Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (12 page)

They take this pretty seriously,
Red Bathing Suit Woman whispered to me.
They should relax.

After a few more seconds of uncomfortable silence, the Asian girl—who had long, enviable hair that flowed to her butt—spoke.

“I’m Gail Wu,” she started, her voice low and unsure. “I’m a freshman at Pally High, and—”

“Don’t forget to tell them what year you are in school,” Ashley’s mother interrupted to remind her daughter. Gail slumped in her seat. Gail’s mother, a birdlike woman who made Aunt Doreen look like a HuskyPeach, glared at the other mom.

“Mom!” Ashley of the Awkward-Sleeved Shirt chided. “That is so rude! I’m sorry,” she directed to Gail, who straightened up again. She introduced herself, then went on, “I’m a sophomore at East. You’re . . .” She turned to me.

“Celeste,” I said, shy around these older girls. “Eighth grade at AlHo.” If Gail and Ashley were surprised to be in a group with someone younger than them, they didn’t show it.

The door opened, and VPE Mom and her daughter, the blond girl who stared at the floor and seemed about sixteen, came into the room, followed by our now frazzled-looking guide.

“Ashley Freeman,” she said, like the nurse at the doctor’s office. “The interview team is ready for you now.”

As Ashley slid back from the table, her mother’s chatter became even faster. “Don’t-forget-about-honors-block-and-color-guard-and-how-much-you-love-animals-and—” The click of the closing door cut her off. She slumped in her chair and turned to my mom.

“I just want her to do well,” she said, like it was an apology. Mom nodded.

“I know.”

“I mean, it’s just a regional competition, but it could lead to bigger things.” My mom nodded again. At the end of the table, Mrs. Wu fiddled with Gail’s hair clip.

VPE Mom took her daughter to the corner of the room, where they huddled. Based on their body language, they were planning a high-risk, dangerous mission. The rest of us sat in near silence for the ten minutes Ashley was out. At one point, her mom eyed the brownies.

“Have one,” my mom said, sliding the tray in her direction.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she replied, patting her belly. “Got to watch those calories.”

Somehow, I think I was the only one who found that funny.

Everyone jumped when Ashley returned. Gail let out a surprised squeak. Ashley’s mother sprang from her chair and crossed the room. “How was it?” she asked, gripping her daughter’s upper arms. Ashley shrugged, but I didn’t get to hear her response.

“Celeste Harris,” the escort said.

My stomach dropped in a scary reminder of Yurk Fest. I was glad I hadn’t eaten any of the snacks.

“The team is ready for you now.”

Mom squeezed my hand. I was glad she did. Time to put my plan into action.

Bubbly and engaging,
I coached myself.
Just
don’t
be “bubbly and engaging.”

THE “TEAM” CONSISTED of Erika and Violet, and the conference room they were parked in was a mirror of the one next door. Only instead of snacks on the table, Erika and Violet had piles of paper in front of them. Well, Erika had a pile of paper in front of her. Violet was filing her nails.

“Ms. Harris, have a seat,” Erika said, after offering me her hand to shake. It was cold and bony. Violet only smiled. Up close, I could see that she was young—maybe twenty. She was prettier than Lively by far—and just as pretty as Kirsten and Kathleen, even though she was big. Violet returned to her filing.

I sat.

“Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself,” Erika said, reading from a sheet. She shuffled her papers and waited for me to begin.

This is it; no going back now.
I took a deep breath.

“I’m thirteen and in eighth grade.” I bit my tongue to keep from saying more.

They waited. After a few seconds, Erika raised an eyebrow. Violet paid no attention.

“Is there anything else you’d like to add, Ms. Harris?” Erika asked.

“No, thank you. That’s all.”
No reason to be impolite.

Erika shifted in her seat. “Let’s try another one. I think you need to get warmed up,” she said. She scanned her list for another question. “Tell us about school. What subjects do you like?”

“Language Arts,” I replied. “I read a lot.”

“What do you like to read?” Erika asked.

“Well,” I said, trying to decide how to be nice but not
too
nice, “we just finished reading
The Lord of the Flies
. I kind of liked the gory parts.”

It seemed that Erika didn’t have a prepared response to that answer. She shuffled her papers. After a moment, she tried again. “Do you participate in any activities?”

“Not really. I don’t play any sports,” I said, “and the last time we ran in gym class I yurked on my teacher’s shoes.”
Where did
that
come from?
I thought. I hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“Yurked?” Erika asked, her face scrunching into the question.

“Um, I think it’s like ‘barf,’ right, Celeste?” Violet said, the corners of her mouth twitching to avoid a smile. I nodded, my face hot. Erika looked as though she’d just bitten into a lemon.

“Whom do you most admire?” she said, probably trying to find a “safe” question on her list.

I considered my options—my mom, presidents, world leaders.
That’s what a good HuskyPeach would say.

“Theo Christmas,” I responded, satisfied with my unusual choice. Violet dropped her nail file. I glanced at her. Was she blushing?

“That singer? Who plays guitar?” Erika squeaked.

I gave a strong nod.

“Why him?” Violet asked, leaning over the table.

“Why not?” I responded, an unintentional edge in my voice.

“Urm. Okay, then. What made you want to be a HuskyPeach model?” Erika read, moving on. She gave me a wide, fake smile.

“I don’t really know how to answer that,” I said, telling the truth. They waited.

Violet, whose color was back to normal—had I imagined that blush?—sat straighter. “Maybe we should be asking Celeste
who
made her want to be a HuskyPeach model.” She raised an eyebrow.

“That’s ridiculous,” Erika snapped at Violet. “You can’t talk to contestants that way. She’s just nervous. Right, Celeste? It’s okay,” she said, maybe trying to convince herself.

“Actually, my aunt entered me in the contest,” I said, telling more truths. Well, kind of. Violet’s smile widened. Erika ignored my answer.

“We’ll ask another question.”

Erika read from her paper: “The HuskyPeach wants girls to express their true identity and embrace life. Can you give an example of how you show your true self to the world?” She smiled. “Who are you, Celeste? Who are you, really?”

Honesty is definitely the best policy in those situations.

“I have no idea,” I said.

Violet laughed so hard, milk would have come out her nose if she were drinking some. Erika grimaced and gritted her teeth.

“That’s great,” Violet said, chuckling. Erika’s glare would’ve wilted plants.

“I’m not sure that’s the response we’re looking for,” she protested. She did a good job of keeping her voice even, but the crumpled paper in her hands and the vein throbbing in her temple gave away her real feelings.

“Oh, whatever, Erika. She’s being honest. I bet she’s the only one we see today who doesn’t rattle off some fake prepared answers to these questions.” Violet rolled her eyes and moved her arm as though waving off the other contestants.

I sat there and struggled with my Mask of Innocence—trying not to laugh with Violet. Later, when I had time to think about the day, I’d probably feel bad about some of my answers, but right then I was enjoying myself.
Take that, Aunt Doreen,
I thought. And, even though she had nothing to do with the situation,
Take that, Lively. And Sandra
(for good measure).

“Oh look, our time’s up,” Erika said, relief visible on her face. The vein even stopped pulsing. “Thank you for coming in. You may go back to the conference room and wait for the next segment of the Challenge.” She recited her memorized speech quickly.

“How’d it go?” Mom asked when I closed the door behind me. Bay-be, the curly-haired blond girl, slipped out for her interview. Her mother started pacing.

“Depends on who you ask,” I said. Then I finally laughed.

ONCE EVERYONE HAD been interviewed, Frazzled Guide led us down to the photo shoot, which was on the third floor. VPE Mom trailed two steps behind her the whole way, asking questions to make sure that she wouldn’t be separated from her bay-be for the rest of the contest. Her daughter followed, eyes glued to the ground.

Ashley and Gail fell into step beside me.

“How’d it go,” Ashley spoke under her breath. Her mother was in front of us.

“I didn’t say much,” I replied, still telling the truth. “It wasn’t my idea to do this.”

Ashley nodded. “I know what you mean. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but now . . .” She trailed off. Her mother, suddenly aware that Ashley wasn’t by her side, encouraged her to keep up.

Gail shook her head. “My mom is just as terrified as I am,” she said, watching Ashley’s mother pilot Ashley down the hall and away from us. “But I’m glad she’s not like
that
.” She said the last part in a whisper. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

We entered a large room with a gray sheet (we were told it’s called a backdrop) hanging in front of one wall. Giant lights stood on spider legs in a semicircle in front of it. A plain box about chair height was planted in between the lights and the sheet.

That was the only empty spot in the whole space. Behind the lights, people scurried in all directions: barking orders, calling names, moving parents, and arranging contestants. Girls perched in folding canvas chairs were being primped, smoothed, spritzed, and blotted by skinny people wearing white smocks to cover their black clothes (too much primping, smoothing, spritzing, and blotting was going on, in my opinion). And, of course, the table of snacks stood in the corner.
Do they move them from room to room?
My belly rumbled.
Do snacks at the modeling challenge count against Operation Skinny Celeste?
I edged toward the brownies.

Do you really want to find out if they do?
Red Bathing Suit Woman answered. I ignored her, heading for the tray.

Frazzled Guide addressed our group, foiling my Subtle Brownie Maneuver. “Each contestant will be assigned a stylist to do a final prep for the shoot. When your name is called, you will move to the set for your photo series. The photographer will give you specific instructions regarding poses at that time.” She kept an eye on VPE Mom. “Do you have any questions?”

VPE Mom didn’t disappoint. “Will we be able to make suggestions to the stylist? My bay-be has very difficult hair.” Our group turned to Bay-be. Seemed curly, blond, and uncomplicated to me. The girl flushed scarlet and stared at the floor.

“The stylists are just here to freshen the girls,” Frazzled Guide responded, through clenched teeth. “They will not change their existing hair or makeup unless absolutely necessary. Each stylist spends only ten minutes with his or her contestant. You may,” she added, “give the stylist suggestions if you wish.” She gave VPE Mom a tight smile.

A few minutes later, I met my stylist. Christian was short, had bleached blond hair, and held a round brush like a magic wand in one hand and a giant espresso in the other. He pecked my mom on the cheek and stepped back to take me in.

“Love the wrap shirt,” he said. Mom beamed. “Great choice. It defines your waist and the color wakes you right up.” As he spoke, he hustled me to a canvas chair. “Let’s see. No makeup on you today. Do you ever wear makeup?” He barely waited for me to shake my head. “I can tell.” He winked.

As much as I didn’t want to like someone called a “stylist,” I liked Christian. He wasn’t reading from a script. Unlike Erika, he made me feel comfortable, and he darted around his station like a honey bee in a flower shop—only twice as fast and with triple the caffeine.

“Okay,” he said, addressing both me and my mom, “you have great skin. I’m not going to spackle you or make you look like someone you’re not, so don’t worry.”

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he said that. I exhaled.

“So what are you going to do?” Mom asked.

He rummaged in a big box next to me, sorting through tubes, bottles, compacts, and pots until he found what he was looking for: a big pouffy makeup brush.

“Enhance,” he said with another wink. “That’s all she needs.”

With that, I opened, closed, pursed, raised, kissed, and turned whenever he told me to. Then he juggled his Round Brush of Magic, a blow dryer, and a bottle of hairspray. What seemed like a blast and a squirt later, he announced, “You’re done.”

He stepped aside, and Mom got a good look at me. Her hands flew to her face. “Oh!” was all she said.

Just like that day in Angelique’s,
I thought. Fear seeped through me. I don’t know what expression was on my face, but it couldn’t have been good. Christian rushed to my side.

“Trust me, you look great,” he said in my ear, and handed me a mirror. “She’s a little surprised, that’s all.”

I was afraid to look. Christian gave me an encouraging nod. I took a deep breath, and then raised the mirror.

That’s me?
I almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair surrounded my face in a soft wave. My eyes were as large as those spotlights they use for movie premiers, but framed by long lashes and lightly shadowed lids. Somehow, Christian even got them to sparkle like Mom’s. Instead of their normal shade of Embarrassed Red, my cheeks were rosy, pale pink. Same with my lips. The whole effect was incredible. Celeste the Cow, Spew, Fat Girl—all of those people were gone. A new Celeste—Celeste the Model—was in the chair.
This
girl wouldn’t throw up on her gym teacher’s shoes. Or let Lively Carson steal her best friend. I could get to like this girl.