I was off for the day at one-thirty because I had the early shift, so I got to see the entire production. Casey and I met by the stage and took seats in the back, behind the mothers of the models and the screaming children that fill the mall every day and all the people with cameras out to get a good shot of Gwendolyn Rogers, Supermodel.
“I can’t tell you how I’ve been dying to get out of the house,” Casey said as we sat down. She was in another big shirt, this time an old rugby with worn elbows. “My mother is driving me nuts. She won’t let me near the phone or out the door without giving me the third degree, and I know she’s been in my room.” I was watching the stage as she spoke, which now had two white partitions covering the big leaves I’d seen a few weeks ago.
“You can’t tell,” I said.
“Yes I can, because I set traps for her.” She crossed her arms against her chest, triumphant. “I left a hair shut in my dresser drawer and in the latch of the box I keep all my important stuff in, and when I checked after coming home the other day they were both gone.”
I looked at her. “Hairs?”
“I saw it in a movie.” She flipped her hair and rolled her eyes, a combination of moves she’d picked up at camp along with all her other bad habits. “It’s drastic, I know, but something had to be done.”
“But she still went through your stuff,” I told her. “It’s not stopping her, it’s just proving the fact.”
“Right. And I have ammunition when I accuse her of invading my privacy. I’ll tell her I can prove it and then watch her squirm.” She sighed. “It’ll be ugly, but like I said, there’s no love in war.”
“It’s not really a war, Casey.”
“It’s close to it. You know Rick’s parents won’t even let him talk to me anymore? Every time I call they say he’s busy or at practice or something. I haven’t talked to him in a week.”
“He hasn’t called you?”
“He probably has and my parents don’t tell me. I swear to it, Haven, they want me miserable. They hate Rick and they haven’t even met him.” Behind us some baby started howling.
It was amazing what a summer could do. Before camp my best friend, Casey Melvin, was a short, pudgy redhead who hung back at introductions, couldn’t look a boy in the eye, and spent every Sunday afternoon taking tap-dancing lessons with her mother. Now she was at war with her parents, angry at the world in general, and more than a little bit paranoid. I wondered if the summer had changed me, if with one look the world could see a difference.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Lakeview Mall I would like to welcome you to the annual Fall Fashion Preview!” Everyone looked around for the source, since in years before, the show had relied on a woman with a loud voice to yell the commentary from side stage. The voice came from a speaker mounted on a plant right behind us: the Lakeview Mall had gone high tech. “And to begin our festivities, we have a very special guest. Please give a big welcome to our very own former Lakeview Mall Model and hometown girl, Gwendolyn Rogers!”
Now everyone looked at the stage, apparently thinking Gwendolyn would suddenly pop out of nowhere like the voice had, and there she was, tall and haunting, walking slowly up the center aisle as heads turned, row by row.
She looked terrible, her face gaunt, the famous Gwendolyn lips that pursed out from all those magazine pages now slack and thin, her hair lying flat on her head, even a bit stringy. She was wearing a short skirt and a silk tank top that was wrinkled, with sandals that scraped against the floor with each step she took. But it was the walk that was the strangest, after seeing her striding down runway after runway in music videos and on television, her head held high and hips swaying to the music, eye on the camera, as if she knew how you envied her. Now she was tentative, taking light steps and holding herself tight even though she had the whole enormous aisle to spread out in. We were all applauding because we had to, but she seemed lost and uncomfortable, and when she reached the bottom stair that led to the stage I felt myself let loose a breath, relieved she had made it. The applause died out as Gwendolyn climbed the steps. The official Lakeview Mall greeter was waiting with her clipboard. She had been beaming, but suddenly her smile died and she squinted at Gwendolyn uncertainly, as if expecting her to collapse on the spot.
The emcee shook her hand and led her to the podium. Gwendolyn, towering above her, stood behind the microphone and looked out at us with the same dim, lost look that I’d seen the other day. She cleared her throat once and then jumped a bit as the sound echoed from one speaker to another to another. I wondered if she was sedated.
“It’s spooky,” Casey whispered to me, and I nodded.
A woman in front of me said loudly, “She looks like she’s on drugs or something. Damn good example to set for the kids here. She shouldn’t even be on the stage.”
“Hush,” her friend said.
“I’m just saying,” the woman replied, shifting in her chair. “And look at that hair.”
We were all looking.
The emcee next to Gwendolyn stood on tiptoe and whispered something in her ear, but Gwendolyn’s face never changed. She cleared her throat again, and we waited.
“Thank you for having me,” she began slowly, and we all relaxed a bit. Things were going to be okay. “It’s a real treat to be here overseeing a new generation of Lakeview Models.”
The emcee began applauding, looking nervous, so we all joined in. Gwendolyn was still staring at the back of the mall.
The silence had gone on too long now. I wished for words to come from her mouth, any sound that might get her through this. Her hands were gripping the sides of the podium, the tips of her fingers white from the strain. It was as if the Gwendolyn we all knew and expected had been left behind on those glossy magazine pages—or had never existed at all. She opened her mouth, took in a breath; I closed my eyes until I heard her voice echo around me.
“So without further ado, let’s begin this year’s show.” Her voice was flat, even, and as the woman ushered her off the stage to her seat of honor in the front row, Gwendolyn ran her fingers over her long, stringy hair, obscuring her face as she passed by. Once seated, her head stuck up above the crowd, and I watched as the people behind her, no longer charmed, grumbled and rearranged themselves.
Suddenly there was a burst of music, so loud that a woman behind me actually shrieked. It was disco, a fast beat and lots of technological-sounding blips and beeps along with the occasional loud panting of a woman’s voice. We all stared up at the stage, waiting for something while the music pounded on behind us. Then, the partitions slowly parted (with the help of Sumner and some other guy in a uniform, who tried hard to stay out of sight), revealing the leaves I’d seen before. Now, however, there were lights spinning across them, blue and green and red and yellow, catching bits of glitter that I hadn’t noticed until now. It was all a bit overwhelming, a definite change from the show of last year, which consisted of one lone ficus tree that the models walked by, posed around, and then pulled to the edge of the stage for the big finale, where they threw its leaves on the audience to symbolize fall. That fashion show had been the most innovative, until this year.
Suddenly, the music stopped, and the lights fell steady on the leaves, each a different color. The disembodied voice came again. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join the Lakeview Mall Models as we journey into fall. A fall of expectations... of new ideas... and of potential. Come, come with us ...”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” someone behind us said loudly.
“... to a world of color and style, of tweed and tartan, of reality and imagination. Close your eyes and feel the cool air, the sharp colors of the leaves, and the dreams of winter. Come, come, and journey with us ... into the Fall of Fashion.”
The lights started swirling again, the music came on full blast, and suddenly the models began to walk up on stage, each of them smiling big toothy smiles and vamping like nobody’s business. The first was a girl in a beret who flounced out on the runway, tossed her hat in the air Mary Tyler Moore style, and just let it fall on some woman in the second row who looked like she wasn’t quite sure whether to throw it back or keep it. Beret girl was replaced by a girl in a long tweed jacket who took it off and dragged it dramatically down the runway with such abandon that someone behind me began to speculate about the cost of dry-cleaning it. The next girl clomped down the runway in torn jeans and combat boots, tossing her hair and gyrating suggestively, grinning out at us. A group of older women, probably remembering the tame ficus-tree show of the previous year, made a big fuss of leaving in disgust.
It only got worse. The music switched to just a woman moaning, over and over again, and one girl actually came out in hip-length black leather boots, which sent a flurry of exclamations down the crowd and another set of people packing up and leaving. The models were oblivious, most of them making a point of playing specifically to Gwendolyn Rogers as if to prove they were just like her, real
models.
Gwendolyn’s head, however, bowed forward, as if even watching was too much for her.
For the grand finale, which was always a showcase of evening wear for Christmas balls and dances, the models came out in tight black dresses and spike heels, with their hair pulled straight back and lips bright red, the rest of their faces white and pale as if they were very sick. They stopped to pose, waiting for the applause to thunder down upon them.
We applauded, those of us who were left, and watched as the director of the show, a young guy in a purple suit with a walkie-talkie in his hand, came up for his bow. I wondered if he realized that the entire board of the Lakeview Mall was probably waiting for him offstage, ready to wring his neck. When they brought Gwendolyn back up to address the models there weren’t that many people left in the audience, which was probably a good thing.
They stuck Gwendolyn in the middle and the models giggled and panted and shuffled around to get closer, their lips red and bright. As the photographer took pictures, she was pale in the center, towering above them all with their black dresses and pulled-back hair, their pale skin and scary Halloween lips, looking down at them as they crowded in around her. And then, just as they were all saying cheese once more, smiling for the camera on their big day, Gwendolyn Rogers burst into tears.
No one knew how to react at first; she was just suddenly crying, tears running down her face as she stood there, surrounded by these girls who wanted to be just like her. The models moved away, uncertain, as if by proximity they could catch whatever she had, as if sorrow was infectious. No one did anything to help her.
Then I saw Mrs. Rogers; she was coming up the center aisle, her purse clutched against her hip, almost running but trying to look calm. She climbed the stairs and came up behind Gwendolyn, who was making little whimpering sounds that embarrassed me for her. I didn’t even watch, focusing instead on a wad of gum that was stuck on the floor. I heard them passing: Mrs. Rogers’s voice soothing and calm, saying, “All you need is rest, honey,” and Gwendolyn’s jarred and ragged, replying, “It’s so awful, they just don’t know how awful it is, those poor girls.”
Casey watched them, attentive, then tapped my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nodded and followed her, and we wove our way down the middle aisle, which was now suddenly crowded with models’ mothers (most of whom were biting their lips and looking irritated), a few men in suits with strained looks (I was sure they had to be the contingent of mall management), and a bunch of women talking in hushed voices about how shocking it all was. I lost Casey in the blur of perfume and general mayhem, then found her waiting for me by a planter full of ferns.
“Can you believe that?” she asked me as we started walking down in the direction of Little Feet. “A total breakdown, right in the middle of the Fall Fashion Preview. She has to have totally lost it. She’s nuts.”
“God, Casey,” I said, suddenly nervous that Gwendolyn was still in earshot. “She’s sick.”
“She’s nuts, Haven,” she said with authority, pulling out a pack of gum and offering me a piece. “Beautiful and nuts. What a combination.”
We were coming up on Sumner now, who was busy talking with some woman who had a baby attached to her hip and a toddler linked to her wrist by one of those baby leashes. The kid was straining on it, yanking towards the toy store, but kept getting jerked back, losing his balance, and crashing to the floor. The mother was too busy fussing at Sumner to even notice.
“I’m not the kind of person who usually complains,” she was saying as we got within earshot. “But I really feel like that was just a disgusting display and completely unnecessary. Those aren’t the kind of clothes a girl would wear back to school. What happened to plaid jumpers? To tights and slacks? To those nice sweaters with the reindeer prints on them?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Sumner said in a deep voice. “I can’t really say.”
“Well, it just upsets me.” She yanked on the leash, plopping the toddler, who had managed to make some headway, back to the floor again. “I feel like it just sends the wrong message, you know? I don’t associate gyrating with homework, myself, and I don’t think any other mother who spends money at this mall does, either.”
“I completely understand,” Sumner said, and then saw me and smiled. “I would suggest contacting mall management. I’m sure they’d be very concerned about what you’re saying. Here’s the number right here, or if you’d like to write a letter—”
“Yes, a letter might be better,” she said. “It’s always better to put it in writing, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.” Sumner wrote something on a card and handed it to her. “That’s the man to address, right there. In case you decide to call, he’s not in on Tuesdays.”
“Thank you.” She put the card in her fanny pack and leaned over the toddler, who was now sitting on the floor eating a dirty candy wrapper. We watched as she got him to his feet, adjusted the baby to her other hip, and they walked off down the mall together, the leash hanging between them.