Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (11 page)

“Outside of school.” This time I was the one doing the repeating.

“Yeah.” She stood up straight and smoothed her skirt, then gazed into the mirror behind me and patted her hair.

“But we are—were—are best friends,” I said.
Lame!
I shouted at myself. It sounded desperate.

“We are,” Sandra said, still looking in the mirror. “Best friends—outside of school.” Her eyes flicked to mine for a split second, then darted away again.

“Outside of school,” I said again.
Now I know how Uncle Chuck feels around Aunt Doreen.

“Yeah. Look, it’s easier that way. I have to get back to social studies before the bell rings. Robbie might want to talk to me. We’ll catch up later, okay?”

Easier that way? Throwing your clothes on the floor instead of hanging them up is
easier
? Did she really say that?!

I nodded, but I doubt she saw. The door banged open, and she didn’t even give me another glance. I slumped against the wall.

Funny, I didn’t know that a “best friend” was supposed to make you feel this miserable.
This is what Theo Christmas means when he sings, “My heart is so dark, you’re all I can see in the mirror,”
Red Bathing Suit Woman muttered, her voice bitter.

Thanks for the insight,
I retorted.

THE ONLY GOOD thing about the BBQ Day Incident was that it completely made me forget about Miss HuskyPeach. I trudged through the rest of that day enveloped in a cloud of numbness that covered me like a blanket since the bathroom. I kept hearing Sandra saying, “We can be best friends—outside of school” over and over in my head. Every pound of the Negative Twenty clung to my heart.

I couldn’t even explain what happened to Millie. When I got back to science, I just shook my head. Something in my face told her not to ask questions.

The cloud followed me on my walk home, all the way to my front door. Downstairs there was no sign of Mom.

“Celeste, I have something for you to see,” she called from the second floor. I went up, listening to Sandra and puffing the whole way.

Mom perched on the foot of my bed, a big bag at her feet and a pile of clothes covering my comforter. Was Theo Christmas smirking from the poster?

“What’s all this?” I asked, and slid my backpack to the floor. I wasn’t interested, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
“Best friends—outside of school,”
Sandra murmured as an answer.

Mom’s smile was as wide as our couch. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been making some healthy choices these days. I’m really impressed with how well you’ve been eating. So, as a treat, I went shopping for you. Plus, you should have something new to wear to the city tomorrow, something fun.”

A flood rushed through my body, washing away the Cloud of Numbness and replacing it with a Glacier of Terror. My hands tingled and I shivered. The Miss HuskyPeach interview and photo shoot were the next day.

“Oh,” I said, fighting instant panic. “You didn’t have to do that. I thought I’d just wear, you know, this.” I gestured at my track pants and hoodie.

Mom laughed. “You’re too much. Here—go try this on,” she said, handing me a purple and black bundle of cloth. “It’ll be our own private fashion show.”

There was no use arguing. Once the card was mailed in, my fate was sealed. It was easier to pretend like the day would never come, while eating salads and apples just in case it did. And now it had.
At least no one knows,
I thought.
At least I never told Sandra.
It was a small reassurance.

I changed in the bathroom. The outfit consisted of flowy black pants and a purple scoop-necked shirt with wide sleeves. The pants fit okay, but the shirt’s sleeves belled out at the wrist and I couldn’t figure out what to do with my arms. I settled on holding them out to the side, so they looked like wings.

“That’s classy,” Mom teased when I came into the room. I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Classy? I don’t think that’s what we should be going for.” From his perch on my wall, Theo agreed.

She stuck her tongue out. “Here’s another one,” she said, tossing a green shirt at me.

“Too tight,” she said when I returned. It transformed my belly into an inner tube. Had Operation Skinny Celeste even touched the Negative Twenty?

HuskyPeach, here I come,
I thought.

And that’s how it went: I tried stuff on, she commented. We finally settled on the black pants and an orange wrap-style top with a black tank thing underneath. Well, Mom settled. Even though I told her I felt like a pumpkin, she insisted it looked the best on me. I was too tired to argue. Even Theo was worn out, drooping over his guitar and wearing a tired smile.

I spent the rest of the evening in a mental tug-of-war: worry a little about Sandra, a little about the HuskyPeach. Exhausted and stressed out, I barely picked at dinner after not eating any lunch.

Well,
I thought,
at least I don’t have to worry about writing anything in the food log tonight.

 

The next morning, Saturday, I took so long getting ready that Mom ended up sitting in the car and honking the horn to get me out of the house. Dad and Ben stood at the foot of the stairs, cheering and hooting as I came out of my room.

“There’s our beauty queen!” Dad called.

“Whooo!” shouted Ben, clapping. He jumped and gave me a high five as I passed by, then banged his elbow on the banister.

After we got the ice pack, they cheered the whole way to the car. In spite of my nerves, I smiled.

“Just be yourself,” Dad yelled as we pulled away. “They’ll love you!”

That’s what I’m afraid of,
I thought. But it gave me an idea.

 

There was a big sign welcoming the First Annual Northern California Regional PeachWear Modeling Challenge Contestants hung above the company’s main door.

Please don’t let anyone I know see me going in,
I thought.

“Here we go,” Mom said, parking the car in the lot across the street. My stomach dropped to my knees. When she said, “Just do your best, sweetheart. That’s all we expect,” I felt even worse.

Inside, skinny women wearing tiny black dresses and gold name tags shuttled us up to the fourth-floor office suite where the interview and photo shoot would take place. There were about a dozen other moms and girls crammed into a conference room. A table, pushed against the far wall, held two platters of cookies and brownies, plus bowls of chips and salsa. Most of the moms were busy primping their daughters: spritzing, patting, blotting, straightening, smoothing, and buzzing last-minute instructions in their ears.

The girls eyed one another like cats do before they fight, and chewed their snacks. Some were larger than me, but all of us had the same basic shape: round, round, round. A surprise: They were pretty. All of them. Not drop-dead gorgeous, mind you, but they all had nice features, in spite of their roundness. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen this many pretty girls together in one place in my life. Why was
I
here? One girl wore the purple shirt I tried on the day before. She didn’t know what to do with the sleeves either. I smiled at her, but her mother scooted her away.

Mom and I stepped away from the door as it opened. A thin red-haired woman came in alone. She wore a charcoal-colored business suit and the largest diamond ring that I’d ever seen. Its sparkle would blind Lively and her groupies for sure.
Or show Sandra how fake those girls are,
I thought.

“Welcome to PeachWear, and thank you for coming,” she said. The buzz stopped. “I’m Patricia Markowitz, vice president of marketing for PeachWear. We’re so glad you joined us today.” A murmur slid around the room.

“You are a very special group. Our judges hand-selected you to be here because they feel that you have the qualities that PeachWear represents. Out of two hundred and fifty applicants, you twelve were selected to represent us.” She paused to let the number sink in. In spite of what I was there for, I was impressed. I’d never been picked for anything, and they’d received a lot of applications. Mom must’ve thought so too, because she squeezed my shoulder and gave me a smile.

“This is our first year conducting the challenge, and we wanted to make sure the contestants were the very best of the bunch. We’re looking for girls who are bright, bubbly, and enthusiastic about living life to the fullest.” She smiled at the crowd. “Our models have an appetite for life, and—”

“—our goal is to show that to the world.

“Now, please let me introduce the Modeling Challenge Coordinators. You’ll be working closely with them over the next couple of weeks. Erika Snee, PeachWear’s Northern California Marketing Director—”

The door opened and one of the skinny women in black entered to courtesy claps.

“I’m sure you are all familiar with our celebrity coordinator and former HuskyPeach model,” Patricia continued, “Violet Page.” The polite claps grew into real applause, and a couple of the girls whistled and jumped up and down. The floor shook.

“Who is she?” Mom whispered in my ear.

“Dunno.
Where
is she?” I whispered back. The door remained closed. The applause and cheers died down. Patricia did not look happy. She whispered something to Erika, who seemed less happy that Patricia, and who then left the room. Patricia offered us a brittle smile. “I’m sure she’ll be with us in a moment.”

A few seconds later, the door did open. The applause started again, accompanied by squeals and hoots. Erika slipped back into the room, followed by a woman who had to be Violet Page. She was super tall, had long honey-colored hair, wide gray eyes framed by long lashes, and perfect skin. Violet Page was not skinny. Although not as round as some of the contestants, she was definitely what you’d call “husky.” And she was beautiful.

Mom, never concerned about embarrassing herself, tugged on the sleeve of the woman standing next to her who was applauding with enthusiasm. “Excuse me,” Mom said in response to the woman’s dirty look, “can you tell me who Violet Page is?”

The woman blinked and stopped clapping. “Are you kidding?” When Mom shook her head, she continued. “Only the most famous plus-sized model in the world. And she’s going to be launching my—I mean,
our
—daughters’ careers.”

THAT’S
WHO PAUL was talking about at dinner!

Before I could get any further into my thoughts, Erika broke the twelve contestants into groups of four for our interviews and photo shoots. She said over and over again that they wanted us to be “bubbly and engaging” during our conversations. One group would interview first, while the other two would start with the photos.
Kind of like gym class,
I thought. That was quickly followed by a memory of Yurk Fest, which I pushed away.
No need to replace anyone else’s shoes.
(Coach Anapoli’s gift card was still wedged in the bottom of my backpack.) But I would make things difficult, and if the plan I thought of on the ride up worked, there’d be no need for me to come back for round two—no matter what Mom said.

I was in the first-round interview group, along with the daughter of the woman who told us who Violet Page was, the girl in the purple bell-sleeved shirt, and a chunky Asian girl. One of the women in black led our moms and us down a hall to another conference room. “You’ll wait in here, and each contestant will be interviewed in the next room,” she said, standing outside the conference room.

“Alone?” Violet Page Explainer Mom asked.

The guide nodded. This was not the response VPE Mom wanted. She argued with our escort, explaining she needed to support her bay-be.
Sounds like Aunt Doreen,
I thought. Her curly-haired daughter stood to the side, studying the carpet. The rest of us filed past them into the room. Our guide closed the door, remaining in the hall to deal with VPE Mom.

Mom nudged me. “Isn’t this exciting,” she said, turning her head to take in the scene. I shrugged.

We sat at a small table (also holding snacks)—
how much do they want us to eat?
—and waited. Across from us sat the purple-shirt daughter and her mother; the other contestant sat at the far end of the table. The ones across from us had the same pear shape, light brown hair, and button noses. They were also wearing enough makeup to cover the faces on Mount Rushmore.

“Just remember what we talked about, honey. Answer everything with a smile and don’t forget to tell them about your volunteer work at the hospital and the time you had your picture in the newspaper.”

“I won’t,” the girl said, a tinge of irritation in her voice. She shifted in her seat every few seconds, trying not to wrinkle the sleeves on her awkward shirt. When her mom turned away, she rolled her eyes at me and smirked over her mother’s behavior. I smiled.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hi,” I responded.

“Ashley, listen to me,” her mother cut us off. “This is very important. This is your future we’re talking about. How are you going to win with that attitude?” And on and on and on, while Ashley fumed.

So glad my mom didn’t try to coach me,
I thought. I turned to give her a grateful smile, and caught the alarmed expression on her face.
Guess she doesn’t feel that way.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” she said in a low voice, so as not to disturb Ashley’s mother. (Truthfully, an explosion probably wouldn’t have disturbed that woman. She was still telling Ashley not to forget the dog show, Honors Algebra, and Girl Scouts.)

I nodded. “I’m good. Don’t worry.”

Mom shook her head. “I won’t. Just remember how proud of you we are.” She raised her head to glance around the room. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves,” she said, putting a cheerful tone in her voice. “Seeing that we’re going to be in this together today.” The other mothers shifted in their seats.