Braless in Wonderland (17 page)

I wanted to know what I was getting into before I accepted a booking. I was a much wiser Alice now.

 

I was barefoot, standing on a rock at the most southern point of the beach, waves crashing and splashing my feet, the ocean churning behind me, my white linen dress blowing out behind me. It was all gooey-sweet and chick-flicky as I bent down, took Nando's face in my hands, we looked into each other's eyes, and I got ready to plant a kiss on his full lips. I made my face all wistful and romantic, the way I had practiced in the mirror earlier. And then I pressed my lips against his, and we went at it. He was Brazilian, and I didn't know what was going on in Brazil, but he sure knew what he was doing.

“No tongue!” Sean shouted.
Snap. Snap
. It was the same Sean who'd done my first test. When this ad came out, we'd be surrounded by floating Hershey's Kisses through the magic of computer animation. I was so confident now, more comfortable in front of the camera. I knew my angles, knew to be careful I didn't give too much chin when a photographer was shooting my face, knew how to stand so my body had the right line. And I believed I was beautiful. I told myself that before every job.

“That's a wrap!” Sean said, and he high-fived Nando and me. His Rasta assistant with the Jiffy Pop hat lowered the reflector, and the stylist helped me down off the rock. Some tourists were gathered on the sand, watching us. Two of them gave us a few claps, like golf applause. I took a little bow. Nando and I grinned at each other. It was better if he didn't smile. His teeth looked like Chiclets someone had stepped on. But the rest of him was hot.

“I can't wait till the ad comes out,” I told him. He nodded, having, I'm sure, no idea what I'd just said. Who cared? He was the living definition of tall, dark, and handsome.

The sun was going down. Seagulls were swooping down to pick up crumbs in the sand. What a great shoot. I got to wear a gorgeous dress. And make out with a gorgeous guy. And make a nice little chunk of money. More and more, I really was Alice, living this wild fantasy.

 

My portfolio was missing. I'd looked all over the apartment, the agency, even retraced my steps back to the beach where I was watching Summer shoot for
Seventeen
magazine, but I couldn't find it anywhere. And I knew I'd had it this morning in my model bag, where I always kept it. I'd just had to go to two print castings looking like a jerk, because going without your book is like showing up barefoot for cross-country tryouts. Even though the clients had already seen my book online, on Finesse's Web site, it was still really unprofessional to show up without a portfolio. Dimitri would kill me if he found out. I had better find it.

Then yesterday I missed a TV casting for Clearasil because my alarm didn't go off and no one was here to wake me. Momma was so mad at me, she almost made me cry. She got me in at a later time slot, so I wound up getting put on tape, but one of the things she said was, “We finally get a casting that's perfect for you because they wanted great skin, and you have great skin, and then you don't even bother to show up? Allee, sweetie, I thought you were more responsible.”

It was for a national too. Damn.

 

“Brynn took it,” I told Sabrina on the phone. “I know she did. It's something she would do.”

“How do you know for sure? I mean, even you can have a brain fart, Allee. Maybe you left it somewhere.”

“Me? No. I am way too organized.”

“What if you accuse this Brynn girl and then she goes ballistic? Like, what if you find it in your car or something?”

“I'd never leave it in my car. The humidity would ruin it. And how about my alarm clock? She must have unset it.”

“You can't admit that you flaked for once. God, Allee. You are human, you know.”

“I'm telling you, Brynn's out to get me. She's all pissy because of how I was ‘all judgmental' about her using. And I never said anything to her about taking the chicken cutlets from my bag the day of the
Dietra
booking, too. I'm gonna search her stuff when she's out tonight.”

“Just be careful.”

 

Breaking news—Claudette's portfolio was full of nudes. In one shot, she was stretched out on a cliff with mountains and purple sky in the background, her arms curled above her head, at one with nature. Turn the page and her entire body was painted with reptile scales, and she was lying on her belly in tall grass. There were several tear sheets mixed in with shots of her where her bare body was draped across some guy's six-pack abs, or wearing nothing but blue skin cream, and even a girl–girl ad for some French perfume. Claudette's brown skin profiled against the chalk-white girl was like visual electricity.

I wanted to say she was exploiting herself with these naked pictures, but they weren't really offensive or disgusting, not like the porn magazines Jake and Scott had brought to school once. These shots reminded me of my art textbook. They glorified the female body, the same way artists had glorified it since the beginning of time, with artistic imagery. One photo was a version of Botticelli's
Birth of Venus
, with Claudette rising out of a shell.

So her ticket must have been her sex appeal, or sensuality or whatever, but more than that, it was her attitude. She was all about freedom, and it showed in every picture of her long body. I glanced up at her sitting next to me on the futon, engrossed in her paperback of Edith Wharton's
The Age of Innocence
. It was nice to have another reader in the apartment. Claudette and the countess in that story were a lot alike, now that I thought about it. They both kinda pushed boundaries of what was socially acceptable. Claudette was so into the story she didn't even notice I was going through her book.

“Hey, y'all,” Summer said, coming through the door in her workout clothes. Her smile was fully charged. If modeling didn't work out for Summer, she could get a job at Disney World on one of those parade floats, smiling and waving to crowds.

She kicked off her sneakers, sat on her magazine-covered bed, and started sewing up a hole in a pair of tights. Another one of her cheap habits. Never mind that she was planning to wear those tights with a pair of Sergio Rossi boots she'd bought in Bal Harbour at the half-off, bargain price of five hundred dollars. Hel
-lo,
Summer, you could buy a kajillion pairs of tights.

“Why didn't you ever go back to college?” I asked Claudette. “Why model? You're smart, you love literature. Is it the money?”

She closed her book, drew her knees under her chin. “No, it's not the money. I'm not even making that much yet, or I wouldn't be living here with you guys. I haven't worked in over two weeks.”

“So why then?”

“I love to read, but I also love how beautiful I feel when I'm posing. I love seeing myself in pictures. I love doing the runway shows in Milan every summer, traveling to Paris, Athens, all over. But mostly, and this is the main reason, I love being able to express myself any way I want. This life's an adventure and I'm all for living it. By my rules.” She sounded almost angry. I figured she was thinking about her father. He probably didn't think much of her naked adventure. She'd only talked to me about him that one time, at the Uta Scholes shoot, and never again. And she never talked about the rest of her family. I didn't even know if she had any. Summer was like that too. Not like Brynn, who was always talking about her “Ma.”

Claudette went back to her book. Brynn's portfolio was on the coffee table. Time to look for her ticket. Her book was so her. It wasn't packed with smiley bathing suit pictures like Summer's or sexy artistic shots like Claudette's. Brynn was rock climbing in a black cat suit à la Lara Croft. She was a boxer, seminude and glistening with sweat. She was riding a motorcycle, waterskiing. Kissing a guy under an umbrella with ferocious intensity. The only one that rubbed me wrong was the picture of her sitting on her knees, topless, looking up at a man in a business suit.

“Hey, who said you could look at my book?” Brynn asked, walking out of her room. I knew she'd been late to a job this morning. Dimitri had left a furious message telling her to get her act together.

I closed her book. “Sorry.”

She'd been snorting. I knew the signs now, the sniffing, the swiping at her nose, the jerky movements and blinking. And her mega-bitch mood. I never knew what to expect from her. Some days she was completely nasty and looking for a fight, other days she was almost semi-nice. “No, no, g'head,” she said, crossing her arms. “Tell me. Now that you've looked at it, what do you think?”

“I love your whole book, except for this last one.”

“Why?”

“The way he's looking down at you on the floor. It's like ‘good little doggy' with that look on his face.”

“That's his problem. What about my face?”
Sniff. Sniff.
“Huh? What about my face?”

“Your face looks great,” said Summer.

“Yeah, you look amazing,” I agreed. “But that's not the point. Images like these marginalize women.”

“What'd she say?” Brynn asked, blinking at Summer.

“Somethin' 'bout margarine,” Summer answered.

“She means,” said Claudette, looking up from her book, “that the picture degrades all women.”

“Whatever,” said Summer. “See, Allee, you're not the only one what knows a thing or two.”

“Great, now we got two of them.” Brynn jutted her chin toward me. “One know-it-all living here is enough.”

“I'm not a know-it-all,” I said.

“That's not what Summer says about you,” Claudette said, tossing her book aside.

Summer's blue eyes turned icy. She aimed them at Claudette, but Claudette turned her head and lit up a cigarette.

“Yeah, you do,” Brynn said to Summer. “You say that about Allee all the time. You're full of it, Summer.”

Summer talked about me behind my back?

“Thanks a lot, y'all,” Summer said, throwing down her tights.

She was. She was talking about me behind my back, calling me a know-it-all. My stomach tightened. “Summer?” I asked. “Did you call me a know-it-all?”

“Sorry, Allee, it just pops out sometimes.” What else did she say about me? “I don't mean nothin' by it. You're as sweet as a speckled pup, it's just…”

“What?” I wanted to know.

“Well, you can git a little uppity, Allee.”

“Uppity?”

“About how smart you are and all, you do get uppity.”

“Yeah, you kinda do, Allee,” Claudette said. “Sometimes.”

Had they all been thinking that about me? That I was some kind of snob? That was so unfair. I was nice to everybody.

“Yeah, you are an uppity little brat,” Brynn sneered at me. “Who the hell do you think you are anyway, saying I degrade all women?”

“I didn't say you degrade all women, I said the picture—”

Brynn grabbed Claudette's portfolio off the floor and chucked it.
Crash
. It knocked a framed print off the wall, one of the Mediterranean islands. The glass was cracked. None of us made a move to pick it up. I think we were all in shock, including Brynn.

The phone rang. “Nobody get that!” Brynn yelled. She picked up the phone, went into her room, said, “Hi, Ma,” and closed the door.

“She's high,” Claudette said quietly, carefully picking up the glass. I got up to help her. “She does a bump every day. Luca gets it for her.”

“Best thing to do is steer clear,” Summer whispered, looking toward Brynn's door.

I took a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen and helped Claudette put the glass shards inside. “But she needs help,” I whispered. “Shouldn't we tell Momma or something?”

“I reckon she knows,” Summer said. “Brynn ain't the first model to use drugs. But y'all don't need to be gettin' involved. You can't help someone that don't want it.”

I spoke slowly and watched my voice quality. “Allee Rosen. Finesse.” I showed my hands, front and back, turned to the right, to the left, all the way around to face the wall so the camera could shoot the back of me, then forward again. My feet stayed on the mark, which was a line of tape on the floor. A guy named Blake was paired with me for this callback.

“Okay, action,” the lady casting director said from behind the camera.

Our eyes darted everywhere, searching. I made sure the camera saw three-quarters of my face at all times. Just like we rehearsed in the hallway, Blake took me by the hand and led me to a stool with two soda cans. Only we had to pretend that the drinks were growing out of a bush.

“Okay…now you see them,” said the casting director.

My eyes popped at the sight of these miraculous soda cans. I looked incredulously at Blake, then did the openmouthed smile of ecstatic joy while saying in my mind what I wanted my face to show:
Wowee-Kazowee! Look at these drinks growing out of a bush! This is fantastic!
Blake was trying to do the same, but he was nervous.

“'Kay, Blake, now pick one up and drink, come alive. Remember, this is for Taboo, an energy drink.” Blake drank, trying to look like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

I was supposed to be a wholesome college-age kid for this, which was why I'd worn the high ponytail Claudette had suggested with the tight polo and plaid mini that Miguel had picked out. The client wanted good-looking “real people” types, not over-the-top gorgeous model types. I did the cheesy commercial laugh clients all loved. It came more easily now.

“Cut. You guys wanna do this part one more time? Let's do it again, 'kay?”

Blake put the can back and asked her, “What's my motivation?”

“Hah?”

“My motivation. Like, for acting. Why do I want to drink Taboo so badly?”

“You're thirsty. Why don't you go with that and see what happens. Do you need a motivation too, Allee?”

“No. I want to book this commercial. That's my motivation.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now the jungle has turned into a house party. Blake, you just stand there. Allee, you drink. Ready? Action.”
Mmmm. Delicious.
I closed my eyes and sipped, transported by the flavor of carbonated water, high-fructose corn syrup, and psychotic amounts of caffeine. I'd tried Taboo before. It was like drinking a liquid hand grenade.
Yummy!

“Okay, Allee, this is where you dance. Let me explain how the client wants you to—”

“We have to dance?” I interrupted. I thought Momma might have said something about dancing when she gave me the casting over the phone, but I was distracted.
America's Next Top Model
had been on and I was taking notes.

“Just you. Not him.”

“But I've never danced in front of people. Not really, not in public,” I said with panic in my voice.

“Didn't I see you grinding on the bar at Privé?” Blake asked.

“Must have been Brynn. People mix us up.”

The casting director was looking at me funny. “You've never danced in public? Not even at a wedding or anything?”

“No. I've never been to a wedding.”

“Never been to a wedding,” she muttered. She cocked her head to one side. “So you're saying you
can't
dance?”

I bit my lip. “I'm not sure.”

“Let me guess,” Blake said, grinning. “You're an undercover freak. You dance alone. In the shower, in your bedroom…”

He had me. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Well, let's go ahead and put you on tape, anyway,” the casting director said. “Blake, you're done. You can go, thank you.” Blake left and wished me luck. I'd need it. Because I was probably about to make a giant ass of myself. “Put some music on,” the casting director called to someone I couldn't see in the room with all the equipment. No music came on. “Be right back.” She walked out.

How was I going to dance on-camera? It had always been like a private thing. I didn't know if I could let go the way I did when I was alone, all uninhibited and loose and everything. But I'd also never thought I could pose all sexified in tiny lace lingerie in broad daylight either. If I could do that, I could do this. I wondered how Summer had danced. Her time slot was a half hour ago.

I closed my eyes and focused on what I'd learned in my workshop. I had to breathe deeply, rid myself of self-consciousness, let go, let flow, let insides show. Okay, I was feeling more relaxed. I pictured my room at home in my mind, my mirrored closet doors, all the moves I knew. I rehearsed in my mind.

The casting director was back. “Okay, Allee. When I hit the music, go ahead and dance, but stay on your mark. Smile, energy, have a good time, got it?”

“Got it.”

She went back behind the camera. “And…action.”

The music came on. It was Will Smith's “Welcome to Miami.” Perfect. I closed my eyes and tried to get jiggy. She said energy, so I threw my hands in the air like I just didn't care. I shook it like a Polaroid picture. Or tried to.

I felt like a total fool. All my self-consciousness was back. I tried some hip-hop moves like Fergie did in her videos, but I had a feeling I wasn't pulling it off.

Uh-oh. Was I on the beat?

The music stopped. Well, that was a disaster. I opened my eyes. She was smiling from ear to ear. “Perfect. Great job.” That was unexpected. I thought I'd sucked.

Hmmm. Maybe I was better than I thought.

 

Nobody was home. I was in Brynn's room. I looked in her drawers, under the piles of clothes on the floor, all over her closet, in her suitcase. The last place I looked was under the bed.

And that's when I felt it. She pulled my hair. I hadn't even heard her come in. The pain was blinding. “Ow!” I screamed, grabbing my head. “Owowow, let go!”

She did. “What are you doing, going through my stuff?”

“Looking for my book.” My head was throbbing. I wanted to cry. But no way was I gonna give her that satisfaction.

“I didn't take your friggin' book. Now get outta my room.”

She didn't have to tell me twice. The door slammed behind me. Then I heard her throwing things and cursing. I had to get out of here. As fast as I could, I threw on my sports bra and running sneakers. I had one foot out the door when I heard a sniff coming from Brynn's room.

That wasn't what stopped me. I'd heard her sniffing in there lots of times. What stopped me was that it was a different kind of sniff. It was the kind of sniff that came with a sob. Brynn was crying.

I couldn't picture it. Crying was so…weak, so not Brynn.

I was torn. I had such an urge to get the hell away from her. I mean, she'd just attacked me. My head still hurt. But hearing her cry did something to me. I knocked on her door.

“Screw off!” she sobbed. I opened it anyway. Brynn was crumpled on the floor, hugging her knees and rocking, crying softly into a tissue. She looked like a little kid, a scared little kid. Nothing like the tough Brynn I knew.

It weirded me out, completely.

If I tried to comfort her, would she pull my hair again? Throw something at me? I couldn't just keep standing there, watching her cry. So, even though it was awkward, I got down on the floor and kinda half-hugged her, until she stopped crying. She smelled terrible, like cigarettes, sweat, and bad breath. I asked her what was wrong, but she didn't tell me. She just said, “Nothing.” Her gravelly voice, usually so loud and strong, was shaky and small. “I'm okay.”

She was so not okay. In fact, she kinda grossed me out, to tell you the truth. I still wanted to haul butt outta there, believe me, but at the same time, I felt sorry for her, I really did.

Because she was messed up and she knew it.

 

Summer and I walked into the agency at the same time as Monique. She was looking a little Harajuku Girl today with her para-Asian features and a pink headband over black blunt bangs, but also a little bit Austin Powers in a pink pantsuit and ruffled blouse. “Allee! Summer!” she cried, and earnestly tried to stretch her swollen balloon lips into a smile. She took off her sunglasses to get a better look at us. And I let out a yelp. She must have been in a fire. Her eyes did that half-sleepy, half-disgusted Garfield thing. “It's from a chemical peel. Bad reaction.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You always look beautiful,” Summer said all convincingly. She really was a good actress.

“You'll know about peels someday,” Monique said, and pointed at some models lounging on the mint green couches. “You all will.” They cringed, terrified. She turned to Bonnie, the receptionist. “Get me an appointment with Anushka. And tell her that bleach she used on my arm hairs last time gave me a rash.” She turned back to Summer and me. “Make sure you check in with Momma. She's got good news for both of you.” We watched her do a runway walk to her office.

“Girls, girls, girls,” Momma said when we walked in.

Kate was talking into her headset. “Three hundred quid for head shots and the photographer didn't tell you to trim your nose hairs? You look like you're wearing bloody nose-hair extensions. You've gone off your rails if you think we can use these pictures. They're rubbish.”

“Hey, Momma,” Summer said, kissing her. “What's the good news?”

“You're both on first refusal for that national, the Taboo energy drink!” Momma said.

“That's great!” I shouted.

“Both of us?” Summer asked, brightening. “Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit, Allee. We're up against each other again.”

She might as well have said, “Start your engines.” I felt my competitive juices flowing. “We sure are,” I said, gritting my teeth in a grin.

“Can't you wax all that hair out?” Kate asked. “Bollocks, it hurts. So what if it hurts? Use a buzzer, then.”

“I just put all the info on your charts,” Momma said. “Summer, Otto catalog wants you on the same day, but I told Dimitri just to give them a second option, because this is for a lot more money.”

“Thanks, thank you so much for sending me on that casting,” Summer said, hugging Momma. “You're the best agent in the world,” she gushed. She was such a suck-up to the agents. She was always bringing them little gifts and thanking them for every casting, every job. Then the minute she left the agency, she complained they didn't do enough for her. She blew Momma a kiss. “I gotta check in with Dimitri. Fingers crossed! Love ya!”

“I better check in with him too,” I told Momma. “Thanks, you guys.”

“Wait, Allee, we have to talk to you,” Kate said, taking off her headset.

“It's about Brynn,” Momma said. “Sit down.” I sat. “She was supposed to be on location at six today for a sunrise shot. She was late a half hour, the sun had risen, and the client had a stroke over it. He wouldn't sign her voucher and he won't pay the cancellation fee.”

“That sounds bad.”

“That's not the half of it. Then her boyfriend showed up and they got into a nasty fight in front of the client.”

“The crew said she reeked of alcohol and her hair was dirty,” said Kate. “This is the second job she's been late to, and she's missed castings.”

I kept quiet. I'd seen Brynn go to bookings drunk, but she managed to pull through and get the job done. Besides, what did they want from me? I wasn't the girl's mother.

Momma continued, “I've already talked to her, put her on probation, but I don't think it took. You know how much I care about all my girls. I love Brynn. Kate and I think she's got potential to be a big moneymaker. Dimitri does too. But she better stop partying so much and get off the drugs or she's done. I've seen it happen a thousand times.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” I wanted to know.

“We'd like you to talk to her,” Kate said. “We've already tried. We think she'll listen to you.”

“She won't listen to me. She doesn't listen to anybody.”

“You're very together,” Momma said. “And you're almost the same age. You're a good example for her. You're booking jobs now, you're smart, you've got goals with your plans for Yale and everything. You could help her see how much she's hurting herself and her career.”

“I don't know. I mean, why would she take advice from me? She's the experienced one. Maybe Summer could—”

“Just talk to her. Try, mm-kay?”

I nodded. Excuse me. How in hell was I supposed to talk to Brynn about anything? She wouldn't even tell me why she was crying. They were mental if they thought she'd listen to me.

“Thanks,” Momma said as I walked out.

 

I was walking on Miguel's back in the corner of the booking room, watching a model leaving the accounting office with an envelope and a big smile. I happened to know she worked a lot. She was wearing wrinkled sweats, a T-shirt with a hole in it, and a faded baseball cap. There were splotches of dried zit cream all over her chin. If you thought models walked around looking perfect all the time, then you thought wrong. In fact, sometimes the ones who worked the most looked as sloppy as unmade beds when they weren't working, because when a day off came along without stylists and hair and makeup people working on them, they just wanted to sleep late, roll out of bed, and run around with no fuss, no muss. I'd seen girls at the agency in pajama pants and slippers.