by Tyra Banks
Giving Tookie a hurried wave, Lizzie quickly ran down the hot Peppertown sidewalk. Tookie’s eyes tracked Lizzie as far as she could see. Her last view of her troubled friend was of Lizzie stooping to pick something up from the ground. Tookie shut her eyes, devastated, when she realized what it was.
Another sharp rock.
3
DA-TAHHHH!
3434 Pepper Lane, the home of Tookie De La Crème. Ah, the De La Crème residence! A splendiferous, luxurious palazzo of a dwelling with a marble façade, grand archways and columns, wrought-iron balconies at its second-floor bedrooms, and a fountain in the center of the yard, complete with a nude male statue with rippling musculature. Truly glorious! The crème of the De La Crèmes! We all wish we could abide in such a grand abode!
But be careful what you wish for, dahling. All that glitters is sometimes gold-plated.
What’s that? There, in the corner, in the foundation near the koi pond and the birdbath made of bronze. That zigzagging line shaped like a witch’s profile. Is that … a crack? And there, next to the crack, that silvery mass crisscrossed on the stucco—that can’t possibly be duct tape? Watch your head! Did a chunk of slate just fall off the roof?
Surely your smoky eyes have deceived you. Surely these patterns of fissures in the foundation are just decorative elements. The De La Crèmes have nothing to hide.
Or do they?
Tookie walked up the seven stairs that led to her front door, tripping on the crooked third step. Another piece of slate broke off from the roof and fell to the ground, nearly slicing her skull in two. “Oh my God,” she murmured. She’d have to tell her parents about how the roof almost tried to kill her.
After steadying herself, she stood with her fingers on the door handle, hesitating before she entered, wishing she didn’t have to cross the threshold but knowing she had nowhere else to go. This was her home.
She opened the door and tripped again, first over a cardboard box that said CREAMY DE LA CRÈME on the shipping label. When she shut the door, goose bumps immediately rose on her skin, and her sweaty locks nearly turned into coil-shaped icicles. Tookie’s mother insisted that their home’s thermostat be kept at almost subzero temperatures at all times to combat the blazing Peppertown heat. Plus, she said people looked “fresher” when they were cold. Tookie then heard the banging of pipes and the whoosh of water spewing through taps. It sounded as though all the sinks, showers, and bathtubs were running simultaneously.
“Brown spot,” her mother’s voice rang out. Then a hollow clunk. “Brown spot,” her voice called again. “Ach! Another brown spot!” Clunk.
Tookie swept into the kitchen, which looked gleaming and new if one didn’t peer very closely. The unused appliances shone. The pots and pans hanging over the island had price tags on them. The teapot was resting on a stovetop burner, tape covering the spout. A knife set still lived in its shrink-wrapped packaging. But if one were to go around the room with a not-very-strong magnifying glass, it would soon become clear that duct tape, electrical tape, caulk, industrial-strength glue, and other binding agents held the walls upright.
“I am having a panic attack right now!” Mrs. De La Crème exclaimed. Tookie’s mother loomed over the kitchen counter, holding a bunch of bananas by the fingertips of one hand, examining their skins with a photographer’s loupe. Her other arm held Bellissima, a lifelike baby doll dressed in a multilayered butter-yellow dress with lace trim, complete with a pacifier in her mouth. Bellissima was Mrs. De La Crème’s favorite doll from her extensive collection. “I thought this banana was spotless, but it has one tiny brown speck! Yuck!” She tossed the banana into the trash.
Today, Mrs. De La Crème—or Creamy, as she insisted everyone call her, including her children—wore a perfectly tailored white one-piece pantsuit with dramatically pointed shoulder pads and a cinched belt to accentuate her small waist. A badge hanging around her neck said REGIONAL MANAGER, followed by the logo for Perfecta-Fecta, the beauty department store for which she worked. It was a very good job for a Metopian, a million steps above working in a factory.
She’d pulled her dark hair into a Très Jolie twist that was so severe it stretched the skin around her forehead and eyes, making her look startled. And though her body and soft, lineless, tan-skinned hands were remarkably well preserved, her face was a different story. Thick makeup clumped heavily in permanent lines on and around her mouth. Deep crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of her eyes all the way to her ears. Even her nose was covered in wrinkles.
Tookie hoped that whatever her mother’s affliction was wasn’t hereditary.
“And this one? Too yellow!” Mrs. De La Crème went on. “I need green ones only!”
Her gaze fluttered to Tookie. For a moment, she looked through her daughter the same way everyone at school did. Then she blinked, bringing Tookie into focus. “Ah. Hello, dear. You haven’t been picking bananas out of the garbage bin and putting them back onto the counter, have you?”
Tookie blinked, her mind struggling to shift directions. “Um, n-n-no …”
“Well, someone has.” Then Mrs. De La Crème thrust a small jar of pickles at Tookie. “Can those baby fingers of yours dig out a gherkin for me? I’m starving.”
Tookie wiggled her small, slim fingers. Her mother was always talking about how delicate and dexterous they were, perfect for sewing small stitches or digging items out of tight jars. Tookie eyed the lush fruit in the waste bin. Bananas weren’t the only items in the trash pile. There were mouthwatering grapes, two perfectly ripe avocados, and three tomatoes whose skins had just turned from green to red.
Then Tookie moved over to turn off the sink faucet, which was indeed gushing brownish water. “Don’t you dare!” Mrs. De La Crème screamed, and Tookie froze. “I’m keeping all the taps open until T-DOD! Water must flow continuously into this house! And when our SMIZE comes, we must catch it!”
Tookie stepped away from the faucet. Every year, on the eve of T-DOD, the world’s reservoirs ran dry because everyone kept their taps open, looking for a SMIZE.
The television was on behind them, and a reporter, coincidentally, was reporting on the hidden SMIZEs. “Now four SMIZEs have been found,” the man said excitedly. “A gang of hooligan females spotted the device floating in a condemned swimming pool in PitterPatter today. They rushed the barbwire fence and dove into the murky, stagnant, unfit-for-human-contact water. An underwater riot broke out, severely injuring three girls. One is in critical condition at Shivera hospital.” The screen showed the girl who’d battled for the SMIZE and won. She was covered in pond scum and had a mix of black muck and blood all over her face and body, but she held a glittering, golden glasses-shaped object over her head and whooped with glee.
“Hmph,” Mrs. De La Crème said, folding her arms across her chest. “That disgusting creature does not deserve a SMIZE. Not like The Myrracle does.”
Then the news shifted to a different story. “There is still no word on what has happened to the world’s most famous Intoxibella, Ci~L,” the anchor said. “The official word is that she’s gone on hiatus, but rumors have surfaced that something darker has happened to her. Abduction. An airborne terminal illness. A mental breakdown. Keep in mind, this is a woman who has been very forthcoming about how her childhood was spent in a place without a single mirror. One can only assume how that might psychologically impact a person as they reach adulthood. But let’s pray that our formidable Triple7 is soon on the mend!”
Mrs. De La Crème glowered at the picture of the effervescent Ci~L that had popped on the screen. “Uch,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s pray that she stays missing forever.”
Mrs. De La Crème suddenly started to applaud and Tookie’s stomach dropped. She knew what was to follow. Sure enough, Myrracle spun into the house, followed by her best friend, Brian. Myrracle and Brian bobbed in unison to music only the two of them could hear.
They jumped and spread their feet out, arched their heads back, rolled up through their
torsos, and pointed at Tookie and Mrs. De La Crème. Every limb on Myrracle’s body, every joint, moved gracefully and fluidly and with the utmost confidence. It was impossible for anyone, even Tookie, to take their eyes off her. Even though she was thirteen and Tookie was fifteen, she was more womanly than Tookie in every way—she’d even developed faster, getting her period earlier that year. Tookie still hadn’t gotten hers yet.
With a couple more hip rolls and knee dips, Myrracle and Brian slid to the floor with their arms spread out as Myrracle exclaimed, “Da-tahhhh!”
Mrs. De La Crème applauded tepidly. “Myrracle, baby, it’s not da-tah—it’s ta-dah. And what have I told you? Every hallway is a runway, not a dance hall! What you need to be doing is practicing your walk!”
“But I love dancing.” Myrracle pouted.
“Yes, honey. I know. But you don’t love it better than becoming an Intoxibella, do you?” Mrs. De La Crème shrieked.
Myrracle looked torn, like she didn’t know how to answer.
“I think dance will help Myrracle on T-DOD.” Brian wrapped his arm around Myrracle’s shoulder. His voice was both feathery and sharp. “Right, doofus?”
“It’s true, Creamy,” Myrracle whined, not noticing Brian’s insult—she usually didn’t. “What I have to do first to prepare is to get my dancing to perfectness-ness. That way, I can pose the best of the rest in a vest and pass the test and be the guest and walk with zest unlest they want me to walk from the east to the west and …” She launched into a tap number.
“Stop it!” Mrs. De La Crème yelled.
“So my baby girl wants to be a professional dancer like her daddy,” boomed a voice from the doorway. “I thought your routine was fantastic.”
In the doorway stood Mr. De La Crème. He was much younger than Tookie’s mother. A stained black unitard cut deeply into his flesh. His once-powerful muscles sagged. He swept across the room, scooped Myrracle up, and spun her around. He closed his left eye, which was made of glass, an unfortunate souvenir of an acrobatic performance gone awry many years ago when he was The Incredible Chris-Crème-Crobat and not just Christopher De La Crème.
“Are you excited, pumpkin?” Mr. De La Crème asked Myrracle, sweeping past Tookie like he didn’t even see her. Usually, he didn’t.
Myrracle lowered her eyes. “I guess. But I’m frightening too.”
“Scared?” Brian snorted. “Honey, I didn’t know your li’l ol’ brain could be scared. And anyway, girl, they’re gonna choose you for sure.”
“My baby girl, finally walking in The Day of Discovery.” Mr. De La Crème wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. Indeed, now thirteen years old, Myrracle was finally participating in the grand event. There wasn’t an official minimum age for who could compete during T-DOD, but no one younger than thirteen had ever been chosen.
Then Mr. De La Crème pulled a chair out from the kitchen island. “Sit down, Myrracle, baby. Rest your feet.”
“Oh, Christopher, will you stop smothering her?” Mrs. De La Crème said brusquely. Then she leaned down and brushed a stray hair from Myrracle’s forehead. “My, my. We need to get you to the salon so Perry can do something with those atrocious split ends!”
Mr. De La Crème shot his wife an icy glare. “Woman, how stupid do you think I am? You just want to get her to that damn salon so you can do whatever you do with Perry while Myrracle is under the dryer! I see how you look at him.”
Mrs. De La Crème thrust her nose in the air. “How dare you insult me and accuse me of such filth! And who are you, mister one-eyed ex–circus star who spends his nights boozing?”
Mr. De La Crème roared back, “At least I don’t cheat on your ol—”
“Stop it!” Myrracle whined, and both parents froze. “Back to me, everyone! I’m the most important girl in the room, ’member?” Her voice and face were so adorable that the tension was momentarily forgotten.
Tookie popped another baby gherkin into her mouth, feeling as irrelevant as the bananas in the trash can. She spied the Peppertown Press and picked it up, a welcome distraction from being invisible in her own home.
“Give me that, Tookie!” her mother said, snatching it from her hands. “I haven’t read the paper yet, and you know I cannot stand touching it after anyone else has had their dirty hands on it.” She thumbed through the pages. “Ha! The police are moving in closer on that fugitive baroness!” She read the article aloud: “ ‘Authorities believe the baroness may have fled to Terra BossaNova, although they have no firm proof. They are working with BossaNovian local authorities to track down this evildoer, who has ruined the lives of tens of thousands and scarred the image of the annual Intoxistakes event, in which second-year students travel to Striptown and gamblers bet on which girls will become Intoxibellas upon graduation.’ ” She looked up. “I hope they find that shady wench. We lost most of our savings trusting her!” Then she flipped to the next page. “Oh, look! There’s a sale on teakettles at—”
“Woman!” Mr. De La Crème said through clenched teeth. “You still have a brand-new unused kettle on the stove! And you don’t even drink tea because you say the leaves are dried-up and stale.”
Mrs. De La Crème stared at him. “Tookie, make me some tea.”
Tookie flinched. “B-b-but Creamy, you d-d-don’t like—”
“D-d-duh,” Mrs. De La Crème imitated nastily. “Spit it out!”
Tookie glanced at the floor. For as long as she could remember, the sight and sound of her mother had caused her heart to flutter, her palms to sweat, and her tongue to stammer. Mrs. De La Crème dragged Tookie to every speech pathologist in LaDorno, but the mother-specific stammer could not be cured.
Mrs. De La Crème rolled her eyes, exasperated. “What did I say, Tookie? Make. Me. Some. Tea. Now.”
Tookie shrugged and took the tape off the teakettle’s spout. She placed it under the gushing tap, filled it, and placed it on the stove. Suddenly, a tiny yellowish bubble spewed out of the running faucet. This wasn’t unusual; off-color water was a common sight in the De La Crème household because of the home’s broken water filters.
Tookie scampered to the cabinet, snatched a mug, and dropped a bag of mint tea into it. Moments later, she ran back to the boiling kettle and relieved it of its howling. She poured the scalding water over the bag and handed the brew to her mother, who scowled at the cup. Mrs. De La Crème defiantly looked over to her husband, then brought the cup to her nose.
“Smelling is not enough, Creamy,” Mr. De La Crème taunted. “Drink it.”
Tookie turned back to the tap. The small yellow bubble began to expand, filling half of the kitchen sink. Then it changed color, from spicy red to soothing blue to emerald-green and, finally, to a plethora of yellows. It was strangely beautiful. Tookie carefully picked up the bubble with her hands. And then, before her eyes, the bubble flattened itself and transformed into cellophane-thin, golden cat’s-eye sunglasses without the frames.
“Oh!” Myrracle screamed, staring at Tookie. “Look!”
Mrs. De La Crème noticed it too, and dropped the teacup from her hand. It crashed to the floor. “Is it … could it be?”
“Our ship has come in!” Mr. De La Crème exclaimed.
Tookie looked from her sister, Myrracle, to the true miracle that had taken shape in her hands.
A SMIZE.
4
91% CHANCE
Tookie’s body tingled. She was holding a SMIZE in her hands. Her. A Forgetta-Girl.
The SMIZE was made up of ornate eye-shadow-like flourishes in strokes of taxicab-, Dijon-, baby-chick-, banana-, and lemonade-yellow. Thinner than a sheet of paper, it was surprisingly heavy, and seemed to hum ever so slightly as it rested in Tookie’s palms.
Mrs. De La Crème stalked up to Tookie. Mr. De La Crème was in perfect step behind his wife. Brian shoved Myrracle forward and joined the SMIZE parade heading in Tookie’s direction.
“Slowly, Tookie, dear,” Mrs. De La Crème advised. “Hand … it … over.”
Tooki
e hesitated, then stretched out her arms, feeling a little sad to part with the beautiful membrane. Her arms wobbled. “Careful!” Mr. De La Crème roared. “Don’t want those scraggy twigs of yours dropping our future!”
Tookie’s mother’s breath quickened and her wrinkled face started to turn blue.
Mr. De La Crème patted his wife’s arm. “Calm down, Creamy. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Excuse me!” Mrs. De La Crème shot him a look. “I cannot believe your flabby coach-potato ass has the audacity to tell my hardworking firm one that everything will be okay!”
Mrs. De La Crème placed Bellissima on the kitchen counter and scooped both hands into Tookie’s palms. As the SMIZE was pulled away from her, Tookie felt a pang; her moment of being special in some way had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
Mrs. De La Crème brought the SMIZE under an overhead light. Brian, Mr. De La Crème, and Myrracle gathered around and stared. Tookie had to stand on a chair to get a partial view of it. Soon the SMIZE began to shake. Waves of yellow of every shade popped out from all sides.
A miniature flag emblazoned with a SMIZE then deployed from the middle of the object, fluttering in its own mild breeze. Words began to scroll through the air.
Mrs. De La Crème began to read, in a clear, haughty voice: “ ‘Congratulations, De La Crèmes!’ ”
“De La Crèmes? It can see us?” Mr. De La Crème wondered worriedly. He began to flit around the room, removing duct tape from various holes and cracks and tidying as much as he could. “We can’t let them see the place like this!”
Mrs. De La Crème sucked her teeth and shook her head at her husband before continuing to read the words that floated in the air. “ ‘You hold in your tea-drenched hands the seventh and last Day of Discovery SMIZE. What girls everywhere dream of having! The wearer of this SMIZE has a ninety-one-percent chance of being discovered on The Day of Discovery …’ ”