Gorgeous (13 page)

“Right.”

He grabbed my arm. “You’re right, okay, I know we’re not going out. But you are, like, the hottest girl I know, and I can’t tell if you like me or hate me or what.”

We stood there on the sidewalk, facing each other. I came up to his neck. It was a nice neck, and I noticed he had sort of puffy lips, nice ones. “I’m what?”

“Hot,” he said. “Totally hot. And kind of a bitch.”

I thought about that for a few seconds.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s easier to believe the bad part.”

“They’re both true.”

I felt a weird bubble of giggles rising again. “Wait a sec,” I said. “You like me because of how I look?”

He shrugged. “That’s part of it. What?”

“It’s just so funny.”

“Why?” he asked, reddening again. “Were you interested in me, if you were, because of my deep intellectual or philanthropic virtues? Or because you liked how I look?”

“Your vocabulary,” I said.

“Well, some of us are shallow. What time’s your train?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

We started walking again, and as we rounded the corner by the train station, he asked, “So you really are a model?”

A train was pulling up. I started to run for it and he ran with me. “I have no idea,” I said. I took the stairs two at a time and got into the train before the doors closed.

“Good luck,” he said.

“I’ll need it.” The doors closed. He might have been saying,
No, you don’t,
but I couldn’t be sure. I slumped down in my seat and concocted excuses about my grandmother or an internship in case the conductor demanded an explanation for why I was on the train during school hours. The only thing he asked me for was my money, plus the extra for buying my ticket on the train.

I tried to find the subway I’d taken with Roxie, but there were so many people going in so many directions I ended up standing still and getting spun around like a kid wearing a blindfold in Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
Great,
I was thinking.
I’ll just spin here until I’m dizzy and then crawl on home.
I took out my phone to check the time and before I remembered that my phone was dead, I saw that it wasn’t. It was alive and fully juiced, with one text message. It was from Quinn.

Where r u?

As I stood there getting jostled and trying to decide what to text back, the phone rang in my hand.

“Hello?”

“Change of venue,” the vaguely British, possibly male voice said. “There was an elevator disaster and obviously Filonia won’t walk up stairs.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Are you writing this down? You need to go to Filonia’s studio. Do you have that address?”

“No,” I said.

He sighed and told me an address.

“I’m at Grand Central,” I said, faking Mom’s take-charge manner. “What’s the best way to get there?”

“Take a cab,” he said. “Or else the shuttle to the 1 to Christopher…”

“I’ll take a cab,” I said. “Thanks.” He hung up before I could ask how much he thought it would cost.

After wandering around and getting distracted by the amazing painted ceiling for a little while, I found my way out to a taxi line and, when I got in the cab, told him the address. Off we went, like this was a totally reasonable thing for me to be doing.

It took about a half hour of beeping and jolting. Twice I almost threw up, but finally we got there. Wherever
there
was. Filonia’s studio. I paid the driver with a ten and he didn’t give me any change even though the meter said only $9.70.
Whatever. Keep the change.

He peeled out as I was slamming the door.

I pushed the button next to the Filonia Studio. It was only one thirty but I was scared to just wander around. My stomach growled, but I didn’t think I could very well plop down on the sidewalk and eat my lunch there. The door buzzed loudly. By the time I realized I was supposed to pull it, it had stopped buzzing and I had to press the button again.

In the tiny elevator going up to the fourth floor, it hit me that I probably should have worn some makeup. Then the door slid open and there was no turning back.

22

A
SHORT WOMAN DRESSED
all in white frowned at me. “You can put your clothes over there,” she said, gesturing to a chair and walking away. The room was all white, too, but filled with lights, clamps, and props like a large ceramic banana and a wall full of hats on hooks.

“My what?” My entire body started shaking. “Put my what?”

“Clothes,” said a girl in jeans and a black T-shirt, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere. She was pointing at my backpack. “Why don’t you unpack and let Filonia see what you brought?”

“I brought my books,” I said.

They stared at me.

“Was I supposed to bring other clothes?”

“Are you here for the modeling shoot?” the woman in white said. “Or are you the delivery girl?”

I wasn’t sure, so I just stood there and tried not to cry. “Are you Alison Avery?” The girl in the jeans was reading off a large index card. I nodded. “I’m Seven,” she said. “Come with me and we’ll do your makeup.”

“You’re what?” I asked, following her. My mother would kill me, I was thinking, and she would be totally right.

“That’s my name,” the girl said. “Seven. Sit right here and let’s take a look.” She turned a light on and looked at my face.

“Your real name?”

“It is now,” she said. “I chose it.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling oddly relieved that this stranger hadn’t just had uninterested parents who gave their kids numbers instead of names. Why that would matter to me was, at that point, beyond my ability to even wonder.

She took some cream and rubbed it between her hands. “The last girl came with full makeup. Can you believe it? Where do they get these rubes, you know? Did she think she was going to her prom or something? Can I clean up your brows? You’ve got some stragglers.”

I didn’t really answer, just kind of grunted, and felt her yank hairs off my face.

“I like your hair,” she said. “Where’d you get it cut? Astor Place?”

“Willow Street,” I said truthfully.

She shrugged and started brushing powder over my forehead. “It’s easier for some people to change their minds than their hair, you know?”

I smiled. It was weirdly relaxing having her work on my face.

“But I work with these kids, at Sloan? They’re in the chemo ward, right, so they have no hair? But I go in Sundays, and you know, they are so sweet, those little girls. I mean, they have no eyelashes, most of them, so mascara is out, but they love the lipstick, I tell ya.”

“You volunteer in the cancer ward?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Seven said. “I figure everybody should get to feel gorgeous, you know? A little lipstick, some blush…gives us something to hide behind and then, whoosh, out comes our beauty, right? Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes. She brushed mascara over my lashes, with a slight jiggling movement at the start of each stroke. Kids with cancer. Now on top of feeling crappy about myself for all the terrible stuff I’d done, I also had to come face-to-face with the obscene grandiosity of my petty self-loathing. I had a hell of a nerve bemoaning my fate when the last girls getting made up by Seven had
no eyelashes
. Is it possible to hate yourself more than completely?

“And these kids,” Seven was saying, “oh, they kill me. One girl, this girl Lisa? She always wants smoky eyes. So cute. Okay, you’re good.”

“I’m what?” I asked.

“You want a natural look for these,” Seven said, then leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Don’t let Filonia scare you. She’s amazing, the best, right? Go ahead. Good luck. You’ve got the look, that’s for sure. Nico should be here for the interview; I don’t know where he is, but I’ll stick around in case you start getting shiny, no worries.”

“Can we go?” Filonia barked from the other room.

I stepped out and she looked me up and down. I may have smelled bad, because her nose twitched a little. “What else did you bring?” she asked.

“Biology textbook?”

A guy walked in holding a tray of coffees. Nobody seemed to notice him.

“Why are you wearing red?” Filonia asked me.

“Um,” I said. Filonia crossed her arms and waited. “Because my best friend fooled around with my crush?”

The guy laughed. Filonia rolled her eyes. “Nico, make yourself useful, would you?”

I couldn’t help noticing that Nico’s haircut looked a lot like mine.

“You want me to interview her while you shoot her?” Nico asked. Nobody answered. I assured myself that nobody was going to shoot me with bullets, just cameras. At that point, I wasn’t sure which would be my preference, given the choice.

Filonia blew air from her lips up to her hair. “Clothes,” she said to me. “That’s all you brought?”

I nodded.

She clucked her tongue. “Sit,” she said. I turned to where she was pointing, a metal stool across the room. Filonia muttered to herself, clamping cords on lights. She held a black thing the size of my cell phone right in front of my face, clicked a button, looked at it, scowled, and repeated a few times.

I was obviously doing it all wrong already. Then things got worse.

Why? Well, for one thing, she was taking pictures of me. How had I forgotten that having my picture taken, even a snapshot with my sisters or on my birthday as a little kid, had always sunk me armpit-deep in despair and self-loathing? And this was more than a snapshot. She must have taken, like, a thousand shots.

That was the good news, I told myself—out of a thousand pictures there’s got to be a good one, right? Even the Fascist would look good in one out of a thousand, especially shot by (supposedly) the best photographer in all of New York City.

The bad news was pretty much everything else. The girl who was there just before me was much better. She really knew how to do it, according to Filonia. She had so much energy, that other girl; she was alive in every picture. I, apparently, was dead. The girl Friday afternoon, Filonia called to Seven and Nico—what was her name? Siddhartha. She was wild. They all exchanged knowing glances, and murmured things like “accessories” and “spicy” and then laughed happily together while I shrank on the stool.

But that’s not all. Apparently the spaces between my fingers are frighteningly pale. Filonia needed Seven to put makeup on them because they were wrecking the pictures. Oh, joy, the one aspect of myself I had never thought of obsessing over, the spaces between my fingers and their pallor. Also my knuckles were red. (You’d think they could get together with the spaces right there beside them and do a little pigment barter, but no.)

“Your hair looked better a minute ago,” Filonia said at one point. Seven didn’t come to fix it, and I didn’t know how my hair had changed in the past minute, so I smooshed it, trying to get it to revert to whatever it had just stopped doing, but then Filonia said, “No, you’re making it worse. Why didn’t they tell you to get highlights? Dull, dull, dull. Now, try not to blink so much.”

I became a blinking machine. I had never before in my life been so aware of my blinking, and suddenly I couldn’t keep my eyes open for more than three seconds at a go. It gave the room a strobe effect, and I started to run a serious risk of falling off the stool.

“Why are you moving that way?”

“Can I stand up?” I asked.

“Just try to smile naturally,” she instructed.

I could not summon a single muscle memory of how my face normally smiled. Had I ever smiled normally in my life? Filonia sighed and stepped away from her cameras.

“Let’s try something else,” she said. She set up a chair with a table in front, hoisted my backpack on top, and told me to sit down and lean forward over it. I didn’t know exactly what she meant to do, but I tried and, shockingly, did not succeed.

“Look a little more left and a little more right,” she said.

So I crossed my eyes. She snapped the picture.

“Can you do something more
fun
with your left hand?” she asked, causing my left hand to feel as if it were magically growing to twenty times its normal size and weight. I could barely lift it. The one fun thing I could think of to do with it would have been rude. I splayed the fingers on it out, which caused a whole pale-spaces emergency again.

When that was resolved, I propped my head up on top of my backpack. Filonia snapped a few halfhearted frames. “Turn.” I turned. “No, the other way. Your nose starts right up by your forehead on that side.”

I didn’t ask where it started on the other side, just turned my head and tried in vain to stop blinking.

“Don’t do so much of that,” Filonia instructed. “What you were doing just now. Maybe a little more something else. Now you’re blinking again.”

“I can’t…” I started, and then stopped and tried to smile naturally.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I said.

“Do what? Just relax.”

“I’m not sure why I’m here. I don’t even like to have my picture taken and I am obviously bad at it and I should be in English class and my mother is going to kill me.”

All three of them started reassuring me that I was doing a great job. Which made it that much worse.

“No, I’m not,” I insisted. “It’s okay, I’m not as spicy and not as energetic, not as alive as those other girls. Fine, I get it. I have pale spaces and red knuckles and too-dark hair and a nose that starts in the wrong place and an oddly unwitty left hand.”

Nico laughed, one loud, barking laugh. Then Filonia and Seven cracked smiles, too. Great, that helped, everybody laughing at me. I sniffed, and realized I’d been crying. I wiped my face, and my mottled, ill-humored left hand came away streaked with mascara. Seven darted forward with a makeup sponge but Filonia stopped her. “Hold it,” she said, and came in close with her camera, snapping away. I didn’t even care at that point, didn’t bother with a fake smile. I just looked at her through her camera and thought about how much I hated her right then.
So what if I’m not pretty,
I thought.
Screw you. This is who I am. You want a picture of a mess? Snap away.

After a few minutes, she stopped and stood up.

“Good,” she said.

“Can I go now?”

“That was excellent,” she said, looking at her screen.

“You have some talent after all.” Then she turned around and went to fuss with her cameras, saying, “All yours, Nico,” as she bent down to unclamp something.

I sniffed again and looked over at Nico, who was staring at me with a slight smile on his stubbly face. He took out a notebook and gestured for me to come to him.

I grabbed my backpack and trudged over. When I sat down, Seven came by and wiped a soft sponge over my face and whispered, “That was great, Allison.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Funny career choice for someone who hates having her picture taken,” Nico said. “You mind?” He indicated a recorder on the table between us. I shook my head and he turned it on.

“Have you always wanted to model?”

“Never,” I said.

He smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly, a little crooked, like Tyler Moss’s.

“I have to ask you these questions.” He held up a pad. “I’ll be quick, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you play any sports?”

“No. Tennis,” I said. “I used to.”

“Why’d you stop?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, um, any hobbies?”

I tried to think of a hobby. What kind of a person has no hobbies? A pale-fingered oddball. “No.”

Any siblings?”

Phew!
At least I had something. “Two sisters,” I said.

“What are they like?”

“They’re great.”

He made a
go on
movement with his hand.

I sighed. “The older one, Quinn, is brilliant—straight A’s, plays piano, never does anything bad. The younger one, Phoebe, is beautiful, sweet, nice, popular, the luckiest person ever. And then there’s me, trapped between them.”

“Trapped?” Nico asked.

“Middle child,” I said, checking the time on my cell. “You know.”

He nodded. “And parents?”

“Yes. Two.”

He smiled. “What do they do?”

“Oh, my dad is a kindergarten teacher. He’s really nice, nicest guy in the world, everybody says, mellow, steady. My mom is a…well, she was a hedge fund manager.”

“Was?”

“She got fired.”

“That must be hard for you,” Nico said.

“No,” I started to say.

He tilted his head, interested.

“I mean, sure, a little.” I felt like I might start bawling again, so I didn’t say any more. What a head case.

“So why did she get fired?”

“I don’t know. But, hey, can you, like, not use that? It’s kind of private, so can you erase that part?”

“No worries,” Nico said. “I was just curious. They’ll edit it down to ten words or so at most, or nothing. You know.”

Ah,
I realized. They’d only use any of the interview stuff for the
winner.
He just had to go through the motions. I nodded.

Backtracking from what he could see I had just figured out, he politely added, “It’s just a part of the thing, you know, pro forma, make it legit, for the ten K for the scholarship. You know.”

I nodded, unsure and not really caring, but I didn’t want to seem like more of an idiot than I already felt like. “Whatever.”

“You know what?” he said softly. “You don’t have to tell me what happened at her work. This is about you. How did her getting fired affect you?”

“It didn’t,” I said, blowing it off. “I mean, it’s not like we lost our house or anything, though who can tell the future, you know? We might.”

“Really? You might lose your house?”

“I don’t know. I know they’re worried about it.”

“It’s a big thing these days,” Nico said quietly. “A lot of families are losing their houses, with the whole mortgage fiasco.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, they aren’t really telling us anything, so we just have to let our imaginations get the best of us, you know?”

“Scary.” He wrote something down on his pad.

I didn’t want him to pity me, write down that I was some fragile head case. So I quickly backpedaled. “But what I mean is, money is just money. Losing it isn’t like getting a terminal disease. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself, feel like everybody else has it better, easier, more glamorous. But you have to remember how good you have it. I’m, like, the queen of feeling sorry for myself, but even I have to have some perspective.”