I liked him even more. He just went through the motions of his duties without missing a step in his work rhythm.
“Thanks,” he said as he collected the application from a brunette with a pixie haircut. He scanned the application to make sure it was correctly filled out and then pointed his tiny silver camera at Pixie. She immediately gave him a bored-with-life supermodel look and he snapped. In the next few seconds, a mechanical sound whirred as the printer pushed out a slim photograph of the aspiring model. Future Boyfriend pulled a thin sheet of waxed paper off the back of the self-adhesive photo and stuck the picture to the application. As the girl asked him an inaudible question, she pushed her ankles out and nervously balanced on the outsides of her feet.
“You’ll hear from the judges by tomorrow if you’ve been selected,” he told her.
She quietly thanked him and then exited the line.
As soon as he moved on to the next girl, a sleek black sports car pulled up in front of Chic Boutique. When the passenger door opened, a long, elegant leg emerged. The car was like a suave brotha, and the sexy leg a toothpick teetering out the side of his mouth. From where we were standing, the deeply tinted windows blocked our view of the person attached to the leg. But by the sound of the hushed gasps, we knew it was Cynthea Bey. Pam quietly sucked in air.
“Ohmygod,” she said in one released breath.
“See?” I teased her, hoping to thwart an HDQ episode. “Being here has already exposed you to the ‘OMG’ virus, and I have no antidote.”
The bad joke fell on deaf ears. But I didn’t have to think of a funnier one. Pam kept her composure, which is totally uncharacteristic. I took this to mean she was more excited than I’d ever seen her. Pam simply turned to me and said in a measured voice, “I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try to score an interview with her for my blog.”
We watched Cynthea Bey emerge from the car, looking stunning in a rust-colored wrap dress and the most exquisite pair of leather flats I’d ever seen. Her hair was pulled away from her face into a low bun. The large dark eyes that have earned her the title of “doe-eyed darling of the runway” looked even larger in real life. Now we could see firsthand why she’s known as the girl next door gone international glam. She was not unrealistically gorgeous, nor did she have an edgy beauty. She was simply pretty. Pretty like a two-dimensional cartoon in a Disney movie. In fact, she did kind of resemble Jasmine from the classic Aladdin.
Before stepping away from the car, Cynthea leaned over and thanked the shadowy figure of a driver. As the sexy car pulled away, the stretched reflections of Tea wood’s neat row of brick store fronts glided across the car’s black windows. Two Chic Boutique employees had rushed out to greet Ms. Bey. As they ushered her toward the store, they briefed her on how the casting was going. Cynthea paused and flashed her million-dollar smile to all the model wannabes grouped outside.
“Hello, lovelies!” she generously offered to everyone—including to Pam and me, who were back to our staring paralysis. Cynthea continued greeting people as she stepped inside her store.
Pam corrected her posture and faced Chic Boutique’s entrance like a style soldier reporting for fashion duty. She stood still for a second, took a slow, deep breath, and then announced, “Be right back.”
I was thrilled for Pam, but forgot to wish her good luck because the selfish part of me was too concerned that I now had to face my crush alone. Without Pam’s easy, ice-breaking conversational skills to lean on.
All the action that was paused while everyone studied Cynthea’s grand entrance kicked back into gear. The cutie snapped a photo of the girl in front of me and attached it to her application. Here he comes, I thought.
“Hi,” he said politely. “Your application, please.”
I handed it to him without saying a word. He started reviewing what I’d written down. It didn’t seem like he remembered me. I guess I looked different without my Art Attack vest on. Not to mention, I was no longer wearing the checkout counter around my waist.
I had to think fast if I was going to make an impression. Like, quick. As soon as he reached for the camera, our face-to-face time would almost be over. It’s now or never, gurl. Say something.
“Don’t worry about the two dollars you owe me,” I blurted out.
I had hoped this would jog his memory as to who I was, but judging from the crazy amount of creases my statement etched on his forehead, he didn’t take it that way.
“Look,” he said, before looking around to make sure no one overheard what I’d said. “Thank you for what you did for me. I really appreciate it. But I don’t have any pull with the judges, so I can’t help you.”
Before I could protest, he pointed the camera at me. Not willing to screw things up any more than I already had, I didn’t refuse his picture. With the last bit of dignity I had left, I looked at the camera but couldn’t bring myself to smile. He snapped anyway.
“Thank you,” he said, searching my application before adding “ … London.”
He looked up from his photo-printing drill and caught me staring. I was busted, but I couldn’t look away. His dark brown eyes unexpectedly locked with mine. My right eyebrow reacted to his intense gaze with a subtle twitch. As usual, I couldn’t stop my facial expression from squealing that I’m a total fan. We stayed like this for only about three seconds. But, honestly, it felt more like ONE-file-a-chipped-nail-TWO-and-another-nail-THREE than ONE-Mississippi-TWO-Mississippi-THREE.
I had been watching him from ten girls ago and he hadn’t offered any personal touches or lingered in his encounters with any of them. Maybe this meant something.
“Thank you,” I said, taking an obvious glance at his name tag, before continuing, “… Brent.”
I saw his Adam’s apple rise, then fall, like he’d just swallowed. I stretched my lips into a slight smile, and then we both moved on in opposite directions—he to the cell-phone-chatting girl behind me in line, and I to hunt down Pam inside the store.
Running would be too dorky so I decided against it. The urge was strong because mini good news like this is something you want to share fast. Any delay in telling Pam every single detail about my heart-pounding moment with Brent would fall too short of satisfaction. I had to tell her while the subtle, flirtatious exchanges were fresh in my mind. It felt like it was my birthday and I wanted Pam to watch me blow out the candles before melted globs of Crayola-colored wax ruined my designer cake. Reviewing the details in my head while rushing into the store was like protecting my imaginary cake’s dancing flames from the wind my speed walking generated.
But before I could locate her, I smacked right into what can only be described as door chimes in human form. My collision with a boho-chic chick in oversize shades caused the numerous metal bracelets on her arms to jangle in surround sound. I was too distracted by the clanging of the jewelry to notice who I’d just bumped into.
“London?” The girl recognized me after we’d pulled apart and muttered apologies. “What are you doing here?”
When she (loudly) took off her sunglasses, I realized who it was. Oh, great. I almost let out an exasperated sigh. Kelly Fletcher, my childhood frenemy.
Her unflattering question was meant to make me feel like a mutt at the Westminster dog show.
Kelly was the last person I wanted to run into while on a natural high. Her presence alone is a buzz kill. Seeing Kelly at that moment was like having a power outage in the middle of my highest-scoring Guitar Hero session on record. It’s not because she’s a mean person or anything. It’s just what the girl represents to me. The mere sight of her opens the floodgates of embarrassing childhood memories.
Kelly and I have known each other since toddlerhood. Our moms used to be “friends”—if you can use that word to describe two competitive mothers who used their daughters’ achievements to one-up each other.
Our moms were part of the child-actor circuit in Manhattan. We all met at a kiddie casting for a department store’s fall catalog. Because
the two of them were from the same Jersey town, the women struck up a fellowship and promised to keep each other informed about casting news that came down the Manhattan grapevine.
Hard to imagine, but yes. Mom was once rapt by my looks.
My mother had a few good years of heaven on earth, getting showered with compliments about her darling daughter. Tons of old photos of me commemorate that bygone era. I know it’s not my fault, but I still feel weirdly responsible about the way things turned out. Before I hit middle school, my once cherubic, heart-shaped face started stretching longer and longer as I grew taller and lankier. By the eighth grade, that oblong face was practically covered with zits. It was a good thing my dermatologist mother had access to all the zit-zappin’ skin-care products or there would’ve been no hope for me.
Kelly, meanwhile, had no such misfortune. Puberty granted her more beauty wishes than a fairy godmother. But far be it from me to hate.
Awkward history aside, every time we cross paths, Kelly and I are cordial.
“I was just heading in to find my friend,” I half-truthed. “You?”
“My agent sent me down for this casting,” she told me with a straight face. I should’ve known that she would take up modeling professionally. In an imperfect world, the haves keep on having. Pretty soon I’d be seeing her face on those giant billboards over the Manhattan-bound entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel.
Kelly smirked and then, without realizing it, flipped her wavy mane of glossy brown hair like she was shooting a Pantene commercial. “Yeah, right. I barely even know of a travel agent,” she added sarcastically. I panicked for a moment, wondering if I’d thought aloud and she’d heard. “On the bright side—no agent means there’s no one to stop my mom from running things her way.”
“She’s still hoping to get you on the cover of Vogue, huh?” I sympathized.
“You know it,” Kelly admitted. “And is your mom still hoping the same for you?” She flipped the tables yet again. “Is that why you signed up?”
“Yes and no.” I kept it simple. Getting tricked into believing that Kelly and I aren’t frenemies was not going to work on me. Heart-to-heart chat or not. “What about you?” I tossed back, running the same game.
“Same here,” she said. “I actually want to pursue modeling and acting, so this is a good prep for the real opportunities. It’ll be fun.”
She was talking as if she had already been selected to be the face of Chic Boutique. I guess she figured that if her competition was a girl like me, she had it in the bag. Go ’head, gurl, with your confident self, I fake cheered after Kelly and I offered each other good luck and moved on. Some people just roll through town like they’re perched on top of a parade float!
Suddenly, I looked around and asked myself what I was doing among groups of stylistas who looked like the Deal or No Deal suitcase models. I wasn’t fooling anyone— least of all myself. This wasn’t my type of crowd. With the hot intern encounter out of the way, there was no other reason for me to stick around. It was time to find Pam and get us away from this scene.
I found her near the fitting rooms in the back of the store. Her copper-colored hair was the easiest marker—especially since she was wearing it out in all its cotton candy glory.
“You’re beaming!” I didn’t want my hurriedness to ruin what was clearly a good moment for her. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened and shut them a few quick times, flashing her hazel eyes like an on/off button. We didn’t want to make a scene so, arm in arm, we hurried out of the store, past the casting line, and down the street. It wasn’t until we rounded the corner at the Starbucks that we started squealing.
Our shriek fest helped the flirty madness of the last twenty minutes rush back to me and I found it all so crazy funny.
“I have never done something so wildly impulsive in all my life!” I shouted.
“Me too!” She exhaled. “But let me tell you what happened. Wait—no, you first.”
“No, you first. There’s nothing really to tell except that Brent and I had a moment.”
“Brent? Oh, it’s like that?”
“That don’t mean nothing ’cept I can read.” I downplayed the encounter. It was best not to get Pam thinking I had a chance with this guy. She’d nag me about it until I regretted making up too much backstory. “I wanna know if you replaced my true-blue friendship for Cynthea Bey’s.”
“I would trade your true-blue friendship to be Cynthea’s mirror holder, n’kay?” She snapped her fingers in the air with a sharp flip of her wrist. “But you’re still in play ’cause she didn’t ask.”
We cackled again. In the five minutes we had left before we had to be at work, Pam told me how gracious Cynthea had been with her time. Pam was allowed to get in about three questions and Cynthea said she was “happy” that Pam had a local style blog. Cynthea promised to check out Pam’s fashion reports.
“Did you know that this modeling contest is gonna play out like some online reality show?” Her admiration for Cynthea Bey’s brilliance was written all over her face.
“Wow, does that mean that the least delusional girl with the clearest sense of reality gets the title?” I pretended to be interested. “Judging from what I observed out there, that’ll be a real challenge for them.”
“Don’t hate them ’cause they’re beautiful.” Pam swayed a finger side to side to keep my envy in check.
“I don’t hate.” An intentionally phony smile spread across my face. “I congratulate.”
Back at work, I was able to slip the two bucks into register 1 before the last shift ended. But before I got that opportunity, I almost made myself sick with worry. I am such a wuss when it comes to breaking rules. The anxiety and fear that grips me is so not worth the risk. It was safe to say that I’d never pull that stunt again.
There must’ve been some planetary weirdness happening to my star sign because the wackiness of my day was so uncharacteristic.
What was I thinking? I wondered to myself—and to Pam.
“Stop acting so worried,” she said, poopooing my anxiety and second-guessing. “It’s healthy to let loose and do something a little crazy once in a while.”
By the close of business day that evening, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t being a stalker girl chasing after a boy. It was just about letting myself have a little fun.
I was relieved to get home and soak in the same ole sameness: kid twin brothers who don’t listen to me when I throw my older-sister weight around. Parents who bark orders at me before I even step through the door. A fish tank with an exotic-looking community that wants nothing more than food rain to fall from its sky. Yup, I trust myself to stay true to myself in this comfy environment. The genuine me feels safe enough to let it hang all out—regardless of how it looks or what anyone has to say about it.
The next afternoon when my cell phone rang, I didn’t think anything of it when I didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. To save money on her limited cell-phone-minutes plan, Pam often calls me from any landline she can use. If it’s during peak hours, she’ll even borrow her mom’s cell phone if it can save her a buck. After getting slapped with a three-hundred-dollar cell phone bill two months ago, Pam hasn’t been cutting down on the amount of gabbing she does on the phone. She’s been cutting down on the gabbing she does on her cell phone. The girl will still find a way to call and report the slightest news she hears.
“Hello,” I answered a bit breathlessly because I’d just finished flinging a pillow at my keeps-sneaking-into-my-room-when-I’m-not-home brother Wyatt.
“Hi, is this London?” asked an older woman with a posh British accent.
“Yes.” I still didn’t have a clue who I was speaking to.
“London, this is Asha Kumar of the Chic Boutique Model Search. You have been selected as one of our finalists in the modeling contest.”
My overactive imagination pressed play on the daydream reel starring Phine Photographer. It’s the one about him wanting to see me again so badly, h
e digitally doctored my image (i.e., erased the flyaway hair strands, shaped my eyebrows, gave my skin a clear glow), and took a Polaroid of it.
“Really?” I asked, my voice loaded with vitamin C for cynicism.
I wondered if I should play along. When she first started talking, I almost thought she was really someone else. The girl is good, I thought with a smile.
“Pam?” I called out as I leaned over and rested my free hand on my knee the way my grandma does when she’s trying to stop herself from laughing before getting to the punch line. “You big Keira Not-ly, Fake-omi Campbell, Kate Loss wannabe British joker. I should’ve known this was you!”
The silence on the other end wasn’t feeling too golden. I immediately thought of that cell-phone commercial where the call drops just after someone says something funny but borderline offensive. Just like the commercial, I wasn’t sure how my caller was taking my playful response.
“Ms. Abrams, I can assure you this is no joke.” The sophistication in the woman’s voice was unruffled, but I could tell it now carried a hint of disapproval in it, thanks to my unclassy reaction.
“I—I’m sorry,” I offered feebly, my heart pounding in my ear.
“You are one of fifteen girls selected to participate in a five-week modeling contest,” she started without missing a beat. “As you probably already know, Face is an e-zine today, but for decades we were a print magazine and Cynthea Bey was one of our treasured cover girls.”
I held the receiver inches from my mouth so the sound of my heavy breathing would go undetected.
“Well, this contest will unfold entirely on Facemag.com,” the woman continued. “Our readers will get to vote on which three contestants will be eliminated each week. On Saturday at nine thirty a.m., all fifteen contestants are to report to Chic Boutique. We’ll need everyone to stay for at least two hours. Can you make it?”
Despite my earlier unprofessionalism— which she had ignored—she sounded all business.
“Yes,” I heard myself answer, even though I wasn’t available. I had to be at work at nine thirty that morning. But after my initial ghetto response, I had to show this woman that I wasn’t as hood as my first impression made me out to be. “Uh, sorry about earlier. I hadn’t expected a callback.”
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