3 Willows: The Sisterhood Grows (21 page)

Jo realized that Bryn -would be on any side of a fight, just so she felt like she was part of the action.

“And also, guess what?”

Jo couldn’t guess.

“Zach is here. He’s the one who said I should call you.”

Jo put the phone down for a moment and squeezed her eyes shut. She picked it back up and put it to her other ear. “Oh, really.”

“Yes. He really wants to see you. You should come back, Jo. Seriously. I know it’s almost the end of summer, but Richard would probably give you your job back. He said, and I quote, that you were ‘a first-rate bus girl.’ “

Jo couldn’t help laughing. “He said that?”

“Yeah. Everybody feels really bad about what happened. It’s so unfair. I said I would tell you that. They totally want to invite you to come out tonight. We would have so much fun.”

Jo nodded. She smelled something cooking downstairs. Was it bacon?

“So are you gonna come back?” Bryn asked.

Jo didn’t answer at first.

“Come on, Jo. Think how cool it will be. Because then when -we start school, you and me, we’ll be, like, the cool girls hanging -with all these upperclassmen.”

That had sounded thrilling to Jo at the beginning of the summer, but it didn’t now. She knew exactly how much Bryn’s friendship -was worth.

Jo thought she smelled eggs, too. And maybe even toast. She pictured her dad and the mess shaping up in the kitchen. “No,” she said to Bryn. “I think I’m going to stay here.”

“You will spend the first day in -wardrobe and fashion, the second day in hair and makeup, the morning of the third day in catwalking and media. The final afternoon you’ll put it all together for the competition.”

The speaker at the front of the room -was a former model named Karen, as thin as a pin in black leather pants. Polly was awed by the length of her legs and the bowed distance between her two thighs. Some of the girls claimed to recognize her from old ads and magazines, but Polly didn’t.

Between camp and this place Polly was meeting quite a few former models this summer. Now she knew where models went when they weren’t models anymore—to places where they could make more models.

“We’ll send each of you down the runway with lights and music and professional photographers snapping your picture. The first seven rows of the audience will be talent scouts from all the agencies, big and small. You’ll each get four tickets for parents, relatives, friends. How does that sound?”

There was excited chatter among the audience in the ballroom of the Grand Regent Hotel and some bursts of applause. Polly tipped around on the metal legs of her chair.

A girl in the first row raised her hand and got called on. “How does the competition -work?” she asked.

“At the end of the show, each of you will be given a list of the agents and other talent professionals who’ve requested meetings with you,” Karen explained. “Those meetings will take place in ten-minute time slots after the show and the lunch that follows. The model with the most requests will also win a one-thousand- dollar shopping spree, a two-page fashion spread in GlamGirl magazine, with a readership of over one point one million girls, and a tryout for Who Wants to Be a Supermodel?”

This was met with a hush and then a lot more chatter. Polly too was amazed. Just like that you could turn from a regular kid into a real, professional model with your pictures in a magazine and a tryout for a TV show.

Polly was sent off to Studio B with about twenty-five other girls. Studio B turned out to be between Studio A and Studio C in another giant meeting room divided by plastic folding partitions. It was lined by long tables covered with clothes and accessories. Each girl -was supposed to have a brief turn -with a professional stylist. They use the word professional a lot around here, Polly mused absently.

She sifted through clothes alongside the other girls as she waited for her turn.

“How tall are you?” a tall girl asked to her right.

“Five four,” Polly answered. “I’m still growing, though.”

The girl nodded. She was at least six inches taller than Polly, as was the girl to Polly’s left.

“This might work for you,” the girl said, holding up a short blue skirt, “since you’re short.”

Polly nodded, trying not to look short.

“What’s your look?” the girl asked.

“My look?”

“Yeah. What kind of image are you going for?”

Polly tried to keep her teeth -well inside her mouth. “I’m not sure,” she said. She just wanted to look like a model. She didn’t know what her look -was supposed to be beyond that. Maybe they’d taught the part about your look on all the shopping trips to the mall she’d missed at camp.

“You should probably lose the bracelet,” the girl advised.

Polly looked down at her arm. “Lose it?” she said in disbelief.

“You don’t have to lose it, but, you know, take it off.”

Polly could think of no response. If she had any look at all, it was her bracelet. Dia had gotten it for her. It was from the 1920s and it was the best thing she had.

“I’m Mandy, by the way.”

“I’m Polly,” Polly said, wanting to shield her bracelet from view. What if the professional stylist also wanted her to lose her most precious possession?

“I think it’s your turn,” Mandy said, pointing to a woman in black tapping her clipboard.

“What size are you, hon?” the stylist, Jackie, asked after she’d taken down Polly’s name and group number.

“I don’t know. I—I lost … a lot of myself.”

“What?”

“No. I mean.” Polly was still spooked about her bracelet. She needed to get her bearings. “I mean, I -went on a diet. So I’m not sure what size I am.”

“Okay.” Jackie had no doubt seen her share of skinny girls and weird weight-loss ideas. She studied Polly up and down. “You’re a little thing, aren’t you? Curvy, though.”

“I’m trying to fix that,” Polly said.

“What do you mean fix it? Curves are nice.”

“Not for a model.”

“Not everyone has to be built like a model.”

“Models do.”

Jackie looked at Polly like she thought she was trying to be funny, but she wasn’t.

“Do you think I couldn’t be a model?” Polly asked seriously.

Jackie let out her breath. “Hon, I’m just here to help you find something to wear.”

On the last night, Ama carefully brushed and braided Maureen’s hair in front of the campfire. She’d used the last of the Kiehl’s to demonstrate to Maureen its magic.

“Okay, let me see.” When she had finished, Ama turned Maureen around to admire her -work.

“How does it look?” Maureen asked eagerly.

Ama tried to remember how she’d seen Maureen on the first day, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t conjure any other look than this very nice one in front of her.

Carly -was watching the makeover -with interest. “Wow. Very cool, M. Wait till you see it.”

“Really?” Maureen looked genuinely excited as she touched it carefully with her fingertips. “Did you do it like yours?” she said to Ama.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Later in the evening Ama took a walk -with Noah. On the way out of the campsite she wondered whether he would hold her hand and on the way back he did. She was jubilant about it at first, but soon her hand began to sweat and she worried that it felt fishy and repellent in his. Even though the moon -was full and the stars were in the billions, she couldn’t think of anything besides her hand. She had to laugh at herself.

She was relieved when they got back to camp and he dropped her hand before anyone could see. Later, -when she was done brushing her teeth, he snuck out from behind some bushes. He kissed her on her minty lips. Just a quick one, before they got caught. He pushed a little scrap of paper into her hand.

She went back to her tent and lay there, -wishing she could read the piece of paper. Finally she rummaged in her pack and found her flashlight.

On the front he’d written his phone number and his e-mail address. On the back he’d drawn a little picture of a tree and he’d written their names as though they were carved into the trunk connected by a plus sign. He’d made a little heart around them.

“Do you think I should wear a wig?”

“No, Polly. Your hair-will be fine.”

Polly tried on a red wig. “This is kind of nice.”

“Polly, it’s really not… you.”

That didn’t seem a problem to Polly. “I don’t mind,” she said. She felt prettier -when she looked less like herself, but she didn’t say that out loud. “I wish I hadn’t cut those bangs in the first place.”

“Yeah, -well. They are a bitch and a half to grow out, aren’t they? But we can’t worry about that right now.”

Genevieve, the makeup and hair professional, was very nice but was getting a little stressed out, Polly decided. The runway show was starting in less than an hour, and she had four more girls to get ready.

Polly tried on a blue wig. She tried on a pink spiky one.

“Polly! You can’t rub your eyes when you’ve got eye makeup on. Okay?”

“Sorry,” Polly said. She kept forgetting. She didn’t wear eye makeup at home.

“If you want you can go on to the next girl,” she said.

“You’ve still got seven minutes,” Genevieve said. “I can do more with your mouth, fix your eyes, redo your—”

“That’s okay,” Polly said, scooting over to the accessories table. The girls behind her -were practically having nervous breakdowns for fear they wouldn’t get made up in time.

Polly tried on long strands of fake pearls and chandelier earrings but decided she should probably not wear them together.

“All right, everybody!” cried Karen, the former model -with the leather pants, clapping to get their attention. “Ten minutes! We need to start assembling. If you’re in the first group and you’re ready, please come to the front of the room.”

Polly pinned a brooch to the fabric of her dress just over her clavicle. She wasn’t till the third group, so she had time. She checked it in the mirror. Was that how you were supposed to wear these things?

Darn, she’d smeared her lipstick again. She tried to fix it, teetering toward the mirror on her high heels. She knew she had the look of a little kid who’d gotten loose in her mother’s dressing room. Not her mother’s dressing room, because her mother didn’t have stuff like that, but Jo’s mother’s, for example.

She heard a moan from behind her. From behind the table she saw an arm and an elbow and then a head that belonged to Mandy. Mandy’s face was red and her sparkly eye makeup was running and refracting in her tears.

“Are you okay?” Polly asked, approaching her by small steps. “What’s the matter?”

“My stockings have a huge hole and a run down the back.” Mandy’s words came out in a sob. She turned around to show Polly.

“Second group, up to the front!” Karen shouted.

“I’m in the second group!” Mandy -wailed. She dug her fingers into Polly’s arm. “What should I do?”

“Can you get a new pair?” Polly asked.

“No! I tried! There are no other blue ones or gray ones or dark ones. I have to wear dark ones for this outfit.”

Polly felt terribly tense about what would happen -with Mandy’s eye makeup if she kept on crying. She felt tears beginning in her own eyes, partly out of sympathy and partly because Mandy -was squeezing her arm so hard.

“Can you go without any?”

“No!” Mandy let out another sob. “Polly, I’m not going to go. I can’t. I’m going to tell Karen.”

Polly looked down at her own dark legs. “You can have mine,” she said quickly.

“What?”

Polly started pulling her stockings off. “These would look good. They’re even darker than yours.”

“But you need them.”

“I think my outfit looks good either -way,” Polly said, trying to sound confident.

“But you’re short.”

“They stretch,” Polly declared. “That’s the thing about them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go!”

“Third group! Please begin to assemble,” called Karen.

Polly could hear the loud music starting from the runway.

“Hurry!”

Mandy pulled and stretched and got the stockings on.

“Lean down,” Polly ordered. Mandy did so obediently, and Polly tried to clean up the running makeup with a tissue. Her hands, though inexpert, did a pretty good job. “Okay,” she breathed. “Go.”

Mandy hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Polly felt Mandy’s tears on her face and the slick of lipstick on her cheek.

“This is supposed to be a competition, girls!” Karen yelled at them. “Let’s get going!”

Polly watched Mandy skitter to the end of her line and sent her hopes along -with her. She thought, for some reason, of all the slow afternoons of Sunday soccer, rooting for Jo and picking grass on the sidelines. She’d begged her mother to let her play, but she’d never really had the knack for competition.

When Amas group piled onto the bus the next morning for the drive to the airport, Jared handed out their final reports.

Ama took hers with some trepidation. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. You know what you did here. That means more than any grade.

When she opened it she saw that she’d gotten an A. She almost laughed, as much out of surprise as happiness. It was nice, yes, but it looked slightly flimsier than As usually looked to her, as though it knew it was kind of beside the point.

She went to the back of the bus and sat next to Jared. “I was the worst person on the trip,” she said. “Why did you give me an A?”

Jared laughed. “If you’re talking about competence, maybe. Not if you’re talking about effort.”

Ama laughed too.

“Anyway, don’t tell this to anyone, but we like to give everybody an A,” Jared said in a low voice.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Everybody who finishes.”

When they were milling around in the parking lot at the airport, Ama was surprised to see two other buses pulling in filled with two other groups from Wild Adventures. It was like looking at alternate universes.

When the other groups filed out of their buses, Ama was also surprised to see several other black kids. At least three in one group, four in the other.

So she wasn’t the only one. Not even close. She felt guilty about all the pictures she’d refused to smile for.