Emma's Not-So-Sweet Dilemma (5 page)

“Disfigurement?” Alexis snorted. “Big word, Olivia! Someone's been playing with the thesaurus app!”

“I love the sympathy,” agreed Mia. “So genuine.”

“Oh no. Is it that bad?” I whispered. I thought I might cry suddenly.

My friends turned in unison and looked at me in shock.

“You can't be serious!” Alexis said indignantly.

I half-shrugged, not willing to trust my voice.

Katie sideways hugged me, her soup spoon
in her other hand. “Don't let the turkeys get you down. That's what my mom always says.”

“Gobble, gobble!” agreed Mia.

“Quack!” I said, referring to an old inside joke about letting things roll off you like water off a duck's back.

Then we all laughed. But deep down inside, I wondered how bad it really looked. After all, my friends were used to it by now. What would Harry Rosner think?

It wasn't long before I found out.

The Special Day bridal salon was all aflutter when I arrived after school. Not that this was unusual, as they've had their fair share of important designers and clients come through. But this had a different energy—a negative one. Patricia, who is the manager and my favorite employee of all, kind of snapped at me to hurry when I got there, and though I didn't see her, I could hear Mona complaining to one of the salesgirls because the rug had some fuzz on it. It was a weird vibe.

I hurried into my usual fitting room and stopped short when I saw the dresses hanging on my rack. They were incredibly beautiful. Like beautiful fairy princess dresses for a ball (and I have seen a lot
of junior bridesmaids' dresses!). Light, delicate . . . The word “gossamer” came to mind, which Mona had told me meant really delicate, light fabric that kind of floated. Exquisite, feathery lengths of tulle draped just so, with delicate, detailed, flower rosettes holding the folds in swags and drapes. I put on the first dress on the rack and felt I had honestly never looked better in my life. It was such a flattering cut through the neckline, and just the right length. Patricia came in when I said I was ready and gasped when she saw me.

I put my hand to my face. “I know. The nose is . . .”

“That is the prettiest thing I have ever seen you wear!” she exclaimed, staring at the dress. “Simply breathtaking!” The words rushed out as she stepped closer to fix my hair; there seemed to be no time for pleasantries. Then she glanced at my face in the mirror, just really seeing me for the first time, and did a double take.

“Yeah . . . ,” I said. “About the nose . . .”

“Well, we've got no time to waste on that. Let's just . . .” She kind of roughly started fixing my hair.

“Ow!” I said, half joking, and she softened.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, Emma. It's so crazy in here this afternoon. It's . . .”

“Kind of a bummer!” I said lightly.

Patricia pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she said, “Yes. That's the word for it. Ever since Mr. Rosner arrived, there've been all kinds of demands. Pinker lightbulbs in the salon, tea with half and half, which he sent back because he thought we'd given him cream, turn down the music, turn up the music, and so on.” She swept my hair up and looked at it critically. “Hair down, I think,” she said. “Maybe a curl across the forehead to minimize. . . . Anyway, Mona's been on fire since he got here. Sniping at everyone and really just out of character. I don't know if she's trying to impress him or what . . . ,” she whispered. “We're all just really cranky.” She parted my hair deeply on one side, then secured it with a barrette over the other ear, so it draped dramatically over my forehead.

“Do you have any more, um, concealer?” she asked.

I started in surprise. “Oh! Sure. Let me just . . .” I bent down and dug through my bag and pulled out my tools. “I can—”

“Wait. I'll do it,” said Patricia. She draped a muslin cloth over my shoulders to protect the dress, and then she used a brush to apply some more concealer over the bruising. It felt like a lot.

I turned to look in the mirror. It
looked
like a lot. “Should I maybe wipe some of this off?” I asked.

“No, it's dimmer in the salon than usual. Pink lightbulbs, you know?” She sighed and sat down heavily on the little stool in the dressing room. “I'm going to hide in here until you're done with that dress. You never saw me!” she joked. “Just glide on out there and do your gorgeous thing and then come on back, and I'll help you with the next look.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

“Wish me luck,” I whispered. Suddenly, I was supernervous.

I tapped on the door to the private salon, and Mona trilled in a high, phony voice, “Come in!”

I entered the room and saw Mona first, dressed in a very fashionable suit. As I opened the door farther, I spied a portly, older man who was dressed way too young for his age, in intentionally beat-up designer jeans, a shiny shirt that was too tight, and really dorky tinted glasses. He had gray hair that was long and slicked back over his ears, and he was gulping loudly from one of Mona's fine teacups with a plate full of cookies in front of him and crumbs on his shirt. I guess he looked fashiony, but he also looked all wrong.
I just couldn't believe that this was the same man who had created the delicate, angelic dresses I'd found in my dressing room.

Mona was beaming a nervous smile. “Darling! Come meet Mr. Rosner! Harry, darling, this is Emma, my finest young model, showing you how we present our junior bridesmaids' looks at the salon.”

Mr. Rosner looked up and nodded, more interested in the cookie he was eating.

“Hello,” I said quietly.

Mona looked nervous. “Why don't you come do your twirl and step onto the box, and we'll see how it shows?” Mona suggested in a tight, bright voice.

I did as she instructed, trying my hardest to be my most graceful and swanlike and worthy of the dress. I perched on the low box that Mona has people step on for hemming, and I stood with my hands folded as charmingly as I could. I smiled.

“What happened to ya face?” Harry Rosner mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. He had a strong accent from the city, and he barely made eye contact as he spoke.

Gosh, even in the dimness, even with him not knowing me, he saw it. Mona looked at
him nervously and began to ramble in a fake-cheery voice. “There's always a liability when you're working with young models! Emma had an unfortunate meeting with a football over the weekend, but it will soon heal up and she'll be back to her usual self!”

Harry Rosner waved his hand. “She doesn't work. Get someone else!” he barked.

My hands and the soles of my feet went dead cold.

“Pardon me?” said Mona.

He swallowed and looked appraisingly at me, as if I was a side of beef he was considering for the grill. “I don't want someone defective. Get me someone good.”

“But, Mr. Rosner, Emma is a beautiful young lady and our top model. Surely, anyone can see past a little bruising. . . .”

Harry Rosner stood up and approached me. It was all I could do not to run away. Mona jumped up and came to my side too. He took my chin in his hands, much as Mrs. Valdes had done on Sunday, but where she was all gentleness and care, he was rough. “She's got a pound of makeup on here! I want natural. I want fresh. I want undamaged. If you can't give me that . . . ,” he warned.

I stepped down from the box and strode out of
the room. I wasn't going to stand there and let him treat me like spoiled meat, and more important, I was about to cry all over his dress.

“I take exception to your opinion, Mr. Rosner, but if you insist, I will call on someone less professional and, in my opinion, less beautiful, to come in and finish the showing with you. . . .” Mona was saying as I left the room.

“It'll have to be Saturday. I have to get going. I haven't got all day for these shenanigans . . . ,” Mr. Rosner said rudely.

I stormed into the dressing room, and Patricia's head jerked up, her eyes snapping open like window shades. “Back so soon?” she said in surprise.

I struggled to take the dress off as quickly as possible without damaging it. I couldn't even speak, I was so upset. Thank goodness I'd had the dignity to storm out when I did, even though when the adrenaline wore off, I would regret not having given Mr. Rosner a piece of my mind.

“Another look? Already?” Patricia said in confusion.

And then Mona was at the door. “My darling?” she whispered. “Are you all right? I am so sorry to have put you through that. It was a terrible error in judgment on my part, all around,” she said somberly.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to be composed. (Gobble, gobble! Quack!). “It's okay, Mona,” I whispered.

“You will be handsomely compensated for today. And now I need to find someone else to finish this. Someone who could be here this Saturday, who's so eager for the work they'd put up with anything. Anyone . . .”

There was a brief silence. And then I said, “Call Olivia Allen.”

And that was that.

T
he only thing worse than fake-sympathetic Olivia Allen is fake-sympathetic gloating Olivia Allen.

From the get-go, Wednesday was terrible. Olivia had already texted anyone she remotely knew at school to tell them that she'd been requested by
the
Harry Rosner to model, after he'd fired a “damaged” model (yours truly) who didn't meet his standards. Imagine me trying to insert myself into this—should I tell people that Mona had called Olivia “less beautiful” and that she was clearly her second choice? Should I explain how awful Harry Rosner was and that I wouldn't have wanted to work with him, anyway, not even for all the tea in China? There was no way to gracefully right the story
without looking like a jerk on top of being a loser.

I hadn't had the heart to tell the Cupcakers the news the night before, so they were a little miffed to hear it through the grapevine. I cried in the bathroom twice before lunch, and once again after, when I'd actually seen Olivia face-to-face in the cafeteria. While she was in front of a not-insignificant number of people, Olivia put on a big fake-apology about “stealing” my job out from under me and how she was going to give me a good talking-to about protecting a model's “prized asset” (my face). She closed with an offer to contact Dr. Kaminow herself and put in a good word, in case I was having a hard time getting in to see him. By then, it was all I could do to nod and turn around without crying, though they were tears of anger and frustration as much as mortification.

When I got home from school, there was an envelope with twice my going rate for a full day's work, from Mona, hand delivered. I shook my head in disbelief as I looked at the amount on the check, and read her note, which said, simply:
You're divine!—M.

I'd never be able to cash it, and I called her to thank her and tell her.

Mona got right on the line. “Darling, the man is a beast! I told him so in the end. I cannot understand how it is possible for him to create such beautiful work when he is filled with such ugliness. Your little friend will suffice for this weekend, but I will wait for you to heal before I schedule anything with him again. . . .”

“Thanks, Mona, but I can't work with that horrible man,” I said.

“Of course, darling. Well, I'll make it up to you, then. . . .”

“Thanks. About the check, Mona . . .”

“Darling, you earned it! Combat pay! I won't take no for an answer!”

“Thanks, but I can't possibly accept this much money. I really didn't earn it.”

“You certainly did. Now cash it and move on. Think of it as Harry Rosner's money. Business is business. Now go get better! Kiss, kiss!”

“Bye,” I said. Mona sounded more like her usual happy self today. That Harry Rosner had brought out the worst in everyone yesterday.