Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [28]
Shanny explained how women were focusing more on what they were wearing under their clothes than on the clothes themselves. Thus, the of-the-moment, faux-antifashion fashion statement was to go out looking like you really didn't care what you looked like when you went out. Even better was looking like you rescued your clothes from a trash can. Then, when you brought a guy back to your bedroom, as women like Shanny frequently do, you'd pleasantly surprise him with your freak-nasty skivvies.
Shanny was evidently putting this antifashion theory into practice with her sartorial selections: a gaudy Golden Girls tunic worn over black ribbed leggings, accessorized with pink aviator sunglasses, piles of Mardi Gras beads, and suede lace-up Pocahontas boots. The dressed-in-the-dark absurdity of the outfit was enhanced by the Balenciaga bag tossed carelessly on the floor at her feet.
Shanny hunched over in her chair as she talked, hiding her greatest inspirations—and her best assets. Without the benefit of a pro hair and makeup job, or megawatt illumination projected by a famous, millionaire boyfriend at her side, she looked waifish and wan. In between staffers' sincere-sounding questions (“Do guys think girls in tighty whities are sexy?”) she shot furtive glances at her publicist as if to say, “Are we done yet? Please. Are we done yet?”
Shanny didn't have anything more important or insightful or interesting to say than any of the other equally cute twentysomethings in the room. But Shanny had to perform these duties if she had any chance of getting the publicity she needed to be known as something more than celebrity arm candy, something more than a professional partygoer, something, anything fabulous that would keep the name Shanny Silverberg worthy of bold type. That desperate need for attention would be her undoing.
After the Educational Salon had ended, Tyra handed me a digital photo of Shanny that had been taken without her knowledge, from behind as she bent over to pick up her $2,500 handbag. The flimsy fabric of her leggings revealed a wedgie so deep Shanny could choke on it.
“Hit or Miss?” Tyra quizzed.
I had to make a split-second decision. I knew the right, the only answer would prove to Tyra whether I was True or not, because the Hit or Miss? page was the magazine's most infamous feature. It consisted of pictures of people whose appearances were deconstructed by the True editors, then labeled a Hit or a Miss. Such determinations were not subjective, nor were they as obvious as you might think.
At True, the ultimate goal is “gameness.” Being game means that you're brave enough to do anything, whether or not that thing is traditionally considered cool. For example: If you weigh in at a deuce and a half and are rocking a pair of gold lamé bike shorts with a total disregard for proper foundation garments and “I'm fat but fuck you” confidence, that is game. A Hit. But if you are one of the bizillion skinny girls wearing a velour Juicy sweat suit that is so cool, so trendy, so of the moment, you're actually being so boring, so predictable, so passé, and, therefore, not game at all. A Miss.
Thus, being game is cool, but the reverse is usually untrue. By this maxim, anyone and anything is capable of achieving coolness, as long as you're game when you're doing it. When you live by someone else's definition of cool, you are, in fact, anything but. This is when it gets really complicated. By putting out the Hit or Miss? page, True is pushing its own idiosyncratic notion of coolness, which contradicts the very self-determinative premise of coolness from which Hits are made.
It's all very confusing, even for me, and I've put a lot of thought into this. Which is not game or a Hit or True.
Ergo, a stuck-in-your-throat wedgie could have been a Hit if Shanny had pulled it off as a marketing strategy—an intentional reminder of the lingerie she was shilling. But that wasn't the case.
“A Miss,” I finally decided.
“And