The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High (9 page)

I'm trying to figure out if I can conceivably have a pizza delivered to the mansion while Victoria makes a series of strangled noises deep in her throat. We're all gathered back in the ballroom, and she's getting her voice warmed up to be our trainer for Poise Perfection Class.

Three men dressed in black walk in wheeling racks of clothes like a crew of underground moving men. They line them up across one wall and are quickly swallowed by the big-lipped curtain.

At Mickey's command of, “Action,” Victoria flips to full power.

“Okay, girls. Welcome to your first challenge here at Prom Queen Camp. When I say
go
, the three of you will head over to the Nőrealique Fashion Center.” Victoria enunciates each word as she gestures toward the racks of clothes, which are apparently a Fashion Center now.

“You will each select an outfit that captures your own personal style and personality, or should I say”—she gestures for effect—“your
Per-style-ality
.” She pauses in case we feel like applauding. We don't. “
Per-style-ality
is a term that Nőrealique has registered with the U.S. Trademark Office.”

When we still don't react, Victoria switches gesturing arms to indicate where three oval mirrors hang on a wall over a waist-high counter. The counter is covered in a crapload of makeup, and according to Victoria, the area has been transformed into the Nőrealique Wall of Beauty.

“Then, from there”—she gestures to a lip-shaped rug in the middle of the room—“you'll stand on the Nőrealique Red Carpet and strike a pose.” She smiles, looking proud of her own stellar performance.

“Now, girls.” Her voice gets serious. “We understand you haven't had any modeling training,
yet
.” She smiles wide. “Just do the best you can and have fun with it.”

“Wheee,” says Kelly under her breath.

I hear a
pssst
behind us and turn in time to see a bald man in headphones point to his watch. Victoria raises her perfect eyebrows and adds, “Oh yes, and…”—she gestures toward the three of us since she's used up all her other gesturing targets—“the three of you will only have five minutes to complete this task.”

“Well, at least it'll be over with quickly,” says Kelly.

“Okay. And three, two, one…” Victoria barks sharply, “Go!”

Timed tests always freak me out. No room for losing focus, getting sidetracked, taking tangents.
Wait, where do we go first?
Amy scrambles over to the racks of clothes and starts clawing at the hangers.
Right, find clothing that defines me
. Kelly leisurely plucks something black off the closest rack. How nice to be able to define one's Per-style-ality™ so easily.

“None of this is going to fit me,” wails Amy as she sifts through the racks. Finally, she grabs a flowy, floral one-size-fits-all dress and pulls it over her head.
Whoops, better make that one-size-fits-most
. Amy looks down at the snug fabric and sighs before moving on to the makeup counter where Kelly is already scribbling thick black liner around her eyes.

How
did
that
happen?
I snap out of my observing and look at what I'm holding. It's a shirt, bright lime-green and fitted. It seems a little too stylish for me, but I imagine I might enjoy being the type of person who'd choose a fitted lime-green shirt to define her Per-style-ality™. That could be me. Fashionable, bright. Lime-green fitted.

I glance over to Amy and Kelly working on their makeup.
Must
focus
. I pull the shirt on over my clothes and belly up to the makeup bar. The pots of color are already pretty torn apart, and Amy roots through them like a dog digging up something dead. She's actually doing a decent job on her face.

Whoops
again
, I think as she puts a swipe of pool-blue over each eyelid. She
was
doing a decent job. Ah, well, who would notice anyway with that muumuu she's wearing. I turn my attention to Kelly, who has apparently misunderstood the instructions and is transforming herself into a zombie bride. She mock hisses at her reflection with approval.

At least Amy has the good sense to see the blue was a mistake and starts scrubbing at it with a makeup sponge. Unfortunately, pool-blue has serious staying power, and she's quickly giving her eyes the Per-style-ality™ of a strung-out stripper.

I elbow Kelly so she won't miss how funny Amy looks, but my elbow hits empty space and I realize she's gone. Amy throws down the dirty sponge and races to the red lips carpet.

I look at my reflection and sigh. It has taken me five minutes to select one green shirt and throw it on over my clothes. Worse than that, the shirt is clearly the only item of clothing on my body that has nothing to do with my personality
or
style. Plus, it's clear that green is not my color.

Smearing on a bit of tinted lip gloss, I slink to the center of the Nőrealique Red Carpet and pose with the others, sucking in my cheeks and lacing my fingers behind my head. Probably not very model-like, but, as Victoria says, we haven't had any training.
Yet
.

This doesn't stop her from being shocked over how bad we look. Her grimace rises into a plastic smile as she releases an “Okaaaaaaaaaay,” attached to a whoosh of air.

Bald headphone guy is grinning from behind the camera, which makes sense. The more cast members embarrass themselves, the better the reality show. I picture Victoria pulling out three giant, hissing cockroaches for us to eat next—and how sad is it that my stomach actually rumbles at that image?

Victoria repositions Amy so her waist twists one way and her torso twists another. She describes the visually slimming power of that stance, and I glance at Kelly. She's bent over with a hand on her hip and a hand on her head and her lips are pressed out so far she looks like she's trying to kiss someone in the next room. I try not to laugh as my arms start burning.

Victoria moves in front of me with eyebrows that would be furrowed if they weren't botulized in place. “You aren't being arrested, Shannon.” I drop my hands from behind my head in relief and put them on my hips. She twists me the same way she showed Amy, who's already coming unwound. Frizzy wisps of her orange hair now frame her face, and with the traces of blue eye shadow and fitted muumuu, Amy should really drape a few stray cats over her shoulders to accessorize properly.

“Much better, Shannon,” says Victoria. “Now just give it a little more twist…” I pretend my body is two separate sections and twist until I can't breathe. “Perfect!” she says as a spasm of pain runs up my spine.

“Kelly, you don't honestly think that looks good, do you?” Victoria chastises.

“What?” Kelly asks innocently through her pursed lips. “This isn't attractive?”

I admire her commitment to defying authority. I wait for Victoria to pull out her bullhorn and start yelling in Kelly's face, but she just guides her to stand up straighter and twist herself in half like the rest of us.

“There.” Victoria seems pleased to have us tempting paralysis on national television. “Now, you'll be putting on a little fashion show.” I look at my fellow freaks and envision the saddest fashion show ever. “Fortunately,” Victoria says, “before you attempt to rock the runway, you'll each get rocked by your own personal stylist. They'll help you select and channel your perfect Per-style-ality™.”

Three neatly attractive women sashay into the room and start poking at us. Mine shakes her head and clicks her tongue until I feel shame. I just hope her giant tackle box of makeup carries concealer thick enough to hide my quilt-sewing, day-dreaming, elf-ucker punch-line-earning true self.

The three of us are spackled and painted into model shape over the next hour. The stylists make it a point to hold up each Nőrealique product they use and recite a short love poem to it. The way my girl goes on about a mascara wand for the camera, you'd think it granted actual wishes.

But I can tell you she does know her stuff and transforms me from totally forgettable to actually-sort-of-hot-in-a-nonthreatening-way. A glance tells me Kelly's and Amy's stylists have mad skills as well.

Amy wears a softly tailored skirt and jacket that make her once-lumpy figure look downright curvy. Her clown weave is pinned back, revealing how striking her face is. When she gazes into the mirror, her eyes fill with tears and her shaking hands cup her face. It's an emotional scene that will definitely get used on air.

Kelly is wearing flowy, sheer layers that capture her creative, artsy side without all the depressing blackness of her usual wardrobe. She seems surprised by how little she hates her new outfit.

My stylist puts me in a hot pink designer dress that shows off my halfway decent figure. I don't know how much it captures my new Per-style-ality™, but I sure do look expensive.
I
wish
Grace
Douglas
could
see
me
now.

Next, a runway is quickly pieced together by more covert moving men from behind the giant-lips curtain. We're each given a pair of spike-heeled pumps and get walking tips from a tall, skinny man in heels who has a sharp tongue and better legs than mine.

As Amy does her back-and-forth tromping, I notice she walks taller and seems more confident already. Maybe Victoria's speech about attractiveness being 80 percent attitude isn't complete bullshit. It still has to be
mostly
bullshit. I mean, how can anyone possibly measure that statistic?

When our runway coach sees Kelly's fierce walk he says, “Wow, I'm impressed.” As if it's a surprise that Kelly can channel
fierce
. That girl brushes her teeth
fierce
. The way Victoria and the walking coach rave, you'd think Kelly was curing cancer as she strode by.

When it's my turn, everyone watches me in horror, like I'm committing a crime against nature with my walk. I clomp loudly down the platform trying to remember too many walking tips at once.
Head
high. Pelvis forward. Swing hips. Don't swing shoulders.
It's amazing I'm able to move at all.

When I reach the end I pause, pose, and turn. And promptly trip over my twenty-six-inch heels and tumble directly off the runway.

Sprawled out in my least graceful position to date, I look over to confirm,
Yes, of course the camera caught that
. I envision my awkward fall getting played over and over in the previews for the show and resist the urge to run away flailing. My big ears burn as everyone laughs.

As I fantasize about escaping, Victoria starts talking, and I tune in on the word “shopping.” Amy looks so excited she's about to pop a rib. “What did Victoria just say?”

Amy asks me, “Did you hit your head?”

Victoria seems pleased to have our full attention for a change. She smiles and announces for apparently the second time, “We'll be adding to these starter wardrobe items during your all-expense-paid shopping trip to the New Nőrealique Boutique!” She says it as if the store is located on an exotic island far away. “Nőrealique Cosmetics is expanding its brand into a line of quality clothing and upscale accessories. They've hired three up-and-coming new designers to create a whole new look for each of you.”

“So now you're adding
Fashion
Project
to this shark jump?” Kelly asks.

Victoria ignores her and lets her voice go all game-showy as she announces, “And you will each be getting…your own…brand-new…Freus Hybrid!”

“
Eeeeee
! New car!” I punch my fist in the air. “I knew it!” I forget all about my humiliation as Amy and I jump up and down, hugging and screaming. Even Kelly grins from ear to ear. Victoria dramatically leads us out front, where our new cars are already waiting for us.

They look like advertising billboards on wheels. Each one has a giant Nőrealique Lip Logo painted across the hood and sides. My Freus is silver and says Nőrealique Elite, Amy's is red with Nőrealique Glamour written in fat script, and Kelly's is green with Nőrealique Natural's lips and leaves logo.

Kelly grouses, “What can be less
natural
than a car with giant lips all over it?” Low blood sugar must be making Kelly stupid, since honestly,
we
just
got
brand
new
cars!
We can't drive them until the show is announced since they'd blow our cover, but come next spring, the three of us will be the pimp daddies of fuel-efficient chick cars. Of course, my best friend may literally throw up when she sees the blatant product placement. But hopefully the environment-loving low emissions, plus having an actual sound system to listen to, will help her get over it.

Victoria says, “Okay, ladies, you've clearly had a long day.” She announces it's time for dinner, and I imagine being led to the backyard to prepare our meal from grass and twigs. I can almost see the three of us wearing native hunting outfits and heels as we stalk small game with our eyelash curlers.

Perky doesn't actually make us catch and cook our own chipmunk dinner, but a major ingredient does appear to be “lawn.”

I try to ignore the cameras watching us eat our foliage. Pulling a dandelion out of my “meal,” I tuck it under my napkin and take a stab at small talk.

“So, what do you guys think? Ready for six weeks of this?”

“Today was sort of fun.” Amy dutifully gnaws a plant root.

“Classic,” says Kelly. “We're in beauty pageant purgatory, and the two of you are rating the experience.”

I look for some common ground. “Well, yeah, the food sucks.”

“I don't know,” says Amy. “I kind of like eating healthier.”