Modelland (6 page)

Mrs. De La Crème suddenly started to applaud and Tookie’s stomach dropped. She knew what was to follow. Sure enough, Myrracle spun into the house, followed by her best friend, Brian. Myrracle and Brian bobbed in unison to music only the two of them could hear.

They jumped and spread their feet out, arched their heads back, rolled up through their torsos, and pointed at Tookie and Mrs. De La Crème. Every limb on Myrracle’s body, every joint, moved gracefully and fluidly and with the utmost confidence. It was impossible for anyone, even Tookie, to take their eyes off her. Even though she was thirteen and Tookie was fifteen, she was more womanly than Tookie in every way—she’d even developed faster, getting her period earlier that year. Tookie still hadn’t gotten hers yet.

With a couple more hip rolls and knee dips, Myrracle and Brian slid to the floor with their arms spread out as Myrracle exclaimed, “Da-tahhhh!”

Mrs. De La Crème applauded tepidly. “Myrracle, baby, it’s not
da-tah
—it’s
ta-dah
. And what have I told you? Every hallway is
a runway
, not a dance hall! What you need to be doing is practicing your walk!”

“But I love dancing.” Myrracle pouted.

“Yes, honey. I know. But you don’t love it
better
than becoming an Intoxibella, do you?” Mrs. De La Crème shrieked.

Myrracle looked torn, like she didn’t know how to answer.

“I think dance will help Myrracle on T-DOD.” Brian wrapped his arm around Myrracle’s shoulder. His voice was both feathery and sharp. “Right, doofus?”

“It’s true, Creamy,” Myrracle whined, not noticing Brian’s insult—she usually didn’t. “What I have to do first to prepare is to get my dancing to perfectness-ness. That way, I can pose the best of the rest in a vest and pass the test and be the guest and walk with zest unlest they want me to walk from the east to the west and …” She launched into a tap number.

“Stop it!” Mrs. De La Crème yelled.

“So my baby girl wants to be a professional dancer like her daddy,” boomed a voice from the doorway. “I thought your routine was fantastic.”

In the doorway stood Mr. De La Crème. He was much younger than Tookie’s mother. A stained black unitard cut deeply into his flesh. His once-powerful muscles sagged. He swept across the room, scooped Myrracle up, and spun her around. He closed his left eye, which was made of glass, an unfortunate souvenir of an acrobatic performance gone awry many years ago when he was The Incredible Chris-Crème-Crobat and not just Christopher De La Crème.

“Are you excited, pumpkin?” Mr. De La Crème asked Myrracle, sweeping past Tookie like he didn’t even see her. Usually, he didn’t.

Myrracle lowered her eyes. “I guess. But I’m
frightening
too.”

“Scared?” Brian snorted. “Honey, I didn’t know your li’l ol’ brain
could
be scared. And anyway, girl, they’re gonna choose you for sure.”

“My baby girl, finally walking in The Day of Discovery.” Mr.
De La Crème wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. Indeed, now thirteen years old, Myrracle was finally participating in the grand event. There wasn’t an official minimum age for who could compete during T-DOD, but no one younger than thirteen had ever been chosen.

Then Mr. De La Crème pulled a chair out from the kitchen island. “Sit down, Myrracle, baby. Rest your feet.”

“Oh, Christopher, will you stop smothering her?” Mrs. De La Crème said brusquely. Then she leaned down and brushed a stray hair from Myrracle’s forehead. “My, my. We need to get you to the salon so Perry can do something with those atrocious split ends!”

Mr. De La Crème shot his wife an icy glare. “Woman, how stupid do you think I am? You just want to get her to that damn salon so you can do whatever you do with Perry while Myrracle is under the dryer! I see how you look at him.”

Mrs. De La Crème thrust her nose in the air. “How dare you insult me and accuse me of such filth! And who are you, mister one-eyed ex–circus star who spends his nights boozing?”

Mr. De La Crème roared back, “At least I don’t cheat on your ol—”

“Stop it!” Myrracle whined, and both parents froze. “Back to me, everyone! I’m the most important girl in the room, ’member?” Her voice and face were so adorable that the tension was momentarily forgotten.

Tookie popped another baby gherkin into her mouth, feeling as irrelevant as the bananas in the trash can. She spied the
Peppertown Press
and picked it up, a welcome distraction from being invisible in her own home.

“Give me that, Tookie!” her mother said, snatching it from her
hands. “I haven’t read the paper yet, and you know I cannot stand touching it after anyone else has had their dirty hands on it.” She thumbed through the pages. “Ha! The police are moving in closer on that fugitive baroness!” She read the article aloud: “ ‘Authorities believe the baroness may have fled to Terra BossaNova, although they have no firm proof. They are working with BossaNovian local authorities to track down this evildoer, who has ruined the lives of tens of thousands and scarred the image of the annual Intoxistakes event, in which second-year students travel to Striptown and gamblers bet on which girls will become Intoxibellas upon graduation.’ ” She looked up. “I hope they find that shady wench. We lost most of our savings trusting her!” Then she flipped to the next page. “Oh, look! There’s a sale on teakettles at—”

“Woman!” Mr. De La Crème said through clenched teeth. “You still have a brand-new unused kettle on the stove! And you don’t even drink tea because you say the leaves are dried-up and stale.”

Mrs. De La Crème stared at him. “Tookie, make me some tea.”

Tookie flinched. “B-b-but Creamy, you d-d-don’t like—”

“D-d-duh,” Mrs. De La Crème imitated nastily. “Spit it out!”

Tookie glanced at the floor. For as long as she could remember, the sight and sound of her mother had caused her heart to flutter, her palms to sweat, and her tongue to stammer. Mrs. De La Crème dragged Tookie to every speech pathologist in LaDorno, but the mother-specific stammer could not be cured.

Mrs. De La Crème rolled her eyes, exasperated. “What did I say, Tookie? Make. Me. Some. Tea. Now.”

Tookie shrugged and took the tape off the teakettle’s spout. She placed it under the gushing tap, filled it, and placed it on the stove. Suddenly, a tiny yellowish bubble spewed out of the running
faucet. This wasn’t unusual; off-color water was a common sight in the De La Crème household because of the home’s broken water filters.

Tookie scampered to the cabinet, snatched a mug, and dropped a bag of mint tea into it. Moments later, she ran back to the boiling kettle and relieved it of its howling. She poured the scalding water over the bag and handed the brew to her mother, who scowled at the cup. Mrs. De La Crème defiantly looked over to her husband, then brought the cup to her nose.

“Smelling is not enough, Creamy,” Mr. De La Crème taunted. “Drink it.”

Tookie turned back to the tap. The small yellow bubble began to expand, filling half of the kitchen sink. Then it changed color, from spicy red to soothing blue to emerald-green and, finally, to a plethora of yellows. It was strangely beautiful. Tookie carefully picked up the bubble with her hands. And then, before her eyes, the bubble flattened itself and transformed into cellophane-thin, golden cat’s-eye sunglasses without the frames.

“Oh!” Myrracle screamed, staring at Tookie. “Look!”

Mrs. De La Crème noticed it too, and dropped the teacup from her hand. It crashed to the floor. “Is it … could it
be
?”

“Our ship has come in!” Mr. De La Crème exclaimed.

Tookie looked from her sister, Myrracle, to the true miracle that had taken shape in her hands.

A SMIZE.

Tookie’s body tingled. She was holding a SMIZE in her hands. Her. A Forgetta-Girl.

The SMIZE was made up of ornate eye-shadow-like flourishes in strokes of taxicab-, Dijon-, baby-chick-, banana-, and lemonade-yellow. Thinner than a sheet of paper, it was surprisingly heavy, and seemed to hum ever so slightly as it rested in Tookie’s palms.

Mrs. De La Crème stalked up to Tookie. Mr. De La Crème was in perfect step behind his wife. Brian shoved Myrracle forward and joined the SMIZE parade heading in Tookie’s direction.

“Slowly, Tookie, dear,” Mrs. De La Crème advised. “Hand … it … over.”

Tookie hesitated, then stretched out her arms, feeling a little sad to part with the beautiful membrane. Her arms wobbled. “Careful!” Mr. De La Crème roared. “Don’t want those scraggy twigs of yours dropping our future!”

Tookie’s mother’s breath quickened and her wrinkled face started to turn blue.

Mr. De La Crème patted his wife’s arm. “Calm down, Creamy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Excuse me!” Mrs. De La Crème shot him a look. “I cannot believe your flabby coach-potato ass has the audacity to tell my hardworking firm one that everything will be okay!”

Mrs. De La Crème placed Bellissima on the kitchen counter and scooped both hands into Tookie’s palms. As the SMIZE was pulled away from her, Tookie felt a pang; her moment of being special in some way had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

Mrs. De La Crème brought the SMIZE under an overhead light. Brian, Mr. De La Crème, and Myrracle gathered around and stared. Tookie had to stand on a chair to get a partial view of it. Soon the SMIZE began to shake. Waves of yellow of every shade popped out from all sides.

A miniature flag emblazoned with a SMIZE then deployed from the middle of the object, fluttering in its own mild breeze. Words began to scroll through the air.

Mrs. De La Crème began to read, in a clear, haughty voice: “ ‘Congratulations, De La Crèmes!’ ”

“De La Crèmes? It can see us?” Mr. De La Crème wondered worriedly. He began to flit around the room, removing duct tape from various holes and cracks and tidying as much as he could. “We can’t let them see the place like this!”

Mrs. De La Crème sucked her teeth and shook her head at her
husband before continuing to read the words that floated in the air. “ ‘You hold in your tea-drenched hands the seventh and last Day of Discovery SMIZE. What girls everywhere dream of having! The wearer of this SMIZE has a ninety-one-percent chance of being discovered on The Day of Discovery …’ ”

“Ninety-one-percent chance? Ha!” Mr. De La Crème boasted. “My Myrracle will be batting a thousand!” He hobbled around, throwing out the tea bag, crumpling the newspaper, and crawling on his knees to glue the broken granite tiles back together.

“If you don’t stop,” Mrs. De La Crème said, glaring at him, “I’m going to poke out your other eye.”

“ ‘… which, we are elated to inform you, improves the De La Crème offspring’s chances of fame and fortune. Perhaps you’d be able to rid yourselves of this ramshackle asylum should your spawn reach the pinnacle of success.’ ”

“We’re going to be rich!” Brian yelled.

“We?” Mrs. De La Crème eyed him suspiciously. Then she continued. “ ‘Might I bring your attention to the myriad of golden colors on the SMIZE. When choosing your attire for The Day of Discovery, pay close attention so that your ensemble complements and does not clash with this precious SMIZE specimen. Many of the left-behind nine percent of SMIZE holders during previous Days of Discovery deviated from dashing dress design decisions. You have been warned!’ ”

“Creamy, Creamy! I have the perfect dress!” Myrracle yelped.

Mrs. De La Crème read the last of the air message. “ ‘May your clothes click, your hair shimmer, your face glimmer, and your stride glide.
Bonne chance
, De La Crèmes! And maybe, just maybe, we’ll see you at Modelland.”

A siren blared, and fine print with no spaces between words scrolled almost faster than Mrs. De La Crème could read:

“ ‘Now for the rules: The wearer of the SMIZE must only wear it in the Day of Discovery Square. It must only be worn by a female. Do not inform others that you possess a SMIZE. Although the SMIZE comes from water, do not get it wet.

“ ‘Violation of these rules may cause serious side effects: face-aches, nausea, vomiting, blurry vision, visions of fashion-police brutality, designer knockoffs knocking you upside the head, stinging bees in your hair bonnet, biting wolves in cheap clothing.’ ”

The words disappeared, the colored ribbons and the flag retreated, and the SMIZE let out what sounded like a contented sigh.

Tookie turned and stared at Myrracle, whose cheeks were pink with pleasure. So it was really happening. Myrracle was really going to walk on The Day of Discovery, that mysterious, elusive, galvanizing event that had driven everyone into frenzied mania.

Tookie knew she shouldn’t be surprised—her parents had talked of little else all year. On the chalkboard in the corner of the kitchen was a training schedule, listing the times and dates for Myrracle’s walking, posing, facial expression, pouting, and phonics classes. Trophies from Myrracle’s dance competition victories crowded the mantel in the den. Eight crowns hung from hooks on the wall in Myrracle and Tookie’s shared bedroom, each saying
THE MOVER OF METOPIA
in glittery letters across the front. Myrracle had won the Mover of Metopia contest every year she’d competed—it had become so predictable that few in Metopia even bothered entering anymore.

But still, Tookie felt like this moment had snuck up on her. With the SMIZE’s help, Myrracle was almost sure to go to
Modelland, that misty, spooky, mysterious place atop the mountain. What actually
happened
there?

“So, listen up—on The Day of Discovery, we’ll take Myrracle to the city square very, very early in the morning to get her ready,” Mrs. De La Crème was saying to the group. She started counting things off on her fingers. “It will be me, your father, Tookie …”

“M-me?” Tookie interrupted, so startled that she straightened to her full six feet. “Wh-why do you need me?”

“Yeah, why does
she
have to come?” Myrracle wrinkled her nose, looking slightly … 
jealous
. Suddenly, a tiny flutter of hope rose in Tookie’s chest. Was it possible her parents wanted her to walk too?

Mrs. De La Crème sank into one hip. “Isn’t it obvious? We need your baby fingers to fasten the buttons and zippers on Myrracle’s dress. And to get my baby gherkins out of the jar for me while she’s walking. You know my gherkins calm me down when I’m nervous.”