The strained smile on her face made me nervous.
“No particular reason,” I answered, careful not to make any sudden moves. If I were to make it out of this conversation unscathed, the key would be to escape slowly and deliberately. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“I’m not saying it is a big deal.” Her nostrils flared, but her smile stayed tense. “But it’s the type of information that I find interesting to know.”
“Okay.” I looked to my dad for help, but his eyes were half closed. “Well, I better get upstairs.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” Mom asked. It was Tuesday, which meant that Dad had cooked his slammin’ salmon dish.
“I’ll be down in a minute. I wanna make a quick phone call,” I said over my shoulder.
That was awkward.
In my room, safe from my mother’s Stage Mom alter ego, I fired up my laptop to see if Pam was online. She wasn’t. I was thinking of a million things at the same time. Would my volleyball photos be posted on Face’s site that quickly? That would feel totally weird. It was odd enough seeing my face on the contest home page. I clicked around the site, looking for updates.
“London, you said you’d quiz me on my words tonight.” Warren nearly made me jump out of my skin. I hadn’t even heard him come into the room.
“You can’t just be rollin’ up in here,” I snapped. Wyatt was usually the bugaboo of the two, so I felt instantly guilty for going hard at the more sensitive twin.
“Just give me a half hour.” I softened my tone. “I’ll come get you.”
After he left, I looked through the initial head shots of all fifteen contestants that were still featured on Facemag.com. There I go, I thought as I clicked on my photo.
It’s weird—I didn’t feel any more popular since the whole thing started. I’d been too busy with school, volleyball, and the contest. But I had noticed that the occasional classmate who’d never spoken to me before would stop me in the hallway to comment on my Web page or congratulate me about getting selected.
Overall, kids at Teawood High don’t stress events like this. A few students had entertainment exec parents or relatives “in the industry.” Plus, TV cameras have been in the school before, shooting commercials or reality-show episodes. It wasn’t that huge a deal—or at least people pretended like it wasn’t.
When I got Pam on the phone, she asked me how it felt to be a local celebrity.
“That word is heavy.” I grimaced. “I can’t even imagine what it must be like for true famous people. It was bad enough having a paparazzi-type experience with Brent today.”
Mentioning Brent was a perfect segue into updating Pam about the after-game drinks. So as not to interrupt my story, she barely breathed while I recapped.
“Besides being a cutie who I want to take me in his arms and worship me,” I told her, “he’s cool people. We really just vibed.”
When my mom knocked on the door, I dashed off the phone.
“Hey.” She poked her head in. She always has a radar for when something is up. “I put the food aside for you. I’m heading out soon to pick up Wyatt.”
“N’kay.” I pretended to be hard at work on my laptop. Really, I had just refreshed the contest page. The icon with the flashing camera bulb signaled that new photos had just been posted.
“What’s that about?” Mom was standing behind me, craning her neck to see what I was doing. “Ooh, click on it and let’s see what’s been updated!” she said, pulling up a chair beside me before I could protest.
I should’ve been more careful. Not for my own good, but for my mother’s. I didn’t want to feed her with false expectations. Once she gets excited about something, she puts her heart into it and sets herself up for disappointment. Especially when it comes to the girly dreams she has for me, her only daughter.
“What are you waiting for?” She nudged me on the shoulder to snap me into action.
“I thought you had to leave now to pick up Wyatt?” I stalled.
“I was leaving early just to eavesdrop— you know me.” She looked like she’d damn near forgotten she had another child to bring home. “I’ll leave in a few minutes.”
When I refreshed the site, a few contestants’ surprise-visit photos were already posted—but thankfully, not mine. I scrolled through two contenders’ photos, avoiding one girl’s in particular.
“Let’s see what Kelly’s photos look like.” My mother was so predictable sometimes. I obliged.
Kelly’s photos had my mom blinking more times than a bad liar. The surprise photographer had followed Kelly to after-school hang-out spots. She looked like a glam goddess sipping from a coffee mug at a sidewalk café. The photo’s angle spotlighted her crossed legs, which were wrapped in black tights and dipped in leather knee-high boots. She looked a vision of Parisian style in her gray sweater dress.
Twenty comments were already posted. Readers were gushing over her “fab-u sense of style” and “model good looks.”
I wanted to quickly click through but my mom was hooked. She was reading comments and studying the photos.
“That’s okay, London, sweetie,” she said despite the fact that I didn’t need consoling. “You don’t have to worry about that Ms. Fletcher. You’ve always been able to out-smart that chile anyway.”
“Really, Mom, I’m okay,” I assured her. If only she knew that Brent was my biggest concern in this competition. Not Kelly and what she thought of me.
“I’ve got it!” Mom totally ignored me and sprang out of her chair like she’d had an epiphany. I braced myself for what she was about to suggest. “Why don’t you get Pam and her hotshot makeup artist cousin to give you some easy and quick tips!”
I was a bit offended. She wanted me to pretty myself up. That felt like a blow and a confirmation that Mom really did think of me as unattractive. But then I thought about my sorry attempt at sprucing up earlier that week when I was expecting Brent to surprise me. Although I realized that I could use some styling help, I didn’t want to admit it to my mom, who should’ve been feeling mad guilty now for insulting me.
“Hey, hun, you’re gonna be late.” Dad popped his groggy head into my room to rush Mom.
“Here I come,” she told him and then practically skipped out of the room. “Call Pam right now and get on it!” she squealed like a schoolgirl on prom night. Then she started speed talking: “Thisisgonnabesoexciting. But I won’t crowd you. It’s okay if I’m not invited to your makeover session. I like to be surprised by the big reveal anyway.” Her last words trailed into the hallway over her shoulder.
Do I even have an opinion in the matter? I thought.
The photos from my volleyball game were posted on Face’s site the next afternoon. By the time I got home from school, there were close to fifty comments on my page. Almost all of the comments (and I read them all) raved about the photos of me working it out on the volleyball court. “Kickass” wrote one and “Powergurls unite” posted another. But what especially got me was how much readers identified with me. One post read “Finally—a real girl is represented in a model ing contest.”
Those two words were repeated over and over again in a lot of the posts: “real girl.” The overwhelming support not only boosted my mood but it could advance me in the contest standing. Thanks to online reader votes, I had the potential to dodge another week of eliminations. (On Saturday the judges would be saying sayonara to another three contestants.)
It felt good to have support. If I got enough votes to stay in the game, I was ready to accept the fact that I really had a place in this competition. Regardless of how I’d gotten into this, it was getting more real-deal by the minute.
“Come on in, gurl.” Pam greeted me in front of her cousin’s apartment building. “And stop looking so nervous. This is gonna be fun!”
“You know I’m not crazy about makeup.” I warned Pam not to expect me to stay agreeable through this experience. “The last time you tried to paint my face, I felt like a freakin’ clown.”<
br />
“My cousin Layla has been informed of all of your hang-ups,” Pam said like an agent. “She promises to ignore your whining.”
Despite my whining, I was grateful that they had agreed to hook me up. Pam’s cousin had worked magic on some cool B-list singers—and a few A-listers before they made it big.
When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, Layla was there to meet us. I hadn’t seen her in over two years. But again, it struck me how some cousins can look so much alike. Pam and Layla both have soft round faces, wide-set eyes, and the cutest button noses (minus any trace of a nose bridge). They’re about the same medium height and both are blessed with the kind of supershapely body that causes guys they cross paths with to get whiplash. The only difference is, Layla’s complexion is a few shades darker and she has shoulder-length locks. (Layla once schooled me about never calling them “ dread locks.”)
Today she was wearing her locks in a high ponytail pulled to one side of her face. Her huge hoop earrings matched the silver bangles on her wrist. She styled out a snug white T and jeans with a loosely knotted neon yellow tie and a tiny fitted cream vest.
“This way, please,” Layla said, guiding me into her apartment and straight to the makeup chair. She had me facing away from the mirror that was framed with showgirl lights.
“Now let’s get working on those thick eyebrows.” Layla looked anxious to get started. I could sense that she enjoyed that I was a blank canvas. She started plucking and it didn’t feel nearly as painful as I thought it would. My back, at first tense and stiff, began to melt into the chair’s contours as I relaxed.
Next Layla removed my hair band and started to undo my ponytail. She had such a gentle touch, I didn’t feel the usual tugs and yanks I endure when I get my hair straightened at the salon. Hoping that I was in for a head massage, I closed my eyes and started to drift a bit. Too bad that when she let my hair out in all its bushy glory, Layla decided to put off styling it until after makeup.
Pam excitedly showed me a few hairstyle photos she’d torn from magazines. One was of a model with hair as thick and curly as mine. One cornrow snaked from the left side of her face, over her forehead, and ended on the right side. It sort of looked like a crown.
“This would look so cute on you.” She seemed as excited as my mom. I got the sinking feeling that everyone had been secretly hoping and praying that I would one day agree to a makeover.
“Or look at this girl’s hair.” Pam flapped another torn magazine photo in front of my face.
It was of a girl who wore her hair tightly pulled up to the center of her head with the ends left to hang over one side, like a funky, curly girl faux-hawk.
“I like it.” I was surprised that I identified with the bold look. It was both sporty and stylish.
Layla wanted a closer peek at the hairstyle.
“This would work with the oval shape of your face,” she said, offering her professional opinion. “And it would bring out those expressive eyebrows and high cheekbones of yours in a nice way.”
“Well.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s go for it, then.”
After forty-five minutes of girl talk and celebrity gossip, Layla asked me to turn to face the mirror for the first time. When I did, I almost didn’t recognize myself.
I looked hot! My makeup was barely there, but it lent an extra glow to my brown skin. My eyebrows were neat and shapely, opening up my face a lot more. My hair was funky without being too showy.
“I love it,” I told them and they cheered. Pam looked like a proud mother.
“I can actually handle this look,” I said. “It’s not too fabulous or too over the top.” I wouldn’t feel too weird walking through the school hallways like this. Outside of my teammates, no one would notice, because kids switched up their look all the time at my school. The only other person who might make a fuss would be Unslick Rick. But somehow I doubted that. He had gone back to ignoring my existence ever since that pencil borrowing attempt.
“I wouldn’t have you walk outta here feeling like Paris instead of the London you are,” Layla said. “Just think of it as a remix of your old self.”
Pam clapped her hands and jumped up and down. I gave her a hug just to keep her feet on the ground and we laughed.
She grabbed her tiny camera and snapped a few shots of me.
“For my blog, of course.” She winked. “Now let me hook up your gear.”
Pam took my arm and pulled me over to Layla’s crowded walk-in closet. “I brought some clothes over to show you.”
A few minutes later I emerged from the bathroom wearing the outfit Pam had picked out for me. I felt fine wearing the tiny vest and long shirt with tights, but the tall heels had me tripping over myself.
After all, I’m the type of girl who spikes volleyballs, not wears spike heels.
“Those shoes are not gonna work.” I was glad Pam said it first. She got on her hands and knees and rummaged through the cluttered closet. “Here, try these.” I took the wedge shoes she handed me. When I slid my feet into them, I felt like I was wearing elevated sneakers.
“Aaah.” I sighed like an actor from those hemorrhoids-relief commercials. “That feels so much better.”
Layla turned up the volume on her iPod dock.
“Now show us whatchya workin’ wit!” she called out.
We all busted out our best moves to the thumping music.
Seven
A makeover has a way of making a girl feel refreshed. And it’s amazing what it does for your confidence. Every time I walked past a mirror, I had to do a double take, like, Is that me? Thankfully, Layla showed me some easy hair and makeup skills that I was able to duplicate on my own.
On Saturday morning when I stood in Chic Boutique among the top twelve contestants, it felt good knowing that I was stepping up my game. There was a lot of activity going on—the center of the store looked like it was under construction. I didn’t get a close enough look because once we walked in, we weren’t allowed to venture more than a few feet into the boutique. Something was up.
Judging from his expression, I could tell Didier was surprised to see my upgraded style. He smiled, eyeing me from head to toe before he spoke.
“I want to start by saying bravo to you ladies for braving the shadow photographers this week. You all look striking in the photos,” he said. “And a special congrats to Ms. Kelly Fletcher, who has been voted into the number one spot.”
Kelly bent her knees as if winding up for a leap into the air, but her feet didn’t leave solid ground. I wasn’t surprised that she’d gotten the most votes. When I read some of her online comments, especially the one that referred to Kelly as “a poster child for the fly-girl lifestyle,” I figured she had it in the bag.
“That was the good news,” gloom-and-doom Asha began. “Now for the bad. It’s time to announce the contestants who landed in the bottom three spots. When I say your names, please step forward.”
Now comes the drawn-out suspense, I thought. But I was wrong. Asha immediately called out three girls and addressed them directly.
“On behalf of Cynthea Bey and Face, thank you for participating in our model search,” she said sincerely. “We invite you back to attend the Face of Spring Gala that will cap off the final week of the contest.”
With that the three girls, shoulders slumped, shook hands with each of the judges, and then quietly exited the boutique. Wow, these folks are all about yanking off the Band-Aid quick-fast in a hurry. There was no catchy send-off phrase like in all those reality shows on TV.
“The rest of you, please come this way,” Asha instructed before leading the nine of us farther into the store.
A slightly raised platform extended from the counter out into the heart of the boutique shopping area. The long checkout counter was completely concealed behind makeshift curtains. The place was primed for a fashion show. But who would be putting it on?
I was too naive to think that we would be the models working that runway. Something in m
e clung to the idea that we were there to watch a demonstration of how a professional fashion show is run. But that didn’t explain the mischievous smirks that were now on the judges’ faces.
“In one hour, Chic Boutique will be open for business as usual. But today, shoppers and a few invited guests will be the audience for your fashion show,” Asha continued. I could tell she was excited because there was more than the usual dry tone in her voice.
“Our photographers will set up at different angles along this runway but you are not to look at the lens. Keep your focus on working the crowd and on showcasing the look you’re wearing,” Didier instructed. “We’ll be examining your walk, your presentation, and finally, your photographic appeal.”
I’d never ever been in a fashion show before. All I knew was there are enough YouTube clips of models taking stumbles on runways to keep me entertained for a lifetime. I wondered if this was karma cashing in, paying me back for laughing so hard at them—and for forwarding said clips to friends.
“The show will last thirty minutes, in which time you will each make three wardrobe changes. We know that sounds tight, but it’s the perfect exercise to determine how efficient and professional you can be under pressure,” Asha said, cutting into my thoughts.
They are setting us up for failure, I concluded. This was merely a way to find out who looked most graceful as they were screwing up.
“As always, today’s photos will be posted on the site. But this time, video highlights and low points of the show will also be posted. You’ll be able to read the comments we’ll be collecting from our invited guests and from the shoppers.”
I gulped when I imagined being the star of the “low points” clip.
“Behind that curtain is a clothing rack with your name on it, on which five outfits are hanging. You each will be assigned an assistant who will facilitate the changing process. Your hair and makeup will be done once, before the start of the show,” explained Monica. “When I call your name, please make your way to the marked corner to get dolled up. The rest of you can go backstage to set up your dressing areas.”
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