attendance.
"De," I whispered, horrified. "Have you gone totally rayon? Like, is that an all-Gap ensemble?"
To what had my poor t.b. (i.e., true-blue friend) sunk? Even our abrasive amigo Amber Marins -- normally shamelessly abusive of all codes of sartorial honor -- outclassed De today. Sure, Amber's Edwardian-style Galliano blouse and chunky Kenneth Coles were a total era bender, but at least they didn't scream Galleria.
Anyway, De was lost in space -- ignoring me big-time. Her hazel orbs were glassy with distress. When I hissed, "De, you left the house without lip liner," she didn't bother to reach for cosmetic reinforcements.
"Did you and Murray file separation papers or what?" I asked. But even the mention of Murray, De's on-again/dysfunctional-again squeeze, didn't rouse her.
Finally, I had to reach out and touch De cellularly. I've never known her to resist the call of the mobile.
Tscha! The chimes of De's cell phone immediately penetrated her fog. With a maneuver she'd been perfecting since middle school, she extracted her Nokia from her backpack, flipped it open, and popped the antenna out to its full-length luster with a snap of one juliette. She was on the air before Mazza even perceived the trill. De had a history of cellular interference from teachers insensitive to our communication needs, and she took no chances.
"Hel-lo?" I whispered. "I've been trying to get through to you for like, minutes. What's up, girlfriend?"
"Cher! I'm so buggin'," De moaned. "My measurements have been established for years. But this morning I did my vitals, and I've gained a full four and three-quarters pounds. I'm in a shame spiral. I completely blame our foodie binge yesterday."
I felt furiously guilty. After all, it was my cluelessness (well, actually, I must share credit with our enviro-buds Summer and Baez) that had resulted in the caloric blowout.
It started last week when Summer descended on me in a wave of CK Be. We were en route to the cafeteria at our public school, Bronson Alcott High. As we traversed the hallway, the usual clusters of freshman boys stopped to stare and drool, hypnotized by the glint of my lustrous highlighted locks. The girls applauded my beribboned beret. "Kickin' fashion statement, Cher," enthused one smitten sophomore. "It's like so beyond the beltway." I waved and mouthed thank-yous without missing a beat of Summer's sales pitch.
"Cher, it'll be chronic! Gwyneth Fair is an all-girl music festival. Like a total ban on Barneys," she gushed, flashing her liberation-scented wrists -- and a couple of tickets -- beneath my nose. "Profits will go toward the Purebred Preservation Fund," Summer added. She knew I was an insatiable do-gooder.
I whipped out my mobile and speed-dialed De. "Great news, girlfriend," I said, alighting at the organic salad bar. "Fat-free baked croutons on the Caesars today and Summer's making a motion for charitable tunes and sisterly bonding Sunday afternoon at the Greek Theatre." That's this outdoor amphitheater in Griffith Park -- which is a totally random zip code, far from the manicured haven of my very own Karma Vista Drive. But with the aid of Baez's limo and driver, it was way doable.
De was all "Dope!" As well-to-do Bettys in the prime of adolescence, we are, of course, devoted to the Baldwin-snagging cause. But partying with our fellow femmes is a serious priority, too. Besides, on Sundays the mall goes dormant at five and the only events happening tubewise are weepie movies-of the-week for the youth-challenged. Golden timing for an outing.
I pictured a monster female fiesta, like a giant slumber party with mucho merch. Wandering color consultants and astrologers. Booth after booth of bunny-safe makeup displays. Evian and skinny lattes on tap. And an extended afternoon of furious fashion-ogling.
Not even!
The minute Baez's chauffeur pulled up to the Greek's entrance, De and I knew we'd made a brutal mistake.
"Like, what's that smell?" De quavered as we picked our way over swirling puddles of spilled domestic beer.
I peeked around the bouncer at the front gate and took a tentative whiff. "A combo of patchouli, burning cloves and...ewww, it's like the great unwashed in there."
Summer and Baez evaporated immediately, skipping and giggling as if they were in some sun-dappled Clearasil commercial. We were abandoned in a throng of moody protester types swaying to the alterna-tunes. The tableau defined anti-hottie: Snarled strands splashed with pink and orange Manic Panic. An unsightly surplus of cargo pants. And as for the goods beneath the tie-dyed tank tops -- hello? Like didn't I see bra-burning on the History Channel?
I was brutally overclad in my Daryl K A-line shift and SPF-intensive straw cloche, which I'd chosen for the way-feminine faux daisies tucked behind the brim. De too was kvetching bigtime. A pack of Gwynnies in Doc Martens had just barreled across her tiny island of former lawn (now mudbowl) and besmirched her Prada platform sandals with a ruinous grime layer.
De gazed back at the gate. Picking up on her let's-bail vibe, I had to remind her of the "womyn" who'd shared our ride. "De, being a t.b. means never having to say 'I'm Audi,'" I said.
We sighed and pushed our way toward the stage, where a total 'tude fest was in progress. "That's Talia D'art," De yelled. "You so can't dance to her."
Talia D'art -- the hugely popular alterna-star and Gwyneth Fair's crown jewel -- was deep into this angry, sweaty mode. She crouched on the stage in faded black jeans and rasped into her microphone, her long, wavy, matte brown hair flailing in her face.
"Major verve deficit up there," I commented to De, who was cringing and using her no-longer-white feather boa to cover her ears, "Imagine what an auburn rinse, a spritz of Aveda calming body soother, and some ginseng tea could do for her."
"Ginseng tea?" De shouted, catching only the tail end of my criticism over the blare. "Great idea. I could so go for some herbal refreshment."
We found our way to the tent city serving as a food court and sought comfort in snacks. Everything looked so vegetarian and wholesome, I guess we kind of overgrazed. By the time Summer and Baez located us, we were happily hanging near the henna tattoo complex, feasting on tofu-enriched protein shakes, granola-dipped carob apples, and these choice Jamaican plantain chips. "They don't look fried." Like, famous last words.
Now De and I were both trapped in homeroom, mired in the vicious regret of a foodie hangover.
I had to admit that I too was feeling a bit the heifer, though the esteem-crash certainly hadn't made me abandon my dedication to the fashion forward. I was camouflaging with a booty-flattering, pewter Comme des Garçons suit with slimming pinstripes -- very Monday morning.
De snapped her cellular closed and addressed me directly. "Girlfriend, we are in desperate need of some aerobic salvation."
"I concur. Your home Nautilus or mine?" Like all self-respecting hotties in our burg of Beverly Hills, De and I each had home-based gyms: full equipment, personal trainers on call, and video libraries stocked with the entire Appendages of Steel series, as well as toning tips from Cindy Crawford, Niki Taylor, and various other superbabes.
"Hmmm," responded De. I know our latest pace-change left us seriously bummin', but I have an idea that could restore our faith in the masses."
"The Fitness Factotum!" I exclaimed.
"ESPN moment," De said, finally perking up. "That's just what I was thinking."
Ensconced on a primo wedge of Rodeo real estate, the FF is the most loqued-out new bod boutique. We're talking aromatherapy stations on every floor, an import-only water bar, and an all-lipo O.R.
"Girlfriend, you're so right," I enthused. "We owe it to ourselves to diversify. We're there."
Exchanging a limp-wristed high five, we made a simple, post-eighth-period strategy. We'd phone ahead to our school's valet parking patrol and order rush service. Then make a quick stop at our respective manses for Lycra ensembles, updo construction for our locks, and water bottles for both misting and imbibing. By dusk we'd be stylishly workin' it back to our formerly svelte selves.
and Copyright © 1999 by Paramount Pictures