“’Ello, girls,” Asha said as she joined Didier in her usual chair. Monica followed and sat down at the other end. The seat reserved for Cynthea Bey was between Asha and Monica. Even though it was an exact replica of the others, the chair had a more regal feel to it.
I swallowed hard. Facing Asha’s judgmental expressions would be difficult. I prepared myself for her pointy chin and sideways glances. But she didn’t look my way.
I wondered if the judges were going to ignore me the entire morning. It was almost as bad as them staring at me in disgust. I didn’t know which was worse.
The commotion at the back of the store signaled Cynthea Bey’s arrival. One of the photographers took a few snaps of her while she walked up to the store. The model was flanked by two assistants—one of whom had greeted her the day she pulled up to Chic Boutique during casting.
Cynthea looked like a mannequin brought to life. Her attire was much more glam on this day than the last time I’d seen her. She was standing tall in sexy heels with red soles and fishnet stockings. Her skirt was fitted, which showed off her silhouette. She topped off her look with an oversize cashmere shawl that was pinned closed with something blinging. Her hair was worn down, framing her famous face with a cascade of layered bone-straight strands. It was amazing how different she looked today.
All of this fanfare underscored how big this day was to Face, Chic Boutique, and Cynthea Bey. It reminded me how unlikely it was that I’d made it this far. It also made me want to beg the judges to rid me of my duties as a token contestant. This was too big a deal for me to be a part of. What did I know about modeling and looking fabulous? I never had the urge to stand in front of a wind machine. I was suddenly sorry that I signed up for the competition. I was sorry things had drawn out this far.
After breaking from the gaggle of people who crowded Cynthea with questions and updates, the megawatt star finally made her way to her seat behind the counter.
“Good morning, Maya,” she said, pausing to acknowledge the contestant in first place. “Good morning, Kelly,” continued, holding eye contact with the second-place contestant. “Good morning, London.” Her voice was just as welcoming as it had been for the other two girls. She warmly smiled at me, and the smile reached her eyes.
I swallowed hard—twice. Just hearing her say my name was a jolt. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The woman in the trench coat dress silently directed one of the three swarming camera crew members to take two steps closer to Cynthea for a better angle.
“I want to congratulate the three of you for making it to the final week of the competition.” Cynthea sat poised as she spoke. “I have been following everything closely and I am proud of the selections that Face Magazine’s readers have made. From this point on, though, the final choices will be ours.”
Asha finally pointed her chin in my direction. Her eyes darted from my boots up to my faux-hawk, then back down again. That was all I got before she went back to staring at Kelly and Maya. I shifted my weight from one foot to another. That tiny kitten heel was started to feel like a pebble underneath my foot.
“For this final challenge, we’ve invited a production team to come down to film your answers to the questions we will be asking you. We’ve seen what you can do, but today we’d like to hear directly from you. The chosen Chic Boutique model will be going on interviews and will be shooting online commercials, so we’d like to hear as well as see how you present yourself to the world.”
This is the final nail in my coffin, I thought. Oh, where was that emergency glass when you needed it?
“First up, Maya.” Cynthea’s smile faded and she focused her attention on Pixie. “Please step forward.”
Trench Coat Lady directed Maya to the strips of masking tape that marked an X in front of the counter. I could see the super-model in Maya creeping out as she walked up to it.
Seventeen
Pixie stood with both feet directly over the X. After a few seconds, she shifted her weight to one leg as she waited for Cynthea’s probing question.
“Maya Kwon,” Cynthea started, her torso leaning closer to the counter, “why do you think you should win this competition?”
Pixie looked down for a second, her hair falling to the front of her face. I’d seen her do this before when she wanted to gather her thoughts or prepare herself for something challenging. I wondered if when she did this, she paused time and astrally projected to some alternate universe where she was issued the right answer to say. Maybe while she was in that other universe, we were all frozen and would be none the wiser when she returned. Perhaps it was also during this time that Pixie threw on her Sasha Fierce costume—which, however powerful, was invisible to everyone else.
When she lifted her face, Pixie did indeed look more confident and ready to fire out a response.
“I think I should win this competition,” she began like a fifth grader trained to give the teacher full answers, “because to me, fashion isn’t about status, fads, or name brands. It’s about art, expression, and culture.” Nice start, I thought, but continued holding my breath for her.
“I’m someone who understands that clothes can make statements about our personalities, our moods, and our personal style. I love how Chic Boutique gives young people access not only to the latest trends but to the tools of self-expression. It would be an honor to represent Chic Boutique and be a part of the team that offers young women more options in self-expression. I enjoy interpreting the styles that the boutique has to offer and I know that my model ing will bring new meaning to clothes and more imagination to young people.”
There was a pause of silence after she’d spoken. Cynthea Bey and the judges reacted by adjusting themselves in their seats as if the spell they’d been under, which had transfixed them, had been broken when Pixie stopped speaking.
“Thank you, Maya.” Cynthea was visibly impressed. “That was lovely to hear.” She nodded a few times. “The judges and I want to congratulate you on a job well done these past few weeks. You’ve demonstrated your natural talent for modeling and you have a lovely personality to go along with that. So, thank you. It was a pleasure to have you in this competition.”
The judges echoed their thank-yous and Didier raised his coffee cup to salute Pixie.
I exhaled—for now.
“Next, Kelly Fletcher, please step forward.” Cynthea laid one hand over the other on the counter and waited for Pixie to relinquish the X spot to Kelly.
Kelly clickety-clacked her way over like a VIP cutting the line outside the X Spot club. Her paces seemed deliberate and choreo graphed.
I hated to admit that she looked more gorgeous than usual. Her open-sleeved belted dress had a straight-off-the-runway look to it. I didn’t recognize it as having come from Chic Boutique. I’d almost memorized every rack during last week’s challenge. Kelly’s makeup accented her almond-shaped eyes, and her lips were a perfect shade of burgundy. She folded her manicured hands in front of her and leaned on one hip as she placed her feet on either side of the X.
“Kelly,” Cynthea started once Kelly was settled, “why do you think you deserve to win this competition?”
Kelly answered right away, but in a voice I didn’t recognize. Her tone was softer than normal and at a slightly higher pitch. It was her way of trying to sound as innocent as possible.
“I think I deserve to win this competition because I have been working my entire life for this moment. I started modeling as a child, and I enjoyed the thrill of showing up on set and seeing the cameras set up, ready to capture my moments in front of them. It amazed me how easily I warmed up to the lens and how much fun it was. But all those times, I didn’t have a choice whether or not to show up to the castings. My family put me into the modeling business even before I was able to speak up for myself. And now that I’m older and I’ve had a chance to think about it, I discovered that I do love modeling. I was the one who took that step. No one forced me into it this time. It was my choice and I chose to
pursue modeling. And what better way to break back into it than through a modeling icon like you, Cynthea Bey, a professional I have admired for so long.”
Instead of silence following Kelly’s statement, exhales puffed out of the judges. It was as if they had all been holding their breath, hoping that she said all the right things. And in their opinion, she had.
Kelly’s response echoed in my mind. Hearing her story caused a ripple of understanding to flow through me. It made me realize that as an only child, she never fully had the freedom to do what she wanted. By comparison, my childhood was more freestyle—thanks to the hecticness of having twin brothers. There was no pressure to perform at an intense level. Even though I complained that my parents weren’t enthusiastic about my volleyball, I cringed when imagining them being overly obsessed with my stats and my game performances.
“Thank you, Kelly.” Cynthea offered the sincere comfort of her words. “And I too want to congratulate you on the fantastic presence in this competition. I can see why your family pushed you into modeling. You were made for it. And even if you change your mind and decide not to pursue a modeling career in the future, we are all confident that wherever you go, you will bring your inspiring brand of style to the people you come in contact with. We are truly proud of the professionalism you brought to every challenge—even when things didn’t go as smoothly as expected.” I gulped in shame at the reference to my outburst. “You have truly shown grace under pressure, and for that we thank you.”
Whatever Cynthea said next was muffled by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I was next to the X. As soon as Cynthea’s lips stopped moving, Kelly vacated the spot as confidently as she had approached it.
Suddenly, I felt the heat of the judges’ focus on me.
“London Abrams,” Cynthea began like clockwork, “please step forward.”
Thanks to my athletic team training, my body responded to the request and directed my size nines to the X. No one picked up on the fact that I was trembling. I kept my feet together and my hands linked behind my back. I mentally went over the answer I thought would work best for tonight’s question and prepared myself to deliver it.
“London,” the supermodel began, “what was your real reason for signing up for this competition?”
Eighteen
I was cold busted.
My mouth was so dry, my tongue stuck to the roof. I had to shake off the stunned look on my face quickly, before it got picked up by the cameras. Just the thought of how humiliated my parents would be if my reaction became a YouTube classic was sobering enough.
I swallowed down the lump of fear that was lodged in my throat. Cynthea and the judges expected a prompt reply and I was going to give them one.
My lips parted, but no dazzling explanation jumped out and performed a tap dance for them. There was no wannabe London left in there to come out. The jig was up, and the truth was all I had left.
“I signed up for the competition because I was hoping to use my filled-out application as a conversation piece. I wanted to get to know a certain someone better and I thought this was my only chance at doing it. Auditioning was something so far from my intentions.” The words flowed out of me. Telling the truth was easier once you got going. I continued, “And honestly, from the look of the superpretty girls on the casting line, I didn’t think I stood the slightest chance of even getting considered as a contestant. I mean, I’m not nearly as striking. It’s an accepted fact that I’m just not model material. But I was shocked when I got the call telling me that I was selected. I even thought the call was a prank!”
In an effort to control the wells of tears I felt flooding my eyes, I cleared my throat and paused to shift my weight to the other leg. Blinking right at this moment would send tears streaming, so I looked at the beams along the vaulted ceiling.
“All along, I was the only person truly counting myself out. The judges saw something in me that I didn’t.” My voice cracked. “And because of the amazing photography, the readers picked up on that same thing. Modeling for this competition didn’t call for anything but for me to be myself, and for that I’m grateful. I learned to have fun with different expressions of myself. So, no, I didn’t sign up because I had any deep-seated aspirations to be a model. But in the end, I have become a model. A model who not only represents the clothes but the girls who wear them. It was my pleasure doing this. I never thought of myself as a representative, but I’m proud to have been considered one.”
I used the judges’ reflective silence to wipe the tear that was tumbling down my cheek. How humiliating it was to be outed as a phony. Now all of cyberworld would know that I was boy crazy enough to join a competition I had no business being in.
There was nothing I could do to control the jaw-jacking that I was sure would follow.
I thought of Brent. He was nowhere on the set, but all I could think of was avoiding him for the rest of my time in Teawood or in New Jersey in general. I’d caused him enough trouble. The amount of wackiness that I had shown that boy was enough of an embarrassment to ensure that this was the last time I would plan on seeing him.
“Thank you, London.” Cynthea had regained her composure. While I was explaining my sordid tale, she blinked so many times, I was worried her false eyelashes would pop off. I didn’t get a look at the other judges, but from the quality of the silence coming from them, I could tell they too were taken aback.
“Your honesty was as refreshing as it was brave. For that you have my respect. And after talking things over with the judges, we were all impressed with the maturity in which you recovered in this competition. It’s not easy feeling like the underdog. But we agree that your place in this competition was an important one. You bring a unique face to the competition and your modeling skills jump out in a photograph. We were happy to have you participate.”
My maturity? I thought I acted like a complete brat. A total sore loser. It was validating to hear that the judges did take note of my apology and were willing to put it behind them. Not too many people would get such a second chance. I was humbled to hear this.
Cynthea’s nod indicated that I should return to my position next to the leather jacket rounder.
“Well.” Cynthea looked like she was as winded as we all were after those tense moments. Slowly, the air was getting more relaxed. The questions were over and the rest was up to the judges. “This concludes our very first Chic Boutique Model Search. I was proud of the contestants chosen, and now comes the hard part in deciding who will be chosen for our spring ad campaign. That answer will not come today.”
With that statement, Kelly, Pixie, and I all went from attention to at ease.
“Thank you for coming. Please report back here at the same time tomorrow for our official announcement. Don’t worry—we won’t keep you long. We know you’ll want the extra time to get ready for tomorrow night’s Face of Spring Gala.” The modeling search closing soiree was to take place the following evening, and workers had already constructed a stage for the event. Lots of boldfaced names from the industry would be in attendance and local press would be covering the grand event. All fifteen contestants were invited back to join the party.
At that moment, I couldn’t get out of Chic Boutique fast enough. As I was exiting the store, Kelly caught up to me.
“Hey, London,” she called out to me in the friendliest tone. The fakery was a show for the video camera crew, because her voice changed once we were outside the glass doors. “Can you hook me up with one of Brent’s inside tips to help me prepare for tomorrow? Oh, that’s right—he asked you not to tell me.” Before I could react, she strutted to the parked SUV waiting for her at the curb.
She knows that Brent told me about the cash prize. Or was she just playing mind games?
I walked home an alternate way in case anyone else wanted to catch up with me. I was in no mood for talking—I had done too much of that already. I don’t know if I was half-expecting the camera crew to follow me like I was on some reality T
V show. I would’ve been the perfect train-wreck character to glue eyes to the tube. I wasn’t going to allow myself to be anyone’s sideshow anymore.
“Hey, baby girl,” my dad called out when he saw me rounding the front walkway of our house. I’d dragged my feet all the way home, so by the time I got there, I had amassed a following of multicolored leaves around my feet. It was damn near ankle-deep but I didn’t care. Dad was stuffing a large gym bag in the trunk of his car. “I thought you were gonna text me when you were ready.”
Not having the wherewithal to verbally answer, I tipped my head to one side and shrugged in response.
The minute he saw the look on my face, Dad walked over to me before I could reach for the front door.
“Hey, hey,” he said soothingly as he wrapped me up in a bear hug. I buried my face in his chest and the tears flowed. “Just remember, you shook things up by joining this competition. That’s an admirable thing to do in a world where people stick to what’s safe. And that’s something you should never regret or be ashamed of. I’m proud of you.”
I didn’t want to break out the ugly cry in front of my house, so I nodded my thanks, then broke away and headed indoors. Before I could reach for the doorknob, Warren and Wyatt swung open the door and rushed out like two escapees.
“What’s wrong with London?” I heard them ask my dad.
“Give your sister some space,” he warned them. “And c’mon—you know your capoeira class starts in five minutes. Whatchy’all been doing in there?”
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