by Tyra Banks
“Ninety-one-percent chance? Ha!” Mr. De La Crème boasted. “My Myrracle will be batting a thousand!” He hobbled around, throwing out the tea bag, crumpling the newspaper, and crawling on his knees to glue the broken granite tiles back together.
“If you don’t stop,” Mrs. De La Crème said, glaring at him, “I’m going to poke out your other eye.”
“ ‘… which, we are elated to inform you, improves the De La Crème offspring’s chances of fame and fortune. Perhaps you’d be able to rid yourselves of this ramshackle asylum should your spawn reach the pinnacle of success.’ ”
“We’re going to be rich!” Brian yelled.
“We?” Mrs. De La Crème eyed him suspiciously. Then she continued. “ ‘Might I bring your attention to the myriad of golden colors on the SMIZE. When choosing your attire for The Day of Discovery, pay close attention so that your ensemble complements and does not clash with this precious SMIZE specimen. Many of the left-behind nine percent of SMIZE holders during previous Days of Discovery deviated from dashing dress design decisions. You have been warned!’ ”
“Creamy, Creamy! I have the perfect dress!” Myrracle yelped.
Mrs. De La Crème read the last of the air message. “ ‘May your clothes click, your hair shimmer, your face glimmer, and your stride glide. Bonne chance, De La Crèmes! And maybe, just maybe, we’ll see you at Modelland.”
A siren blared, and fine print with no spaces between words scrolled almost faster than Mrs. De La Crème could read:
“ ‘Now for the rules: The wearer of the SMIZE must only wear it in the Day of Discovery Square. It must only be worn by a female. Do not inform others that you possess a SMIZE. Although the SMIZE comes from water, do not get it wet.
“ ‘Violation of these rules may cause serious side effects: face-aches, nausea, vomiting, blurry vision, visions of fashion-police brutality, designer knockoffs knocking you upside the head, stinging bees in your hair bonnet, biting wolves in cheap clothing.’ ”
The words disappeared, the colored ribbons and the flag retreated, and the SMIZE let out what sounded like a contented sigh.
Tookie turned and stared at Myrracle, whose cheeks were pink with pleasure. So it was really happening. Myrracle was really going to walk on The Day of Discovery, that mysterious, elusive, galvanizing event that had driven everyone into frenzied mania.
Tookie knew she shouldn’t be surprised—her parents had talked of little else all year. On the chalkboard in the corner of the kitchen was a training schedule, listing the times and dates for Myrracle’s walking, posing, facial expression, pouting, and phonics classes. Trophies from Myrracle’s dance competition victories crowded the mantel in the den. Eight crowns hung from hooks on the wall in Myrracle and Tookie’s shared bedroom, each saying THE MOVER OF METOPIA in glittery letters across the front. Myrracle had won the Mover of Metopia contest every year she’d competed—it had become so predictable that few in Metopia even bothered entering anymore.
But still, Tookie felt like this moment had snuck up on her. With the SMIZE’s help, Myrracle was almost sure to go to Modelland, that misty, spooky, mysterious place atop the mountain. What actually happened there?
“So, listen up—on The Day of Discovery, we’ll take Myrracle to the city square very, very early in the morning to get her ready,” Mrs. De La Crème was saying to the group. She started counting things off on her fingers. “It will be me, your father, Tookie …”
“M-me?” Tookie interrupted, so startled that she straightened to her full six feet. “Wh-why do you need me?”
“Yeah, why does she have to come?” Myrracle wrinkled her nose, looking slightly … jealous. Suddenly, a tiny flutter of hope rose in Tookie’s chest. Was it possible her parents wanted her to walk too?
Mrs. De La Crème sank into one hip. “Isn’t it obvious? We need your baby fingers to fasten the buttons and zippers on Myrracle’s dress. And to get my baby gherkins out of the jar for me while she’s walking. You know my gherkins calm me down when I’m nervous.”
“Oh,” Tookie said quietly, feeling a little ridiculous that she’d thought for a moment that they wanted her to walk on T-DOD.
“I suppose it will be funner-er if you’re there, Dookie,” Myrracle said in a conciliatory tone.
“Tookie,” Tookie said, feeling a barb of anger.
“That’s what I said!” Myrracle protested.
Yeah, right, Tookie thought. She noticed Brian snickering behind his hand.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Myrracle said, frustrated. “I’m on my periodical right now! It makes me forgetful!”
“It’s period, not periodical!” Tookie growled.
Myrracle smirked. “How do you know? You haven’t even gotten yours yet!”
Tookie turned away, her face flooded with heat. Myrracle never resisted the urge to remind her that she had gotten her period already, even though she was two years younger.
Then Myrracle suddenly ran out of the room, perplexing everyone. She returned moments later, swirling and twirling, wearing an elaborate flamenco-style fuchsia costume.
“Here’s my dress I’m gonna wear, Creamy! It moves like a chow-chow dancer when I do my model dance!”
“It’s cha-cha, girl, not chow-chow.” Brian stifled a snicker.
“And it’s walk, not dance!” Mrs. De La Crème sounded like she was going to burst a blood vessel. “Besides, the dress is hideous and has nothing to do with couture. Take that thing off. Congratulations, Tookie, that dress is now yours.”
Great, Tookie thought. Another that dress is revolting and will look marvelous on Tookie hand-me-up.
“Now, as for a Day of Discovery dress for my Myrracle,” Mrs. De La Crème continued, “Myrracle, Tookie, and I are going to LaDorno tomorrow, and we will find a dress that is fit for fashion, not flamenco.”
“But—” Myrracle whined.
“Me?” Tookie said again.
Mrs. De La Crème looked annoyed with both of them. “My decision is final. One of you will be trying on lots of dresses and the other will be busy picking them up.”
Everyone marched out of the kitchen—well, Myrracle danced. Only after they had all dispersed did Tookie realize she’d forgotten to tell her mother about the piece of roof slate that had nearly sliced her head open on her way in. Tookie dejectedly walked to her room, sadly realizing that the Forgetta-Girl had actually forgotten about her own forgettable self.
5
SMACKING INTO MIRRORS
A few minutes later, Tookie stood in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Myrracle. She was trying to enter the room, but a pile of leotards blocked her way, as well as a pair of toe shoes, two pairs of jazz shoes, and one stray sandal.
A long piece of duct tape bisected the room, separating Tookie’s side from Myrracle’s, but it made no difference—Myrracle’s mess had invaded every corner in the same way mildew grew on tub tile. Dirty clothes were piled on the floor. Makeup trays and brushes and used cotton balls and a pair of dirty socks lay strewn about Tookie’s otherwise neatly organized dresser. There was a sweat-stained leotard on Tookie’s pillow; ample-cupped bras that certainly didn’t belong to Tookie were draped across Tookie’s carefully made bed, and torn-out pages from Modelland magazines were scattered across the floor like leaves that had fallen from a fashion tree. Tookie tossed the bras, three pairs of dance shoes, and a variety of necklaces, bracelets, and leg warmers off her bed and onto Myrracle’s side of the floor. Every evening, Tookie flung Myrracle’s junk to her side. And every afternoon when she came home, it had all migrated back to Tookie’s side once more.
Tookie slumped down on her bed. Myrracle is walking on The Day of Discovery with a SMIZE, she thought once more. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much—everyone in her class was walking. Abigail, Zarpessa.
Zarpessa.
The image of Zarpessa and Theophilus kissing in the hall flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. If only Zarpessa hadn’t come up when Tookie and
Theophilus were having their moment! Had Theophilus really spoken to her? Would she ever get a moment like that again?
She closed her fingers around the newly defective T O OKE button. This piece of Theophilus fit perfectly in the heart of her palm, the metal pin cold against her dry skin. She gazed at its lacquered message.
T O OKE
Theophilus, oh, Theophilus. Tookie swooned. She closed her eyes and licked her lips.
Your salted-caramel eyes, Theophilus …
She imagined Theophilus right in front of her. She leaned toward him, her eyes closed, her lips caressing the air.
We can call our boy Tookophilus and our girl Thoodie!
She puckered and her lips connected with a solid, cold surface.
Theophilus, she thought. Oh, yes, baby. I’m so happy you’re giving me my very first kiss.
“What are you doing?”
Tookie opened her eyes. She was face to face with herself. Her lips were in contact with Myrracle’s full-length mirror. There, on the reflective glass, was the blurry outline of her broad, puffy lips. Tookie whirled around. Myrracle stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip.
Myrracle’s eyes glimmered. “Are you making in with yourself?”
Tookie ducked her head.
Myrracle pirouetted to Tookie’s perfectly made bed and flopped down on the mattress. “Who do you wanna kiss?”
Tookie turned away, clamping her mouth shut.
“Brian Quincy?” Myrracle teased.
“Ugh, no!”
“Who, then?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t feel bad about not doing kissing yet,” Myrracle said in a teasing voice. “It feels like a little wormy man is crawling in your mouth, anyways.”
A wave of humiliation rushed through Tookie. “Who says I haven’t kissed anyone?” Okay, so maybe it’s true, but is it written all over my face?
Myrracle sniffed. “Come on. But it’s okay. Doing kissing with yourself is better than doing no kissing at all, Dookie.” She giggled a little as she left the room, managing to drop a cardigan sweater, a tap shoe, and several gum wrappers on Tookie’s side as she left.
Tookie’s eyes popped open. Cold, chipped tile pressed against the bottoms of her feet. Icy wind gushed around her flannel hand-me-up pajamas. She wasn’t in bed, as she was supposed to be, but standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. How did I get here? She couldn’t remember turning the knob of her bedroom door, walking down the stairs, or padding through the hall.
She then looked into the dark room in front of her and gasped. Balanced on one hand in the center of the living room’s tattered carpet was her father, clad in a colorful unitard. His waist twisted in the air. His legs were bent at an awkward angle. His muscles strained and shook. An empty bottle of TaterMash, a colorless distilled beverage imported from Kremlingrad, lay tipped over on the floor. Next to it was a faded photograph of The Incredible Chris-Crème-Crobat, otherwise known as Christopher De La Crème. In the photo, Tookie’s father still possessed both of his green eyes. And he didn’t have the couch-potato paunch.
Tookie ducked behind the wall. When she was much younger, she’d assisted her father during many of his acrobatic practices; he’d even told her, lovingly, that they made a good team. And she had attended many of her father’s performances with the Circo del Soul troupe before his tragic accident. She could still remember that day in almost perfect detail—the sparkling-gold cover of the programs, the plush red velvet seats, the set-your-mouth-on-fire taste of the bag of Gouda-and-habanero-flavored popcorn, and the sharp, five-foot swords that pointed skyward all along the perimeter of the stage. Three tumblers juggling fire with their tongues while jumping on humongous translucent trampolines suspended over the audience had been the first act. Next was a group of ten-year-old girls, contortionists who had backflipped into deep, hot-pink-dyed swimming pools full of crocodiles. And then the lights had dimmed, and mysterious music filled the air. A single spotlight shone down on Tookie’s ripple-bodied father, the headlining star of Circo del Soul. Tookie had swelled with pride as her father looped and danced and climbed a dental-floss-thin wire.
Her father, the mighty Chris-Crème-Crobat, was going to execute a new move that evening. Circo del Soul had billed it as the first time any human had ever attempted such a feat. Mrs. De La Crème was full of pride that evening too.
However, right as Tookie’s father had reached the seventh-story landing on the stage, Mrs. De La Crème pulled out her mirror to add a bit of Wrinkle Redux to her tanned and hideously lined face—“I want to look my best when the cameras all turn to me after his feat is done,” she murmured. But the mirror caught a beam of light that shone right into Chris-Crème-Crobat’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. In a panic, he lost his footing and fell seven stories. Most acrobats would have had extensive injuries or even died, but not Tookie’s nimble father. He tucked his body and landed smoothly on his upper back, propelling himself forward into a smooth tumble. The audience erupted into cheers. Chris-Crème-Crobat then arched upward to stand from his backbend and face his adoring, applauding, whistling, screaming fans. Ever the devoted showman, he thrust himself forward into a deep bow, impaling his eye on one of the five-foot swords at the perimeter of the stage.
Tookie had wrestled past the security barricade and run to the stage. Pools of her father’s blood splattered the stage floor, along with pieces of flesh. And there, staring up at her, was her father’s eye. Disembodied, lifeless on the stage floor, gazing at Tookie accusingly as if asking, Why?
In the days that followed, Tookie was afraid her father would die. But when they’d gotten word that the blade had caused no brain or nerve damage, she’d rejoiced, which angered her mother. “Don’t you see?” she cried in Tookie’s face. “This is the end for him. He only has one damn eye. He’s damaged. Defective. Done!” Her mother had then calmed down and held Tookie’s shoulders. “It was a freak accident, okay. You and I do not have any idea where that beam of light came from that made him fall.”
Tookie had been only eight years old, but she’d fully understood what her mother was telling her: Forget what happened. Tell no one.
Tookie let out a loud sniff, caught up in the memory. Mr. De La Crème’s head shot up. His good eye squinted into the dark kitchen. “Who’s there?”
Tookie bit down on her bottom lip and didn’t move.
“I said, who’s there?”
Tookie slowly padded into the hall and showed her face. Mr. De La Crème ran over to the couch, tore open the packaging of a new chenille blanket, and quickly covered himself with it. “What the—”
“I’m sorry, Daddy!” Tookie said. “I was sleepwalking again!”
“You scared the hell outta me, girl!” he slurred.
Tookie backed slowly away. She pointed at the photo on the floor. “You doing your old routines?” she asked. “You’re still really good.”
Mr. De La Crème harrumphed. “In some quadrants, spying on people is punishable by death.” But as he ducked his head, Tookie saw a tiny smile flash across his face.
“You want me to spot you?” Tookie asked.
Mr. De La Crème considered the offer for a long moment. “Like when you were a wee little thing?”
Tookie grinned. This was the first time since the tragic incident he agreed to let her help him. Mr. De La Crème got on his hands and knees once more and spread his palms wide. “All I need you to do is watch. For two things. One, if it looks like I’m going to fall, you gotta warn me before I do, so I can right myself. Two, watch out for that mean mother of yours. Understood?”
“Absolutely, Daddy,” Tookie said. She watched as her father pressed into the handstand again, the veins in his arms bulging, his paunch shaking, sweat pouring down his face. Tookie stared at her father’s flabby stomach and glass eye. Her mother obviously loved him less, or had fallen out of love completely, now that he was defective. In a way, it only made Tookie connect with her father more: t
hey were two defectives in a world that was obsessed with perfection.
Suddenly, her father let out a groan and tipped over. Tookie jumped out of the way to avoid his heavy falling legs, which nicked the coffee table. “What the hell, girl?” he roared. His face had flushed as red as a spit-polished apple, and his hair was streaked with sweat. “Why weren’t you paying attention? Why didn’t you tell me I was out of position?”
“I’m sorry!” Tookie cried, instantly regretting her daydreaming. “I promise it won’t happen again!”
Her father stared at her for a moment, carefully examining her. A startled, disgusted expression flashed across his face, as if a light had flipped on inside his head. It was a look Tookie had seen before—but one he’d never explained.
“Just go. For all of us,” he said, waving her away.
Tookie’s feeling of being needed was replaced by an emptiness that now burned deep inside her. She resisted the urge to plead with her father and instead turned away and went back to bed.
6
STUNNING, STATUESQUE,
STROBOTRONIC STARS WITH STUPEFYING
STRATOSPHERIC STRUTS
Now it’s time to dish about LaDorno, dahlings, the most desirable quadrant in all of Metopia. Sunny skies. Pleasant seventy-eight-degree temperatures at all times—except on the beaches, where it’s a wonderful eighty-five. Warm, sweet-smelling seawater. Low humidity, without a cloud for miles. And when you breathe in, you inhale only fresh, crisp, unpolluted air. You want to live in this place, right?
You and the rest of the world, dahling.
See, bliss comes with a price in LaDorno: only the richest and most successful Metopians get to live there. But how do you qualify to reside in LaDorno? Well, the quadrant’s council puts you through a series of privacy-invading tests to prove your worth. Oh, they’ll scour your bank accounts, examining every purchase. They’ll interview your friends, your family, your employer, even the gentleman at the newspaper stand from whom you buy your Moneyed Metopian magazine every week. They’ll visit your house and check the labels on all your belongings. If they discover a knockoff handbag? Stamp—a big red DENIED on your LaDorno residency application. If they notice that your prized Pekingese doesn’t have the perfect pedigree? Stamp—DENIED.