The Daughters (25 page)

“Actually, speaking of my school, is Annalise around? I need her to call and tell them I’m sick.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. For a moment she was afraid he might not approve, and then he broke into a conspiratorial smile. “No
worries,” he said, patting her arm. “I’ll take care of it. Just get into hair and makeup. And have fun!”

Lizzie ambled over to the hair and makeup area. The studio was the size of the Chadwick gym, even bigger than the one at Chelsea
Piers. A rack of clothes stood about ten feet away, and facing her was the actual set, which was already crowded with lights.
The tall, lanky man in a black turtleneck fiddling with his computer, she guessed, was the photographer, Dietrich. She was
in no hurry to speak to him.

Later, she was in the makeup chair, her face buried in an issue of Italian
Vogue
as the hairstylist worked on her curls, when Annalise approached with Martin’s oversized appointment book in her hand.

“So everything’s all set, Lizzie,” she said, her eyes on Martin’s book. “I just called the school and said you weren’t coming
in.”

“Great. You said I was sick, right?”

“No. I said you were working. Was I supposed to say you were sick?”

Lizzie’s stomach sank. “Um, that’s okay. As long as you said that you were my mom.”

“Your mom?” Annalise burst out, before clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’m not going to say I’m Katia Summers,” she said,
laughing.

This was just getting worse. “Fine,” Lizzie said, with a tight feeling in her chest.

“Anyway, Martin wants to run some dates past you.” Annalise held up the gigantic appointment book and flipped to a page. “The
next shoot would be on a Tuesday afternoon next week. And then the following week, there’s a store opening he’d like you to
attend. In Macau.”

“
Macau?
Where’s that?”

Annalise seemed slightly put out. “It’s an island near China. We’d fly you out there, of course. It’s very important. It’s
going to be Martin’s new flagship store in the Asian market. I can get in touch with to you about flights—”

“Actually, can I get back to you on that?”

Annalise subtly rolled her eyes. “Of course,” she muttered, flipping the book closed and strutting off, visibly annoyed.

Macau? She had barely ever even heard of the place, and she was supposed to fly halfway around the world to go there? To do
what, exactly? And she wondered what she was supposed to do about school next Tuesday. Martin had promised that today would
be the only day he couldn’t work around her schedule. And speaking of school, was she already in trouble? She cringed thinking
about the word spreading to Mr. Barlow that she was gone and working. She thought of him hunting down Katia, trying to figure
out where she was.

Everything’s fine
, she told herself.
You’ll deal with all this later
.

As the makeup artist started sponging her face, she let her eyes close. For a few minutes she fell into a deep, drowsy sleep…
until she heard her say, “All done.”

Lizzie opened her eyes. At first, she didn’t recognize herself. Heavy black liner circled her eyes, raccoon-style. Three different
shades of purple shadow caked her lids. Deep purple lipstick made her look half-dead. And her hair fell in thick, crimped
waves down her shoulders. She was part Goth and part eighties fashion victim. “Are you sure this is what Martin wants?” she
asked hesitantly.

The hair and makeup people traded looks. “Yep,” the makeup girl replied.

Lizzie took one more look at herself in the mirror. Her real face was completely hidden. Hadn’t Martin wanted to work with
her because of her face? So why had he put this much stuff on it?

She walked over to the dressing area. Christiane stood in front of the same lilac dress that Lizzie had ripped the week before,
steaming it with fierce concentration. The other day Christiane had seemed spritely, cute, even enviably cool in her blond
pageboy haircut. Now she just seemed cold. She put the steamer down without a smile.

“Okay. We had to re-cut this after we saw that you broke the zipper,” she said bluntly. “Hopefully this one fits. Try it on.”
She slid it off the hanger and handed it to Lizzie.

“Here?”

Lizzie looked around. There was no changing room or even a screen in sight. If she got undressed, it would be in full view
of Christiane and her unsmiling face.

“Uh-huh.” Christiane stifled a small yawn and then folded her arms. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” Pretending she wasn’t two feet away from another person she barely knew, Lizzie quickly shed her school uniform
and pulled the dress over her head. To her relief, the silk moved easily down her arms—until it came to another abrupt stop
at her shoulders.

“Oh, not again,” Christiane moaned. “And this was a
six
.”

Lizzie’s face burned behind the silk. Of course a six didn’t fit. Hadn’t any of these people actually looked at her?

Christiane pulled it off of her. “All right, let’s see what
does
fit around here,” she sighed.

They went through each garment. One after another, each piece stopped at her shoulders or her upper thighs, refusing to budge.
Each time, Lizzie clenched her jaw.
Please let me die right now
, she thought. The only piece that fit was the silk jumpsuit.

“Well, I guess it’ll have to do,” Christiane said with another sigh. She zipped Lizzie up the back and gave her a pair of
gold stilettos to slip on. By the time she tottered out from behind the rack of clothes, Lizzie was pretty sure that three
thousand English presentations with Todd Piedmont would have been more enjoyable than this.

“Oh, we’re in the
jumpsuit
again,” Martin said, appraising her with a forced smile.

“Nothing else fit,” Christiane reported, coming to stand by his side.

Martin thought long and hard as he stared at her, chin cradled in his fist. “Lizzie, now, I hope this doesn’t offend you,
but I have the number of a wonderful nutritionist who’s really helped me. Maybe I can make you an appointment?”

Lizzie glowered at him. “Nutritionist?” she asked.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said with a what’s-to-be-done sigh, and patted Lizzie on the shoulder. “Dietrich! She’s ready!”

She hobbled toward the photo area. The stilettos were already making her feet ache. She didn’t feel glamorous, and she definitely
didn’t feel like herself. And when she saw Dietrich’s angry, pasty-faced scowl as he turned around, she really didn’t want
to be here.

Dietrich pointed to the area behind the camera. “Just stand,” he ordered gloomily. “No expression.”

Of course not, Mr. Barrel of Laughs
, she thought. If they wanted the Angsty Miserable look, they were all in luck.

Dietrich wiped away a greasy hank of hair and leaned into his camera. “Okay, we start!” he yelled.

She stood perfectly still and scowled into the camera. She missed Andrea. She missed running and jumping and kicking to Kanye
West. She missed being outside, in the middle of Central Park or downtown. She missed feeling like she was doing a good job.
She missed having fun. Right now she felt like a robot, being remote-controlled by some humorless dictator.

“Turn left!” Dietrich barked.

As she obeyed, her mind wandered back to school. English had probably started. Who was Todd sitting with? Did he feel bad
about their fight, too? With an ache, she wished she was there.

Every time she tried to smile, Dietrich yelled, “No expression!” making her jump. At last Dietrich straightened up. “Five
minutes!” he yelled, and lumbered over to his assistant with his camera, muttering in guttural German.

Lizzie headed toward the catering area. She longed to go off in a corner with someone—anyone—and talk about what a stick in
the mud Dietrich was, but there was nobody here for her to talk to. She stood alone at the table, scanning the soda selection
and trying not to look like she was completely alone. She even missed her mom. Was this what she went through when she was
her age? This weird loneliness in a crowded room? How had she done it?

She grabbed a can of Diet Coke and gulped down the fizzy drink, feeling her stomach press against the silk fabric. No wonder
so many models had eating disorders, she mused. Always having to wear clothes that probably didn’t fit them.

And then she heard voices near the dressing area.

“I know, but if she
really
turns out to be a disaster, we can always use Natalie. I just hope she’s available.”

It was Martin. Lizzie froze.

“Should I check?” Christiane asked. “Watching her up there, it doesn’t look too good.”

“Well, she’s definitely not her mother,” Martin continued. “But at least with her we’ll save thousands on retouching.”

“How old is Katia now?” Christiane asked. “Thirty-six, thirty-seven? I heard that last
W
shoot was a nightmare. They spent thousands just on the crow’s feet.”

“I’m just not even sure she
sees
it,” Martin said. “But the Czech never age well. Look what happened to Paulina.”

Christiane made a small mirthless laugh. “But at least she knew when to bow out.”

Trembling, Lizzie put the can down on the table. A jumble of thoughts bubbled up inside her head.
I made this up
, she thought, absurdly.
I didn’t just hear this. This isn’t happening.

“All right!” Dietrich yelled. “We start now! Lizzie! We start!”

Slowly she forced her mind to go quiet. With every ounce of control, she made her face go blank as she turned around.

“So we go back to before!” Dietrich yelled, stepping behind the camera. “Go!”

She hurried back to her mark. The people in the studio gathered into one large group, watching her.

“No expression!” Dietrich yelled, pressing the shutter.

She stared at the lens, fixing it with her best dead-eyed stare.

“Turn to the right!”

With a deep ache in her chest, she thought about her mom. Katia was on the plane right now, coming back from Paris, but she
wanted her here now. She wanted to hug her. She wanted to smell her perfume. She wanted her to know that she wasn’t old, or
overdone, or worn out, and that her daughter loved her.

“I said RIGHT!” Dietrich screamed, snapping her back to the present. He stood up and pulled a hank of hair out of his furious,
beady eyes. “Right, goddammit!”

Lizzie gulped. Her right leg started to shake. People were staring at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Then wake up!” he yelled.

Lizzie stood there, too stunned to cry or move.
Wait a minute
, a voice inside of her said.
You don’t need this
.
You don’t need this at all.

None of this was making her feel good about herself. It was doing just the opposite. And hadn’t that been the whole point
of all of this?

If this was what it meant to be someone’s “muse,” she thought—to be yelled at, told to lose weight, criticized, and turned
into someone unrecognizable—then she didn’t want any part of it anymore.

As Dietrich glared at her, waiting for her to compose herself, Lizzie looked straight ahead of her and walked off the set.
Past the camera, past the astonished assistants, past the silent crowd, past Martin Meloy, who seemed too flabbergasted to
speak. She headed straight for the clothing rack. In full view of everyone watching, her hand reached around to her zipper
and yanked it down. This time the rip didn’t faze her. She would have gladly ripped the entire thing off her body if it could
have gotten her out of here any quicker.

“Lizzie!” Annalise ran over to her. “What are you doing?”

Lizzie picked up her kilt and buttoned it. The scratchy wool poly–blend skirt had never felt better. She pulled her white
turtleneck over her face, not caring whether her makeup smeared. It certainly couldn’t have made her look any worse.

“Lizzie,” Annalise snapped. “We’re in the middle of a shoot here!”

“Then fire me,” she said simply as she hoisted her bookbag to her shoulder and walked out of the room.

Out on the streets of SoHo, the sun had come out, and there were wide swatches of blue sky in between the clouds. People brushed
past her in a hurry, pushing baby strollers, drinking coffee, still starting their day. Lizzie tipped her face up to the sky
and took a grateful gulp of fresh air. Standing outside the studio, she felt like she’d broken out of prison after a life
sentence. There was only one place that she wanted to go, only one place that could actually make her feel better now. As
crazy as it was, that place was school.

On the 6 train, clattering uptown, she stared straight ahead at a cheesy ad for a dermatologist in Queens, willing her mind
to stay blank. She’d try not to think about what had just happened until she saw her friends. They would know how to help
her process this. But this time, she knew that she’d done something right.

When she reached school, it was just a few minutes before lunchtime. Before she went upstairs, though, she had to wash Martin’s
Night of the Living Dead
makeup off her face. She sprinted through the lobby before the receptionist could see her, and ducked into the ladies’ bathroom.
Yikes,
she thought when she saw her reflection. Her black eyeliner had started to run, and there were deep purple creases above
her eyes. She looked like she’d just crawled up out of a grave. No wonder people had been staring at her on the street.

She scrubbed her face with hand soap and dried it with some paper towels. There was nothing she could do about her crimped
hair, but she would worry about that later. She tiptoed out and climbed the stairs, listening to the familiar echo of her
steps on the limestone. The air smelled warm and inviting, like an old friend. Who knew that school could be so comforting?

She opened the door to the Upper School. The halls were still. Class would be over any minute. Like a thief, she crept down
the hall toward the lockers. But the sound of heavy, creaking footsteps behind her made her stop.