Poser (2 page)

This photographer was new. He probably described himself as “good with kids” to get this job. If by that he meant using vicious sarcasm and fake sweetness to try to get us to smile for the two seconds he needs us to, then he's
great
with kids.

My leg was starting to burn, too, and they were going to need a no-blur lens the way the girl beside me was shaking now.
Hang in there, little buddy
, I thought grimly. A second shoot with this guy would not be pretty.

“No, it's not working,” snapped the photographer, stepping back from the camera. “Just relax for a second; let me think.”

He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, looked around and lit a cigarette.

That
, I thought,
is against the building rules and against the terms of our contracts
. There was a clause in there on secondhand smoke; I was sure of it. But I wasn't really in a position to argue the man down. Wearing a pink golf shirt and turquoise-and-pinkstriped shorts kind of undermines your authority.

I just wanted this to be over.

“He's meeean,” whispered the girl beside me, stretching her leg. She was, I guessed, about seven years old underneath her makeup. She was supposed to be my little sister or cousin or something in the shoot, although we looked nothing alike. But advertising is like that. I've had “mothers” in a shoot who were blond and barely out of their teens. Very authentic.

I once did a shoot for some real-estate brochure where I was the “kid” to two impossibly young, cute parents. I had to ride on “Dad's” shoulders while “Mom” flipped her hair and people off-camera tossed fake fall leaves at us. When I told “Dad” he had no hair on one spot of his head (which was the
truth
), he pinched my leg
hard
and never stopped smiling. Good, quality fake-family time.

Anyway, I felt bad for the girl beside me now: you could tell her shoes were too tight, she was new to the fake-running pose, and now she had to sit here breathing illegal smoke into her little lungs.

“Yep,” I said, looking at the photographer frantically puffing away, “a real jerk. Nice hair though,” I murmured, and she giggled. The photographer's hair, what there was of it, was practically standing on end.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to us.

All of a sudden, he was
super
nice.

“Okay, kids, we're going to try an over-the-shoulder look. Okay?” He spoke slowly. “Over. The. Shoulder.” He demonstrated, as though he were talking to non-English speakers. “Like you're seeing something, a balloon or a bird or something, over
there
. Got it?”

Did I mention I'm twelve? If I didn't, I'm
twelve
. And I'm supposed to swivel around excitedly for balloons and birdies? Is this guy serious?

The girl and I both nodded earnestly. Basically, what I've learned in this business is to smile and nod. They don't want input. Nobody cares about your artistic vision. Just put on the cheap clothes and fake-smile over your shoulder. While fake-running.

“This is while we're in the running pose?” the girl asked. Mistake. This guy didn't want questions. He wanted smiling. He wanted nodding. I turned to her, smiling and nodding.

“Obviously,” snapped the photographer.

The girl nodded. Quick learner.

The photographer motioned to an assistant who was wheeling in a huge fan and helped her position it. Great. Fake wind too.

Another woman touched up our makeup, then turned to me with a sweater. A pink one.

“Randy says we gotta put this on you.” She tilted her head toward the photographer. “Just drape it over your shoulders, kinda casual and sporty, like...
that
. Cool! Awesome!”

Here's a tip. There's a big difference between what adults and kids think is “cool” and “awesome.” This was seriously lame loser-wear. If I saw a guy on the street dressed like this, I'd think he was a complete freak. I'd feel sorry for him and look away while other people pointed and laughed.

Nobody's going to see it
, I reminded myself.
It's just a small, local Calgary flyer. Nobody in Edmonton will see it.

So far, nobody other than Mom and Aunt Macy knows I'm a model. That's exactly the way I want it to stay. Most of Macy's modeling contacts are out of town. All the local companies and agencies that I used to model for years ago got fed up with being pestered by her. Fine by me. For
very
obvious reasons, I don't want people to recognize me/ ridicule me/pity me.

“Okay, guys,” said Randy, his voice extra nice now. You could tell he wanted to wrap this up. “It's summer. Hot. You're just playing outside, running and...you know, just running...”

In this, Randy? Are you serious? Have you ever even been a kid?

We nodded, as if pointless fake-running was totally understandable.

“And,” Randy continued, fake excitement lighting up his face, “running behind you is a big, friendly, shaggy dog! So you turn to look at it.” He turned, smiling. When he turned, a roll of belly flab peeked out from under his T-shirt. His teeth were yellow. No dog would trot happily after this guy. We kept nodding.

“Okay,” he snapped, all business now. “Places. Wind. Go.”

We did our best fake-running and fake-grinning at the fake doggie. My balance leg and my strained face were burning when we finished.

I knew from experience that it would all look pretty natural when the flyer came out. Randy was probably better than I gave him credit for. The girl I was modeling with was a natural too. Why did that make me feel kind of sad?

I'm good at this too. I should be. I've been modeling for a looong time. Too long. I'm a semiprofessional boy model.

I don't know what that says about me.

But I'm thinking that
you're
thinking it's probably not good.

CHAPTER THREE

MACY CRANKS IT UP A WHOLE NOTHER NOTCH ON DEAD END STREET

Our end of the street has no name. We live on Cuthbert Street, and we have the address on our bills to prove it. It clearly says
Cuthbert Street
on the other end of the street, across the main road. But the only sign indicating our end of the street says
Dead End
. Although I think about it every day, I try hard not to let that mean anything deeper.

Mom, me and Macy rent the left side of a duplex in a group of duplexes called Mayfair Estates, which makes it sound fancy schmancy. It's not. An old guy named Dan cuts the grass, and his wife plants a few scrappy flowers, but other than that, it's just duplexes.

Mom and I passed the Mayfair Estates notice board on our way home after the shoot. The same notice—the only notice—has been on there since we moved here five years ago:
Tenants MUST place garbage IN the dumpsters, not along-side, which is stricktly forbidden.
Welcome home.

Aunt Macy was on the computer when we got in. She's always on the computer. Searching for my big break: the Sears catalog, the Bay Days flyers, a Walmart ad campaign.

She swiveled around and called, “Well? How'd it go? You have fun?”

Actually, it's hard to show in writing how Macy speaks. She doesn't actually “call” like I said just now. That makes it sound like the way normal humans speak.

With Macy, it's more like yelling or shouting, with shades of bellowing. The woman is
loud
. Just imagine that EVERYTHING SHE SAYS IN HER DEEP, LOUD SMOKER'S VOICE IS ALL IN CAPITALS!!! VERY, VERY
LOUD
CAPITALS!!! Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the old, partially deaf lady who lives beside us, calls her Megaphone Macy behind her back.

And it's not just her voice. Everything about Macy is big. Freakishly big. She's over six feet tall and sort of big all around. Just like her brother. Actually, if you took that picture of my dad that's over the couch, put lots of makeup on him and a long, black, frizzy wig, you'd get Macy. That's kind of a creepy image, but you get the picture.

“I'm
starving
,” I said, taking off my coat and heading to the kitchen. Mom followed me, smoothing her wispy brown hair out of her eyes.

“Me too,” she said. “Hmm, what do we have?” She slipped her arm around me as we stared into the fridge. I am almost as tall as she is.

Nothing. We had nothing.

“Don't you hate it when you're starving and you look into the fridge and there's
nothing
?” I asked her. “I mean, maybe there's some ketchup and margarine, and eggs and milk and celery. But really, nothing.”

I demonstrated my food-hunting strategy.

“Fridge first. If there's nothing there, I go to the cereal cupboard in search of sugary goodness.” I opened it. Bran cereal and oatmeal. Nothing. I lunged across the kitchen.

“Then, in desperation, I open the spice cupboard and hunt for stray chocolate chips,” I said.

Mom laughed, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms. “Please tell me you find them every once in a while,” she said.

“Not often, but sometimes. Found a hardish marshmallow once too.”

“Okay, this is getting pathetic,” she said. “Point taken. I'll get groceries tomorrow on my way home from work, I promise. Maybe I'll even sprinkle a few chocolate chips here and there...”

The doorbell rang. We looked at each other.

“PIZZA!” shouted Macy, giving us a wink as she stomped to the door.

We watched in amazement as she paid the pizza guy and brought in a huge, steaming box.

Now, I'm guessing that for most normal families, having pizza is probably a normal thing to do occasionally. Not for us. Our house has a strict no-fun-food policy. I'm already big for my age, and everybody knows the camera adds pounds. And while Mom and Macy never use the word “diet,” they take healthy eating very seriously. At least, Mom does. I'm sure Macy secretly gorges on burgers and fries.

Mom makes very healthy, very serious food. We have lots of vegetables and grilled fish. We have bread and pasta occasionally, and fruit for snacking. We almost never have pizza. Or chips. Or soda.

“This is fun, Macy!” Mom said. “What's the occasion?”

“Oh, just thought it would be a nice change. And I've got something to tell you guys after.”

I dug in.

Suggestion: those of you normal folks out there who get pizza every other day, give it up for a few months. Then when you come back to it, you will truly appreciate it for the cheesy miracle it is. I closed my eyes and just experienced the pizza.

I left it to Mom to tell Macy about the shoot. I hate talking about shoots after they're over. What's the point? It's like those kids at school who come out of a test, start flipping through their notes and go, “Whatcha get for number four?” At that point, I'm trying to
forget
number four. After a test, the last thing I want to think about is the test. The point, people, is that it's
over
.

Anyway, Macy is my agent, so I guess it's technically part of her job to ask a million questions after a shoot if she's not there herself. She likes to keep on top of things.

She's got an incredible memory, I'll give her that. She remembers the names of every kid I've ever had a shoot with, all the photographers, even the assistants. She remembers the
clothes
. She'll be trying to get me to remember a shoot from years ago, and she'll say, “C'mon, Beauty Boy, it was with Dylan and Remy. Remember? The acid-wash jean pantsuit with the striped red T-shirt shoot? Remember?” Actually, Macy, I've spent years trying to erase the acid-wash jean pantsuit from my mind.

Macy and Mom finally finished talking about the shoot.

“So, what did you want to tell us?” I asked through a mouth full of pizza. I'd been wondering. I was getting suspicious. Macy generally did things for a reason.

“Okay,” said Macy, smiling and pushing her plate away. “Here goes: I'm cranking the agent thing up a whole nother notch! I'm starting a company, an official modeling agency—it's called Models by Macy.” She spread her huge hands wide, like she was showing how the name would look up in lights.

“Serious agent stuff. Website, online profiles of models, big-name clients, the works! And don't think I'm going to forget you, Beauty Boy! You're my biggest star!”

As far as I knew, I was Macy's only client. Her only star.

“Now,” she said, getting businesslike, “it's time to crank
your
career up a whole nother notch too, BB. You're thirteen in June, so we gotta be shifting into teen stuff. With your talent and looks, you deserve a national campaign! Maybe commercials! International stuff! Who knows? Maybe even TV, movies, DISNEY! I got Big Plans, BB! Whaddaya think?”

She looked at me expectantly.

What did I think? What did I
think
?

I was frozen. Horror has a way of doing that to a guy. I couldn't imagine anything worse than Macy's taking things up a whole nother notch. I could barely control Macy on the previous notch. But now that notch felt safe. I felt my feet and hands go cold, and my head start to pound. I swallowed carefully.

Just pass out
, I thought to myself.
Just pass out right now, and you won't have to deal with this.

I didn't pass out. Not even a wobble. Have you ever noticed how your body sometimes ignores simple instructions that your brain sends out, like “Pass out right now”?

I looked wildly over at Mom, but she was smiling at Macy. Mom loves Macy. She says she's got a good heart. They've been friends forever. Macy has helped us through some tough times. But the point right now was this disaster, this crisis, this plan that would ruin my whole life.

“Macy!” Mom said. “Models by Macy sounds wonderful! Have you got any leads on new clients?”

They chatted away as I slowly died inside. Well, I felt very, very cold, anyway. My mind was racing. Commercials? I hated commercials. They got in the way of watching a good hockey game.