Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (2 page)

The coil of anxiety that had been growing in my chest loosened.
Thanks, Kirsten,
I thought. Aunt Doreen was seconds from going nuclear.

I caught my mother’s eyes in the mirror. Mom’s got great eyes—toffee-colored, with tiny green flecks that sparkle when she’s angry or happy. I got my dad’s eyes, kind of. His are dark brown, deep like chocolate, but mine resemble mud. Mom offered a smile that was supposed to be encouraging. I tried to smile back.

Kirsten, out of her dress and into a pink tank and jeans, hustled Aunt Doreen from the changing rooms and into the rest of the store.

When “ze” seamstress inserted the final pin and I was free from my reflection, I shuffled to my dressing room and wriggled out of the Monstrosity and into the day’s blue hoodie and track pants. I wrapped my hair into a knot, hoisted my bag, and tried to forget the peach watermelon in the mirror.

WHEN I LEFT the dressing room, I found Mom, Aunt Doreen, and Kirsten hovering around the dyeable shoes.

“It’ll be fine, Doreen,” Mom said, holding a pair of pumps. “The wedding’s nine weeks away. Angelique does this all the time.”

“I hope you’re right,” Aunt Doreen replied, “because that dress was not in good shape.”

I coughed.
Do they think I’m deaf?
Okay, the dress looked awful on me, but how was that my fault? Why hadn’t Kathleen thought of her roundest bridesmaid before she picked them out? I fumed, staring at the display.

“I hate it too, you know,” whispered Kirsten, appearing at my side. “Who picks
lace
? Something from this decade would’ve been much better.” She rolled her eyes at her sister’s choice. Our moms moved their conversation closer to the cash register.

“But it looks good on
you,
” I protested. She didn’t have to say stuff like that just to make me feel better, even though I was glad she did.

“So? Just because it looks good doesn’t mean I have to like it. Actually—”

“Girls,” Aunt Doreen called, “we’re ready to leave. Let’s go.”

“Never mind,” Kirsten said to me, waving at her mother. We made our way to the front of the store, dodging colorful racks of bridesmaid dresses and sparkly wedding gowns. Well, Kirsten dodged. I squeezed between the racks and knocked a dress off its hanger. My face warm, I struggled with the slippery material. Kirsten helped me replace it before the moms noticed.
Crisis avoided,
I thought. Aunt Doreen wouldn’t have been able to leave without a full Fallen Dress Inspection.

We nearly bumped into them as we reached the door. Angelique’s had a table just inside the entrance that was covered in flyers and brochures advertising community events, school concerts, and bridal shows. Mom and Aunt Doreen huddled together, peering at an orange flyer.

“It’s perfect!” Aunt Doreen screeched, her voice reaching her nuclear register, only this time with happiness. “Five thousand dollars in scholarship money! And the chance to meet with an
agent,
” she breathed, as though “an agent” was her favorite celebrity.

“What an opportunity,” Mom agreed. Neither turned to see us behind them. Kirsten and I shot looks at each other.

“Mom?” Kirsten asked. “What’re you looking at?”

Aunt Doreen spun like a top. “I’m looking at your future,” she said, giving Kirsten a big smile. Aunt Doreen is what Mom likes to call “a nervous wreck.” She gets stressed out over nothing and spends too much time worrying about other people’s business. But when she gets excited about something, she doesn’t let it go. Same when she gets upset. When Kathleen got engaged, Aunt Doreen cried for three days straight about “losing her angel to that
boy,
” even though Kathleen and Paul had been together for years. Now, cheeks flushed, she thrust the orange page at us.

Across the top, in bold letters, it read:
Be a Model!! This is your chance to shine!
And, underneath:
Local catalog company looking for young women ages 12-16 to model our new line of active wear, formalwear, and sleepwear. Send recent full-body photo and headshot with contact information and parent or guardian signature to PeachWear Industries, 4567 South Market St., Suite 450, San Francisco. All submissions will be considered for the regional Miss HuskyPeach contest, winner eligible for $5,000 scholarship and a meeting with a representative from Torre Modeling Agency.

Sounded perfect for Kirsten.

Evidently, she didn’t think so, because she giggled.

“What is so funny, missy?” Aunt Doreen snapped, her voice dropping into the I’m-not-pleased range. “This is your
future
.”

Based on that tone, I’m glad it’s not mine
. I stepped to the side to get some space from the developing circus—and to hide behind a rack if anyone I knew came in to shop.

“Really?” Kirsten chuckled. “
My
future? Are you sure?” Her giggles changed to laughter.

“What harm is there in sending your picture?” Mom asked. “I don’t understand.”

Kirsten rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I have a chance,” she explained. “It’s really not for me. Besides, Kathleen did pageants, remember? I decided to swim.”

“Kirsten Beth Lowry,” Aunt Doreen said, her eyes turning to flint. “You are a beautiful girl. Why don’t you want to take this opportunity?” She shook the flyer for emphasis.

Kirsten sighed. “Mom, it’s not for me,” she said again, looking uncomfortable. She twirled a piece of hair around one finger. “Do you know what PeachWear is?”

“It is a company offering you the chance to be a model,” Aunt Doreen said, “I know
that
.”

Kirsten shook her head, sending her shampoo-commercial hair flying. She really could be a model if she wanted to. “They make clothes for, um, larger sized girls,” she explained. Her eyes flicked over to me and she bit her lip. “You know that store in the mall, the HuskyPeach? That’s this company.”

My stomach went cold.
The HuskyPeach? That’s where Mom goes on her Fed Up shopping sprees for me
.

Kirsten tilted her chin at the flyer. “I don’t think they want me as their model.”

That light in Aunt Doreen’s eyes faded. Her face was as sad as a little kid watching a brand-new helium balloon float into the sky. “Oh,” was all she said.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

“The HuskyPeach?” Mom asked. “Really?” Her eyes slid past Aunt Doreen and focused on me.

The breath caught in my chest. Quickly, I shook my head.
No way,
I mouthed.

Mom’s toffee eyes were joined by Aunt Doreen’s blue ones.

Not the Double Sister Stare!
This would not end well.

“Celeste,” Aunt Doreen said, catching on, “we could send your photo in instead. Since Kathleen gave it up, we could have a model in the family again!” Her eyes gradually regained their light.

“This could be so good for you,” Mom said. “Think of how fun it would be to be out there, wearing new clothes, being in a catalog. It’s such an
opportunity
.”

Now, I have to admit, being a model sounds like a pretty cool job. Flying to all parts of the world to have my picture taken, hanging out with stars, never going to school, making lots and lots of money . . . that would be great. I imagined myself on a beach with Theo Christmas, posing for a
Celeb Eye
magazine cover shoot. “Closer,” the photographer would direct. “Theo, pull her
closer
.” I’d rest my head against his chest and smile hugely for the camera.

And then my imagination showed me nestling with him in my polka-dot one-piece, the one with the “modesty skirt” Grandma got me, to hide what she calls my “peasant” shape. Modeling might be fun, or a great opportunity, but being the face of a clothing line for chunky girls was not the type of modeling that would generate seaside celebrity photo sessions. Excessive junior high teasing? Probably. Snuggles with Theo Christmas? No way. Also, husky or not, models don’t eat chocolate cookies. I sighed.

Mom and Aunt Doreen were watching me like all of a sudden I was going to grow six inches and turn into Kirsten.

“Um, I don’t think that’d be a good idea, Auntie,” I said, the burn of shame from her earlier words about the state of my dress rekindled. “I’m not cut out to be the model in the family.”

Aunt Doreen’s eyes narrowed. “Think of the scholarship money, Celeste.”

“And you could put it on your applications as an activity,” Mom said, rereading the flyer. “You don’t have any.”

I wanted to point out that since I hadn’t even started high school, college scholarships or applications weren’t really on my radar screen, but my stomach was churning and my cheeks felt hot. How could I ever get on a stage and show off my “full figure”? I turned to Mom, raising my eyebrows and hoping she’d get the hint that it was time to leave. Unfortunately, she was focused on that orange piece of paper. The top of her head was not much help.

“Mom,” Kirsten interrupted, shifting from foot to foot, “can we go? I’m going to be late for practice.”

Aunt Doreen glanced at her watch. “Swim practice begins at eight,” she said. “It’s not even five yet.”

“I know, but I have a Spanish test tomorrow and need to review my vocab tonight.” Kirsten leaned against the door, opening it an inch at a time. “I don’t know all my verbs.”

Mom gave me a last pleading glance. I scowled.

With a reluctant shake of her head, Mom placed the flyer back on the table. Kirsten held the door open and we filed into the parking lot, Aunt Doreen bringing up the rear. I thought I saw a flash of orange as she dug through her purse for the car keys, but once we were in the car, I was just glad to be leaving both the Monstrosity and all that peachness behind.

I’D TOLD SANDRA about the Peach Monstrosity during our nightly phone call, and a week later it was still our main topic of conversation. She and I had been best friends since Chuckie Swift poured glue in our hair in third-grade art class. We first bonded over the school nurse’s scrubbing, and our friendship was sealed during detention in the principal’s office after she punched Chuckie and I cheered her on. She agreed that Kathleen could have picked a better bridesmaid dress.

“You’ve been talking about it like it’s the worst thing ever. But, you know,” she said, making loud smacking noises into the phone, “it doesn’t sound too bad.” Addicted to sour apple Jolly Rancher candies, Sandra sounded as though she was walking through mud puddles when she paused or stopped talking. Gross, but I’d gotten used to it. I organized six Oreos into a stack on the edge of my nightstand.

“What’s not too bad?” I winced at a loud slurp. The candy clicked against her teeth.

“The dress. It sounds like the style is cute.” I could tell she was stifling a giggle.

“Yeah, if you’re six thousand feet tall and into dressing like a frothy dessert.” The stack became stairs. Two fingers climbed the cookies. Seeing who could top the other was one of our favorite conversation games. We’d been doing it forever.

“Or if it were the turn of the century.” Smack, slurp, slurp.

“Or if I were a mermaid queen who wanted to live in the desert.”

A pause. “What
is
too bad—with your coloring, the peach should look really cute on you.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t.”

“Obviously.” She clicked the candy against her teeth in an extra-long silence. “You’re not the right shape for it either.”

“No one is the right shape for this dress. Kirsten barely looks good in it.” My fingers tap-danced on my Oreo stack. A wiggling sensation, similar to the one I felt when listening to Aunt Doreen at Angelique’s, crept through my belly. Where was Sandra going with this?

“If you weren’t as round . . .” Her voice trailed off.

A zap, like a bee sting, pricked my heart. My cookie climbing ceased.
“Weren’t as round?”
I repeated, coughing the words out.

A pause in the slurping, then the smacks came faster. “Uh, well, you know. Your shape just makes it harder to fit.”

“Mmm,” I answered, not trusting my voice to sound normal. I guess Sandra took it as an invitation to keep going.

“I mean, if you paid more attention to your look . . .”

“What?”
I squawked. So much for normal. A bomb of hurt burst in my chest.

From Sandra’s end there was a loud crack. She’d split the candy, something I knew she did only when she was nervous. I didn’t care. I was too busy trying to pick up the shards of my exploded feelings.

Where did that come from?
Sandra shared my love for caramel sundaes and cookies; they just didn’t stick to her the same way they stuck to me. She never said anything about my size . . .
or hadn’t until recently
. Sandra had always spoken up for me; she said and did things to take care of us both. I just watched from the sidelines and stayed out of the way. All through elementary school, she’d threaten to beat people up if they were mean to me. Once junior high rolled around, though, things changed. She seemed to get annoyed with me, especially lately. And she was saying less and less when Lively made fun of me—no matter how out of the way I stayed.

“It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe people wouldn’t say stuff to you if you tried something new with your look once in a while.” Her helpful tone grated on my wounds.

“People,”
I said, filling my words with sarcasm in an effort to hide the hurt burning my chest, “shouldn’t be saying anything about my look. Especially people like Lively Carson. I’d rather be comfortable than mean any day.”

“She’s not mean to everyone.”

“You’re
defending
Lively Carson? Are you serious?” If Sandra told me she was moving to China, I wouldn’t have been as shocked.

“You’re right. Forget it. I’m sorry.” Her words came quick and tight. The Jolly Rancher wrapper crinkled in the background.