I was with the group who got the first look behind the curtains. We all had to share the area behind the L-shaped counter. I immediately moved my rack against the makeshift wall, using the barrier as a semi-private changing room.
“London, you’re next with hair and makeup,” Asha called out. She then rushed me over to the seat and mirror a few short yards away. No sooner had I sat down than fingertips were dotting my face with liquid foundation. I felt like I was on a beauty conveyor belt.
In the next hot minute, she was shooing me away. I looked at her quizzically. “What about—?”
“Your hair works as is,” she said, reading my mind. I left with a smile on my face in spite of the growing knot in my stomach and the feverish pace this challenge was taking on.
Even though I wasn’t gone long, most of the girls were already dressed by the time I got back to the changing area. I dashed behind my semiprivate area and started tearing off my clothes. My assistant reached over the rack to hand me a pair of rocker leather pants. Next was the top, which I zipped halfway up my back. Before heading to my assistant to zip up the rest, I paused to squeeze my feet into the heels that went with the outfit.
I could tell that the Chic Boutique doors had opened for business. The buzz of curious shoppers jump-started my nerves. I worked through the queasiness in my belly.
Pandemonium began almost right away. “Where’s the other shoe?” one super-stressed-out contestant demanded of her assistant. The woman assisting me needed no prompting—not that I would ever use such a tone with a complete stranger. She kept up a fast pace.
Tribal rhythms broke from the speakers in one startling moment.
“Go, London, go!” Monica yanked my arm and fed me to the dogs waiting outside. My first nervous step on the runway was a wobbly one. The tall, slim heel felt weighty, which I hadn’t expected. The move caused the rest of my leg and hip to jolt to one side, and I rushed to have my other leg steady myself. Both strides added up to a spring in my walk that caused my hair to bounce. I kept the pace to play it off and it turned out to be the perfect accident. The faces in the crowd were in approval of my sassy strut. I kept it up to the end of the runway.
When I rounded the platform and headed back, the excited buzz of the crowd fizzled. I’d forgotten about my half-zipped back. The lightweight rayon collar was already droopy, but my bouncy stroll had caused it to flop and open like a wilting flower. There was nothing I could do to stop the zipper from trailing down lower. I couldn’t get behind the curtain fast enough.
Kelly entered the catwalk just as I stepped off. Everything she was wearing was fully zipped, buttoned or clasped. Fully. While everyone else was scrambling, she had barely broken a sweat. The girl was born for this stuff.
I could’ve sworn I heard the crowd “ooooh” and “ahhhh” while she was out there. They’d already forgotten about me.
On my way back to my changing rack, I took off my shoes. I immediately regretted doing that when I tripped over a belt strewn on the cramped floor. Just as I regained my footing, I stepped on an earring. It was like the changing area was set up with booby traps.
After I cleared the landmine of accessories, I reached my small area and started yanking off the skintight pants. They got stuck over my hips for a few seconds. When I finally freed myself of the last pant leg, Kelly was returning from the catwalk. Her rack was positioned a few feet away, perpendicular to mine. As much as I tried to concentrate on getting dressed, I couldn’t help tuning into Kelly’s corner of the makeshift changing room. How is it that she gets ready so quickly and efficiently? I wondered.
My competitive spirit kicked into high gear. Whether or not she realized it, I was the defense to her offense. She made a move—for instance, opting to put on her dress before her shoes—and I made a counter move to prove to myself that my way was working out faster. There was no way I would have her steal my thunder by wooing the crowd after I’d swayed them my way.
In a major way, Kelly helped me step up my game during the fashion show. Just like when I’m on the court; playing against a more skilled v-ball team is the best way to improve as a player. It also made the matchup so much more exciting.
Kelly noticed the quicker pace of my changing. She eyed me as I headed onstage with my gear game-tight. Not to be outdone, she threw on her final piece—an extra-long beaded necklace—and strutted my way, getting in line behind me.
My second trip to the stage was as seamless as the dress I modeled. The audience’s response was even more positive than my first time down the aisle. What’s more, I couldn’t tell the difference in the reaction Kelly got.
By the time I rounded the platform for the third time—thankfully, in flats this time—I flashed the crowd a smile of gratitude for being so supportive.
I caught up to Brent right outside Chic Boutique after the show. Since my Saturday shift was awarded to another coworker, I had the afternoon off. My only challenge was to let Brent know that I was free to hang without seeming like a groupie.
“Hey, Brent.” I took a chance to brave the first move. He had just gotten off a call on his cell.
“Hey, yourself.” Brent looked up and let a slow smile stretch his lips. “Good job out there today.”
“It was brutal at first—but thank you,” I answered, feeling giddy once again. “I don’t know how many more of those surprise challenges my stomach can take.”
“You’ll be fine,” he encouraged. “Just gotta keep your eyes on the prize, and things will slide off your back.”
If only he knew I didn’t prize a modeling contract at all. We kept up a slow pace.
“Got a busy day ahead?” I asked. It felt awkward, but I had to make some kind of move toward hanging out together again. I didn’t want to leave things to chance.
“No plans, really,” he answered, unaware of where I was going with this. That meant I had to give him another hint.
“I’m headed to the bookstore. You’re welcome to come along, if you want to.” There, I said it.
Brent’s dimple deepened. He seemed flattered.
“I want,” he said simply. That made us both chuckle bashfully. For the short silence that followed, we both kept our eyes on the swirling leaves on the sidewalk as we slowly strolled. I couldn’t believe I just asked a guy out. Well, sort of.
“Your friend Pam’s been checking out my Flickr shots of Cynthea Bey,” Brent said, leading the conversation.
“Yeah, she told me.” I was glad the awkwardness had past. “She really likes your images.”
“I haven’t even posted the best ones yet. I haven’t had time to update the stuff on there in a while.”
“I know what you mean.” I started to complain about my lack of time-management skills when something caught my attention. A delivery man carting boxes stacked up on a dolly barreled onto the sidewalk toward Brent. “Watch out,” I warned.
I reached out and touched Brent’s arm to alert him. He was wearing a sleeveless bubble vest, and I could feel his muscles through his long-sleeved polo shirt. I had no idea his arm would be so firm. Without realizing it, I let my hand linger before I finally moved it.
Brent narrowly escaped impact by stepping closer to my side of the sidewalk.
“I’m never gonna break even with you, huh?” he teased, the sun sparkling in his smiling eyes. “Now I owe you for saving my life.”
We were still laughing when we walked into the bookstore a minute later.
The two-seater reading nook by the window was the perfect spot for us to chill. We stacked a few book and magazine selections on our shared table.
“So, any luck getting sports photography assignments?”
“Actually, yeah,” he said. “I’ve been talking with my school paper’s sports editor about covering some games.”
“That’s great.” I so admired how proactive he was being about this new goal.
“And you? Got your ticket to that summer camp yet?”
“I’m still coming up short in the cash
department,” I admitted. “It’s about figuring out the best way to earn the money.”
“Well, if you make an impact on the modeling contest, you’ll be in the running for the cash prize,” Brent said as if it were common knowledge.
“Really? There’s a cash prize?” I leaned closer to him, my eyebrows raised.
“Aw, man,” Brent grunted. “I didn’t realize that was privileged info.” He suddenly looked troubled. “Let me rewind— can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
If it hadn’t been for the knock on the storefront window, I might’ve stayed in shock from the news. From the sidewalk, Kelly was excitedly waving at us like we were all best friends. To make matters even more faketastic, she rushed inside to say hello.
“Um, please don’t mention anything about the cash prize.” Brent looked mad at himself for spilling the beans.
“No! I won’t tell her anything about this,” I assured Brent.
“Tell me anything about what?” Kelly was already on the scene and practically trembling with wide-eyed curiosity. She extended a hand to Brent. “Hey, I’m Kelly.”
Brent shifted uncomfortably in his seat and forced out a smile.
“Tell me anything about what?” Kelly repeated with eagerness.
“Nothing.” I downplayed the whole thing. “What’s up?” I asked, as code for What do you want?
“I was just popping in to introduce myself to our contest photographer,” She scanned both our faces for any clues. “But what’s with this hush-here-she-comes vibe here? You guys keeping secrets?”
“Brent, Kelly and I go back to childhood, and for as long as I’ve known her, she’s always been so … inquisitive,” I said, even though I meant “nosy.”
“Information is one of life’s best tour guides.” She smiled with contempt.
“Except when one is trespassing onto private property,” I singsonged back.
Brent’s eyes ping-ponged from me to Kelly and back again. It didn’t look like he was over his slipup, and this back-and-forth wasn’t helping him feel any better.
“Oh.” Kelly sounded as if she had just been poked with a straight pin. “I’m sorry—am I disturbing you guys? I didn’t realize we were allowed to hang out with the camera crew.”
That did it. Kelly’s observation seemed to push Brent’s guilty conscious into action.
“It’s okay—I’m heading out anyway.” He got up in a hurry. I wanted to leave with him. “I’ll catch y’all later.”
“See you around,” I called out after Brent, feeling sabotaged by Kelly.
Suddenly, Kelly looked deeply satisfied. She smirked down at me and walked off in the opposite direction, leaving me all alone in a nook for two.
Eight
I was going to have to miss yet another Saturday at work to attend the week-three meeting for the contest. My boss was cool about the first Saturday I missed. He thought the modeling contest was an unexpected and funny reason. But he might not be laughing this time.
Good thing my willingness to cover for everyone else had put me in a better position to ask for time off. But regardless of what the boss thought, my Saturdays were the quickest way for me to earn the money I needed for volleyball camp. I had to work two weekdays to equal the hours I got on just one Saturday. Because of my county’s code laws, the shop (and most others) weren’t open on Sundays.
While the idea of a contest cash prize was superexciting (not to mention, enticing), I couldn’t let that throw me off my solo fund-raising efforts. I chose to stick it out in this competition way before I even knew about the money. I wasn’t going to start letting it affect my decisions now.
Despite the pros and cons of missing a Saturday, come that morning, I reported to Teawood’s performing arts center instead of Art Attack. My boss scheduled me for that afternoon so that I didn’t have to miss the whole day. Unfortunately, that meant I wouldn’t be putting in as many hours as I could’ve had I started in the morning. But it was better than nothing.
I wished my parents weren’t always so firm. Would it kill them to fund my summer camp a year early? Would it kill them to change their minds?
“We’d lose credibility with you kids,” my dad liked to explain. “And you all would think our words mean nothing.”
Somehow, it never felt they were doing this for us.
The theater looked much larger with its empty rows of seats. I’d been there with my family months earlier to catch the summer-stage August Wilson play. It had seemed a lot stuffier and tighter then.
“Welcome,” I heard Monica, the judge from Cynthea Bey’s modeling agency, say from the stage. “Please take a seat in the front rows and we’ll get started in a few minutes.”
I made my way to the front and scanned the seats for a spot. “Hi.” I offered a friendly greeting to the contestant who made eye contact with me. But she blatantly didn’t respond. At least not verbally—the shady side glance she threw at me was clearly another form of communication.
I thought I was early, but it looked like most of the girls had arrived. Everyone deliberately left an empty chair or two between themselves and the next girl. Although it was Week Three and there were nine contestants left, I had to sit in the third row just to keep up with the spacing. I made the effort to sit closer, but the girl I was going near shot me a fake smile right before dropping her bag in the chair two seats away from her.
I couldn’t get used to how uncomfortable this felt for me. The tension sucked. Opponents on the volleyball court are way friendlier to one another. The girls in this contest would straight-up diss you when they were ready. Plus I felt like a big imposter among these stylish, pretty girls.
It’s not that I expected this to be a sisterhood. Each girl was absorbed in her own world. And then there was the fact that we were all competing against one another …
A clang sounding from the stage grabbed my attention. A photographer’s camera stand had tipped over and one of the other assistants was setting it upright again. Behind that assistant was Brent, unraveling an orange extension cord for the large lighting equipment.
It was nice to see him. He looked so professional up there among all that equipment. I kept watching as he unloaded more gadgets and plugged and unplugged wires from every direction.
How such a simple act could be so mesmerizing is beyond me. There wasn’t anything else to watch. The other girls were either touching up their makeup in compact mirrors, texting people on their cell phones, or zoning out on their iPods. I was interested in the stage setup, and not just because of Brent. I’ve always been crazy about the stage—as an audience member and not an actual entertainer. My family caught a production or two every year. For me theater is as gripping as a juicy book or a sci-fi movie.
“So, congratulations on your jump in online popularity.” Kelly’s voice sounded so distant. As usual, the action onstage had pulled my attention away from reality. She had to repeat herself to get me to snap me out of it.
Kelly was fashionably almost late again and she’d slipped into the chair next to my bag without me realizing.
“Oh … thanks.” I blinked until her face came into focus. She looked red-carpet and wind-machine ready, as always.
Had she seen me staring at Brent?
As if hearing my thoughts, Kelly’s eyes searched the stage for the object of my fascination. Like a cat using its sixth sense, her eyes lingered on Brent before looking back at me. I could tell she wasn’t going to leave well enough alone.
“Don’t they have a great photo team?” she asked innocently. The question was bait. She was fishing.
“Yeah,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible. Keeping my answers short was my only protection.
“Psst” came the soft whisper from the stage at that moment. I didn’t think Brent would be hissing for my attention—nor would I respond to any guy who called me like that. But still, the unexpected sound sent my eyes up to Brent like a reflex.
Kelly’s expression showed that she had caught the big ka
huna. She smirked to herself as she glanced from Brent’s face to mine. I pretended to be equally interested in the whole crew.
“Sorry about the other day in the bookstore,” Kelly offered with a smidge of genuine warmth. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No worries,” I told her, unsure whether she was setting me up for something. Kelly and I had always managed to stay cordial with each other—no matter how crazy our parents would get. Now that we were older and competing again, I was sure her mother wasn’t acting nearly as crazy as mine. But it was understandable that my mother was freaking. Kelly and her mother were probably chillin’ because they couldn’t possibly feel threatened by me.
“This is turning out to be a fun contest,” she said.
“I know.” I turned to face her. “And I’m surprised I even made it this far.” The minute I said it, I regretted setting myself up for her response.
“I’m surprised you made it this far too.” She smiled as if she had just told me something sweet.
I could hear the TV announcer in my head now: This gotcha moment was brought to you by the gullible heart of London Abrams. (Batteries sold separately.)
The three judges walked onstage with grande-size drinks in hand. I noticed them right away, but for the iPod-plugged contestants, Didier put down his drink and clapped a few times. The acoustics carried the sound to our seats and everyone sat up.
“Ladies! Ladies!” he bellowed in perfect stage-actor pitch. “Thank you for joining us. Congratulations on making it through to the third week.” His grin showed gusto for the progressing contest.
“You should all be proud of yourselves,” Asha chimed in with a quarter of Didier’s enthusiasm. “Your true personalities showed through in the photos that are receiving so much attention online right now. But today we’re asking you to try something different.” She walked around and dished out lots of eye contact for extra impact. “We’re not meeting in a theater for the great elbow room,” she continued. “We’re here because today you will step into a character of the stage. We’ve collected an impressive line of famous costume designs from theater’s most famous musicals.”
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