Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (18 page)

The stage entrance was to our right. Violet appeared, wearing a silver evening gown that hugged every one of her ample curves.
How had she changed so quickly?
Her gray eyes reflected green in the light, and her flawless skin glowed. She smiled in our direction, then stepped up to the runway.

Ashley gripped my arm. “She’s gorgeous!” she whispered. Her voice was so light and airy, I almost didn’t hear her. I glanced at her: eyes wide, face slack, she was locked on to Violet Page like a missile to its target.

And she was. Violet the Model was nothing like the almost-bored, always-flaky judge from the previous session. This person was focused, direct, and sexy. She walked with a determined stride, peering at the audience from under narrowed lids. She kept her mouth pursed for the trip to the end of the runway. Mid-spin, she paused and flashed a dazzling smile. It was then that I realized: Her looks were only part of what made Violet beautiful. Confidence took care of the rest.

“Whoa,” Ashley said as Violet returned, cheeks flushed and still beaming.

“Amazing,” I agreed.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” said Gail. Her plump cheeks darkened. For those few minutes, I hadn’t even been thinking about my turn. Anxiety tightened its coil in my middle.

“You’ll be okay,” said Ashley, sounding nervous too. At least she was trying to make Gail feel better. My tongue was cemented to the roof of my mouth.

The announcer came on again.

“Our first group is modeling our line of Occasions formalwear. Perfect for weddings, proms, or other social events, these fanciful frocks make any gathering festive.”

Frazzled Guide gave Gail a shove toward the stage. The warehouse lights wouldn’t go down, so the runway and audience were clearly visible. When Violet was up there, she was so magnetic, I hadn’t even noticed. It took both me and Gail about the same amount of time to realize that this was a bad, bad thing. Onstage, everyone could see us, and we could see them. She stepped out, then froze, staring at the crowd.

“Gail, go!” hissed our guide. “Move it. Now!” Gail blinked when she heard her name, then bolted down the runway.
So
not like Violet. Her chest heaved with the effort of moving at high speed. I could sympathize. At the end of the ramp, she spun faster than a washing machine—so quick, even Frazzled Guide reacted slowly. She pushed Ashley up the stairs as Gail was on her way back. She passed me, shaking and sweating. I don’t even think she remembered I was there.

Ashley, ever Mommy’s pageant darling, walked slower than Gail, but she was nervous too. Her expression consisted of the biggest, fakest smile I’d ever seen, and every two steps she’d bring her right hand to her mouth, chew her nails, then drop the hand back to her side, giving her nerves away. Then it would happen again. After watching Violet’s walk, I could imagine what her mom would say on the ride home. By the time she made her spin, I felt so sorry for her, I forgot I was next. And I forgot to worry about the dress.

“Go!” A shove and I was onstage.

I tried to smile, but all I could manage was a weak lift of the corners of my mouth. I spotted Christian in the audience, who gave me a big thumbs-up. Next, I saw Mom. She waved her arms like crazy. I couldn’t even blink, I was so freaked out. Ashley and I passed each other—I caught her wide, terrified smile—and I made it down the runway and through my turn at the end. I grinned at the achievement.

Almost done, almost done,
I thought, relieved that I hadn’t tripped or fallen. I too had given up hope of re-creating Violet’s walk.
At least I don’t have to do anything on purpose to lose this round. I probably look like a toy soldier.
My arms stayed stuck to my sides. My face was as wooden as Pinocchio’s.

The next contestant, Bay-be—Violet Page Explainer Mom’s daughter—was about to pass me. She offered the crowd a huge smile and walked with her head up and shoulders back, just like Violet.

How is she so—
but I didn’t get to finish my thought.

Over the heavy dance music came a shout, loud and clear: “Look out!”

I stopped and tilted my head to the rafters and conveyor belts. A big brown box was plummeting straight toward me. Without thinking, I threw my arms over my head for protection.

The binder clip popped.

The tape tore.

The dress came down.

For a split second, I was aware of a breeze across my now-exposed top, then the box crashed onto my head, knocking me to the floor. It ripped, contents flying everywhere—bras.

Of course,
I had time to think, just before I lost consciousness.

ALTHOUGH I
WANTED
to die after the Top-Dropping Bra Bombing, I didn’t. I wasn’t even unconscious for long. As a matter of fact, the doctor said that I didn’t even have a concussion. Unfortunately, I am sturdier than my little brother. Wrapping my head in my arms had protected me from harm, but not embarrassment. When I came to, I was face up in a pile of black lace Night Vixen double Ds.

The short version of what followed: humiliating transportation to the PeachWear offices, where I insisted on changing into my own clothes and they begged us not to sue; a trip to the emergency room, where at least four doctors and nurses asked why a box of bras had fallen on my head; and a long ride home during which Mom tried to explain that no one saw my “assets” because I was facing the stage, not the audience.

“And besides,” she said, “they were too busy watching the box fall to notice anything else.”

That did not make me feel better.

“I’m done,” I told her, wincing and holding an ice pack to my head. “No more HuskyPeach for me. I’m not going back.” I swiped at tears of anger and embarrassment. My head was killing me, I’d just flashed tons of people, and I hadn’t eaten an Oreo in a month. Even Red Bathing Suit Woman knew enough to keep quiet.

When we got home, I went straight upstairs, passing a very confused-looking Dad and Ben in the kitchen.

“Why are you crying?” Ben called after me. “Did they do your hair wrong?”

There was no need for that.

“Because everything’s awful—including you!” I shouted, pounding upstairs to my room.

I threw myself on the bed and cried into my pillow. I wept over the Bra Bombing, flashing everyone, and the whole horrible day. Big tears darkened my pillowcase.
Even my tears are fat,
I thought, followed by,
Why does Theo have to see me like this?
He politely stared over my head, ignoring my outburst. For some reason, this made me sob more. I had been trying so hard, and nothing worked out right.
I can’t even lose the contest the way I want to
. Giving up cookies, eating salad for lunch, walking—those things hadn’t made much difference. I was still fat enough to be a HuskyPeach, still best-friendless, still embarrassed, and still discouraged. I didn’t even care what my tears were doing to Christian’s magic makeup job, I just shuddered and sniffled snot.

When I finally stopped, my pillow was soaked, my makeup was smeared, and I was exhausted. It felt as though my insides had been hollowed out with Mom’s melon baller. I snuck into the bathroom to wipe my eyes and wash my face, avoiding the mirror the entire time. Then I went back to my room, avoiding everyone else. I didn’t even glance at Theo before I crawled under the comforter.

Later, Millie or Katy called to see how the day went. I pretended to be asleep when Dad brought the phone into my room. “She’s pretty worn out,” he whispered before closing the door. I fell asleep for real then, because when I woke up it was dark out and everyone was in bed.
This day is finally over,
I thought, changing into my pajamas.

I didn’t think it was possible, but I slipped beneath the covers and slept again.

 

Over the course of the week, I revealed to Katy and Millie what had happened during round two. Telling the story in small chunks was easier. They were just as horrified as I was mortified, which helped—even though Millie broke into fits of giggles every time she saw a cardboard box.

On Wednesday, to my surprise, Ashley and Gail IM’ed me to see how I was doing.

It was nice of them to check in, but I couldn’t imagine going back there. I was done with the HuskyPeach. Not everyone was getting the picture, though.

Millie called Friday afternoon. “You know, I was thinking. Since you might not finish the Challenge—”

“I’m
definitely
not going to,” I interrupted.

“Okay,
definitely
not going to—you’ll never get that help from Christian. What are you going to do with that makeup your mom bought?”

I hadn’t thought about it. “Don’t know, don’t care,” I said, eyeing a bag of Oreos Ben must have left on the kitchen counter. I’d stuck to Operation Skinny Celeste since the top-dropping—out of habit, I guess—but they were calling me.

“Your mom bought lots of stuff,” Millie said. “You may as well use it. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and bring it? Let’s try it.”

“You just want to look good for Mike,” I teased. Millie had spoken to him every day before social studies—starting by asking if he had a pencil—and once or twice before science, and although there had been no confirmation from his brother through Katy that he liked her, she was hopeful.

“Not at all,” she said, using a very prim voice. “I’m just trying to make sure that a friend’s mom didn’t waste her money.” Then she laughed.

I agreed to come over, and we set a time. When I hung up the phone, I noticed an Oreo in my left hand.
How did you get there?
I asked it.

You picked it up,
responded Red Bathing Suit Woman.
Didn’t you like it when Christian said your face looked thinner? Is that cookie going to taste better than those words felt?

The contest is over,
I responded.
I don’t need to lose any more
.

You might not need to, but do you
want
to?
she asked.
There’s nothing that says you have to stop.

And no one to tell me I have to continue,
I reminded her.

It’s never been about anyone else,
she pointed out.
This is about you, Celeste
.

I flipped the Oreo over and over in my hand. Dark chocolaty crumbs dotted my fingers.

Not exactly. You might not be a contestant,
Red Bathing Suit Woman said,
but you’re still a HuskyPeach.

I scowled.
My “appetite for life” is getting smaller every day, hanging around you.
Before she could say another word, I tossed the cookie in the garbage, grabbed an apple from the fridge, and went to my room.

 

The next morning, Dad dropped me off at Millie’s brown and white house. I’d never been there before and felt shy ringing the bell.

“Hi, Mrs. Taposok,” I said when her mom opened the door. “Is Millie home?” A “yip-yip” noise came from somewhere inside. I must have looked surprised at the sound, because Mrs. Taposok laughed.

“You must be Celeste. That’s Couscous, our Chihuahua. You’ll meet him in a sec.”

“And call me Mrs. T. Everyone does.” Mrs. T had a wide smile, like Millie, and the same thick dark hair. When I stepped inside, I could smell something delicious coming from the kitchen.

“Millie,” her mom called down a hall, “Celeste is here. She’ll be right out,” she said to me. “She’s taking care of the dog.”

I nodded. For some reason I pictured Millie’s family having a bigger dog.

“Millie showed me your school picture. Have you . . . gotten taller since then? You look wonderful.” She fiddled with the white dishcloth in her hand.
Same way Millie does with her hoodie,
I noticed.

My smile came close to knocking my ears off. “Thank you. I don’t think so,” I replied, ignoring a smirking Red Bathing Suit Woman. I didn’t have to say anything else, because Millie came down the hall, holding a small beige dog with short hair and big ears and eyes, wearing a pink tee.

“Couscous, Celeste,” she said. The dog cocked his head at me and yipped.

“Is he all set?” Mrs. T asked. Millie put him down and he sniffed my shoes.

“Think so. I squeezed four times to make sure.” Her answer satisfied Mrs. T, because she nodded.

“Squeezed?” I said, trading shyness for curiosity.

Mrs. T turned to me. “There was an accident last year. Francisco—Mr. T—backed over Couscous when he was leaving for work. He loves that dog. It devastated him. We thought Cousie wouldn’t be able to walk again. Luckily, the only problem was some nerve damage.” Her eyes welled up with tears talking about it.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Millie jumped in. “Couscous is fine,” she said to me. “He just can’t feel when he needs to, you know—go. And even if he could, he can’t. The nerves don’t work.”

“He needs to be squeezed,” Mrs. T finished. “Over the toilet. Francisco usually does it when he’s home, but he’s out running errands this morning. We all take turns.”

“Oh,” I said, and nodded like I understood. “You need to squeeze him.”
This must’ve been the story she and Katy were going to tell me the day we found out about Lively’s leaky boobs.

“Yes,” Mrs. T said. “Every four hours, just to be on the safe side. But if he eats cheese—”

“Let’s go to my room,” Millie interrupted. Her mom told us to let her know if we needed anything and said she’d be in the kitchen, wrestling a chicken. Couscous trotted after her.

“She’s making rellenong manok, Filipino stuffed chicken, for my aunt’s birthday dinner tonight,” Millie explained. “It’s really good, but complicated.”

“Smells great,” I said, puzzling over how, exactly, one squeezed a dog over a toilet. I’d have to ask Millie about it later.