by Tyra Banks
Myrracle bounded down the stairs and did a full body wave when she reached the last step. The SMIZE rested gently in her palm. It glittered and hummed. A small case was in her other hand. “Da-tahh!” she cried.
“Time to go.” Mrs. De La Crème walked to the front door.
“No.” Tookie dug in her heels. “I’m not going.”
Mrs. De La Crème stopped short in the foyer, swung around, and stared at Tookie. “Have you lost your mind? Of course you’re going.”
The door gaped open. Mr. De La Crème stood by the car, Brian Quincy at his side. Mr. De La Crème wore his old Chris-Crème-Crobat costume, the exact costume he’d lost his eye in; he’d cut out the MODELLAND NEEDS A MYRRACLE! portion of his T-shirt and sewn it to the abdomen. There were even old brown spots on the fabric, evidence of the bright red blood that had stained the costume on the day his life had changed forever.
“We gotta go and we gotta go now!” Mr. De La Crème yelled. “I am not missing the countdown and the opportunity to change our sad excuses for lives. Plus,” he added, “I have an important appointment to get to after Myrracle is chosen.” He tapped his hip. Tookie could see the outline of her toothbrush underneath the pocket of his costume.
Mrs. De La Crème seized Tookie hard by the neck and walked toward the car. “No!” Tookie cried desperately, trying to wrench free. She swung her neck to the side of the house and saw the X-O-2 written on the tree. All she could think about was how desperate and scared Lizzie had seemed in LaDorno the day before. They’re going to kill me, she had said. What if Lizzie was telling the truth? Tookie’s gut told her that if they didn’t escape today, something dreadful would happen to her one and only friend.
Mr. De La Crème bounded over. “Look, girl,” he growled, grabbing Tookie roughly by the shoulders. “You need to get in the car and help your sister with the most important day of our lives.” He walked Tookie toward the vehicle and shoved her into the back of the car as one might shove a pan of bread into the oven. “In you go.”
Tookie was surrounded by garment bags, shoe boxes, makeup cases, hair sprays, and hair-straightening apparatuses. “Hold this,” Myrracle said bossily, shoving the SMIZE into Tookie’s lap while she buckled her seat belt. The SMIZE rattled inside its case, as if it were trying to escape. It was a feeling that Tookie understood far too well.
Tookie pressed her hands to the back window. As Mr. De La Crème started the car, Tookie’s ache for Lizzie cut so deep, she envisioned Lizzie standing just beyond the tree line, her flame-red hair wild around her face.
Then she sat up straighter. That wasn’t a vision. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Lizzie!”
Myrracle swiveled around and followed Tookie’s gaze. “Creamy, there’s a dirty girl in our yard.”
“Ugh.” Brian looked too. “She looks like roadkill.”
Lizzie took a few steps toward the car, as if she was considering chasing after it. Her shoulders drooped. Her mouth hung open. Her arms were heavy at her sides. She looked so small standing there. So helpless. If Peppertown ever had even the tiniest wisp of a breeze, it could have blown her away.
“Roadkill?” Mrs. De La Crème’s eyebrows arched. “Where?” She swiveled around to look at Lizzie too. Her eyes narrowed darkly.
Lizzie’s eyes popped wide, as if she’d just seen something that terrified her. She took a couple of wheeling backward steps, her hands trembling. And then Lizzie let out a shrill, window-shattering, eardrum-piercing scream, a sound that sent tremors through Tookie’s limbs. A sound Tookie would never forget as long as she lived.
“I’m so so so sorry!” Tookie called. Lizzie’s screaming was intensifying as Tookie moved away from her. “Lizzie, I’ll be back for you tonight! I promise!”
The car made a sweeping left turn onto the street, moving farther and farther away from the small red-headed girl. Lizzie’s screams persisted. Tookie could hear those loud, shrill, betrayed wails for blocks and blocks, reverberating over and over as the De La Crèmes drove down the wide avenue full of cars, all on their way to The Day of Discovery.
8
WELCOME TO T-DOD
Can you smell it, feel it, taste it? Oh, I can. And it tastes … ooooh … so sweet. And the sound? Deafening. Think about the loudest, most riotous crowd you’ve ever been in … and quadruple it. Then multiply that by the power of ten!
That is The Day of Discovery. And yes, my dahling, that delightful day has arrived.
The whole world is flooding to Metopia to see the delectable spectacle unfold. It takes place all over the planet, of course—on the sexy beaches of Terra BossaNova, on the strip of Striptown, round the Taj Gardens in Chakra—but there’s nowhere like Metopia for the most authentic experience. Modelland is right there, after all! At the top of Metopia’s highest peak. Everyone wants to see the Scouts’ first descent from the mountain and their final flight back into The Land, their capacious carriages full of new recruits.
But some visitors don’t trek from their corner of the globe just to see the Scouts’ initial descent. Some come to experience something else.
The Aftermath. The madness that affects the forsaken, the rejected, the unchosen, and the denied once all the Discovery after-parties have ended.
There are always some rejected candidates who just cannot accept Modelland’s decision. They are so sure they deserve a spot in the new class, so convinced that there has been a terrible mistake, that they embark on a pilgrimage up the Diabolical Divide in hopes that Modelland will see firsthand the grave oversight that has been committed.
Those intrepid females—the Pilgrims, as they are called—have tunnel vision so laser-focused that no one can convince them they’re mistaken. People call this debilitating illness the Plague. The first telltale symptoms are profuse sweating, massive headaches, and bulging veins.
This plague is worse than the one you might already be familiar with—the B one. Bubonic, that is. That plague induces seizures, fevers, chills, gland swelling, the upchucking of blood, and the decomposition of skin while one is still alive. But I will take the bubonic plague any day—for if it’s caught in time, it can be ousted from the body with a simple swallow of one of the two “mycins”: genta or strepto. The Pilgrim Plague, however, is terminal, dahling. And I am not referring to an airline departure lounge. None who have journeyed up the mountain have ever made it to Modelland. And none have returned to Metopia alive.
Now, doesn’t that send Shivera shivers all the way down to your sky-high stilettos?
By the time the De La Crème car pulled into downtown LaDorno, people had already spilled out onto the streets. Tourists lined the curb, gawking at every car that passed. An unnaturally bleached-blond, orange-tanned, middle-aged man sold pink, purple, and turquoise cotton candy in the shape of Intoxibella hairdos from the latest Modelland magazine fashion editorial—a sugary asymmetrical bob, a mess of candy curls, and a flossy nest of sharp-looking spikes. Everyone wore something Modelland related—T-shirts with a photo of the mystifying mountain on the front; hats with the eye logo; and dresses, shoes, and hats bearing pictures of Ci~L. The ravishing Intoxibella’s intoxicating eyes entranced Tookie, pulling her in. Once again, the merchandise was adorned with the slogan WHERE THE HELL IS Ci~L?
Tookie’s stomach lurched when she saw the shoulder bags a man was selling with photos of Exodus, the new teleportaling 7Seven, on them.
Exodus. Lizzie. She shut her eyes tight, Lizzie’s scream echoing in her mind.
Protesters also lined the sidewalks, holding up signs that said WOMEN, DON’T WALK! IT’S ALL A SHAM! T-DOD’S A CROCK. A PHONY EXAM! Overpowering all the spectators were the thousands upon thousands of candidates making their way to LaDorno Square. Homely girls, riveting girls, short and tall girls, droopy-eyed and doe-eyed girls, shapely-hipped and pigeon-toed and slew- and flat-footed girls, twig-limbed and ample-figured and athletic girls. All of them marched into the square with confidence. Tookie had forgotten that not all the participants were exactly Intoxibella qual
ity. She stared at them as they passed, envious of their guts and determination. Plus, none of them had to stand around helping their younger sisters realize her destiny.
As the De La Crème vehicle rolled toward a parking lot, Tookie’s mother leaned over to apply a puff of bronzer to Myrracle’s cheeks. “Now, Myrracle, you know that you must runway-walk the whole fifteen minutes the music is playing, right? No chassés, jetés, or pas de bourrées. You hear me?”
“I know, Creamy.” Myrracle opened her eyes wide to allow Mrs. De La Crème to apply mascara to her bottom lashes.
“And when the Scout chooses you, be gracious,” Mrs. De La Crème went on. “They appreciate good manners.”
“Your mother has been preparing for this very day since before you were born,” Mr. De La Crème said. He pulled into a handicapped parking space, beating another car to the spot. “Success,” he murmured, pumping his fist.
The De La Crèmes and Brian clambered out of the car and onto the street. Mr. De La Crème held the encased SMIZE under his arm like a football.
Mrs. De La Crème shoved Tookie’s large Exodus-slash-“accessories” bag into Tookie’s arms. “We have lots of work to do.” She held tight to Tookie’s wrist, pulling Tookie toward the town square, which was paved in bleached marble as far as the eye could see. Three sides of the square pulsated with throngs of spectators jockeying for position and participants preparing for the event. The fourth side offered a perfect view of the mysterious mountain, almost butting up against it. Six glittering fountains decorated the square, spewing effervescent plumes of water that sent unwitting tourists scurrying for cover. An enormous, exquisitely carved eight-story clock stood on the north side, and screens flanked the perimeter, many projecting images of the approximately one thousand other cities hosting chaotic Day of Discovery events all over the world. One screen showed girls standing atop a frozen lake in the town of Palinian. Others displayed candidates milling excitedly in a cleared-out sugarcane field in Kwaito, pelt-wearing tribal leaders dancing ceremonially around them. A third depicted a massive crowd of young ladies gathered around an auto racetrack in the city of FiveHundred.
There was an opening that offered a panoramic view of the Modelland mountain. Three obelisks stood at the base, pointing straight up into the sky—one sparkling ivory, one golden, one bisque that was covered with spots. No one knew who had built them—they’d appeared overnight six months ago. But the Obscure Obelisks, as they’d come to be called, attracted their own gathering of spectators, many carrying religious icons, who believed that the structures were significant to them. Others posed, allowing friends to take pictures of them with the obelisks in the background.
“Those damn ugly-ass obelisks,” Mrs. De La Crème muttered as she walked. “They block the view of the mountain.”
I don’t think they’re ugly. Tookie gazed at them with wonder. I think they’re architecturally interesting. Unique. A mystery.
The De La Crème family continued through the square. Tourists, television cameramen and reporters, horse-mounted riot police, and Modelland hopefuls jammed the space. More girls were getting prepped in the tent areas around the perimeter of the square called Walkers’ Village.
“You’re dragging your feet, Tookie,” Mrs. De La Crème snapped. Finally they arrived at Walkers’ Village. They found a clear patch of grass and dropped their bags of gear. Most of the girls were changing in the open, their body parts exposed for the world to see.
“Not my Myrracle!” Mr. De La Crème boomed as he pulled a brand-new blow-up tent from the large duffel he was carrying. He pressed the automatic-inflation button and a white and cream striped tent staked itself to the ground. Mrs. De La Crème and Brian surrounded Myrracle, opening makeup cases and pulling out needles and thread and pins and scissors.
“Brian, open the duffel that Tookie brought,” Mrs. De La Crème commanded.
Brian unzipped the bag crammed with Tookie’s escape gear. “What the hell is this?” In each hand, he held a flashlight and a pillow. His eyes settled on Tookie.
“Oh, honey! Good thinking!” Mrs. De La Crème said, running to the bag. “Brian, bind these two flashlights to the tents ceiling for extra light. The pillows are perfect for Bellissima to nap on. And … green bananas … Tookie, you didn’t!”
Yeah, you’re right, I didn’t, Tookie thought bitterly. Those green bananas were supposed to last for a week, for her and Lizzie.
Mr. De La Crème and Brian waited outside the tent while Myrracle put on the gauzy, strapless vintage dress that was the exact color of her skin. The skirt fanned out nearly three feet from her slim hips, and the folds settled in such a way that the dress looked like the surface of an elegantly rippling ocean.
Tookie crouched down beside her sister and began fastening the row of hundreds of tiny buttons on the bodice, her small fingers expertly sliding each button through its loop.
Mrs. De La Crème grabbed a stack of bobby pins and began to fix Myrracle’s hair. Tookie moved closer to her mother, thinking this might be a good time to talk.
“Uh, C-C-Creamy?” she said softly. “After Myrracle is chosen, n-nothing has to change, right?” You’re not going to send me away to become a Factory Dependent, are you?
“Tookie, your father has made some hard decisions, but he is my husband, and I have to honor them,” Mrs. De La Crème murmured absently, applying gloss to Myrracle’s lips. “I should imagine things will change quite a bit.”
Tookie gasped. “So does that mean …”
But Mrs. De La Crème had already turned away.
Tookie’s mouth hung open. So that was it. They really were sending her away. Tears pricked her eyes.
Finally, when Myrracle was finished, Mrs. De La Crème opened the case holding the SMIZE. She slowly lifted the lid and a glow spilled out, bathing the tent’s interior with multi-golden luminescence. She moaned in ecstasy.
“Come here, baby,” Mrs. De La Crème breathed. “Come to Creamy.”
Tookie wasn’t sure if her mother was speaking to the SMIZE or to Myrracle, but as if on cue, Myrracle glided as if in a trance toward her mother and placed her chin right into her mother’s cupped hands. The SMIZE sucked onto Myrracle’s face, wiggling itself into place, and rested above her eyes, its undulating colors creating the most magnificent eye-shadow effect Tookie had ever seen. Tookie resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke the SMIZE.
A gasp rippled through the crowd as soon as they saw Myrracle and her SMIZE. One girl who was biting her nails began to cry and another looked as if she was about to pummel Myrracle, but she made eye contact with Mr. De La Crème and backed off.
“Oooooooooooh,” Brian cooed, scuttling over to admire Myrracle’s gold three-dimensional eye shadow.
“Gorgeous, baby,” Mr. De La Crème seconded, lacing his fingers together. “Just gorgeous. With or without that thing.”
Tookie had to agree. Myrracle was a stunning girl, but the SMIZE made her beauty otherworldly. A smidgeon more stunning than the 7Sevens Tookie had seen the night before.
Riot police began to move the crowd behind the barricades, clearing the square. A shrieking whistle filled the air and all eyes turned skyward. A bowling ball–shaped man with a full white beard and mustache, twinkling little eyes, and a jutting chin, wearing a white top-hat, swept straight down into the now-empty square, supported by a harness. Tookie recognized him as Devin Rump the Sixth, the mayor of Metopia.
“Greetings!” Mayor Rump said. His voice echoed off the hard marble surfaces. Eetings. Eetings. Eetings. Members of the Quadrant Councils of Peppertown, PitterPatter, Shivera, and LaDorno and their spouses stood on the side stage. Each councilmember’s wife was decked out in the products his quadrant’s factories were famous for.
“I have the great honor of welcoming all of you from around the globe to the fashion capital of the world, Metopia,” Mr. Rump boomed into a microphone headset. “Today is the day you have all waited three hundred and sixty-four days for, The Day of Discover
y—or T-DOD, as you young folk have come to call it. I want to wish all of you competing for Modelland admission the best of luck. Metopia has a long-standing track record of producing many Intoxibellas, which is why so many of you trek here from your far away homelands each year. And today, we hope to send many more of you to that special place on the mountain.”
Cheers erupted in the crowd.
“What will be the look of this season?” the mayor asked no one in particular. “Is it the year of the blondes? The brunettes? Perhaps it’s a ginger season.”
“Ginger! Yes!” a strawberry-blonde in a pink gown cried a few feet away. “They never pick ginger!”
“Will it be tanned skin or rosy epidermises?” Rump went on. “Blue irises, cognac ones? Emerald or hazel?”
Tookie used to watch the mayor every year on television on The Day of Discovery, wishing, hoping he’d utter, Will it be girls with one brown and one green eye? But it had never happened.
“Will it be the slim-limbed, the slightly curved, the athletically built?” the mayor continued, his words echoing throughout the massive square. “Will it be … you?”
More cheers. “And if you are not chosen, don’t fret. Metopia has many wonderful jobs manufacturing clothes, accessories, and beauty products. Holding a job in a factory is just as worthy of esteem as being an Intoxibella!”
The mayor paused for cheers. He was met with dead silence.
Suddenly, a hand slipped into Tookie’s and squeezed. It was Myrracle’s. Her wide eyes flitted back and forth nervously. “Do I look okay?”
Tookie looked at her sister, suddenly feeling a protective and loving rush. It wasn’t Myrracle’s fault their parents were horrible people. Myrracle might not have been the best sibling, but she was all Tookie had. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she said. “Breathtaking. Really. Now, remember, Myrracle. Dance in your spirit but not with your body, ’kay?”
“I know, I know! You sound like Creamy!” Myrracle playfully groaned. Tookie had a sudden revelation: This might be it. The last time she would see Myrracle. “All Day of Discovery candidates. Are you ready?” Mayor Rump called.