Modelland

by Tyra Banks

  “Uh-huh,” Tookie murmured, feeling a rush of pleasure. Dylan had come to her rescue! First Ci~L and now Dylan. Tookie was loving this being-cared-about feeling.

  All the zippers coughed up their human cargo in reverse order of the girls’ entrances at the O. They all tried staying in the lit area of the room, but as their total number approached one hundred, some had to venture into the dark parts.

  “Oh my God!” a girl screamed. “The ZipZap KILLED her!”

  The entire group turned to see a girl lying motionless at the mouth of a zipper. Blood pooled beneath her head. Everyone started to scream. Dylan turned quickly away. “I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna throw up and pass out.”

  Shiraz stayed with Dylan while Tookie and Piper went to investigate. Angelîka from Icylann lay still, her head and shoulders covered in blood. Tookie and Piper kneeled down to check her. Piper felt around Angelîka’s head.

  “Not that big a gash,” Piper said. “But even small head wounds can bleed profusely.”

  “Is she … dead?” Tookie whispered.

  Angelîka sprang up to a sitting position and yelled, “Dead? Who?” Everyone screamed again. It was like seeing a body rise from the grave.

  Tookie and Piper lifted Angelîka to her feet. Shiraz ran forward and ripped her gauzy sleeve from her shirt so Angelîka could wipe the blood off her face.

  “Where are we?” a girl cried.

  A voice emerged from the darkness. “You’re in THBC.”

  The girls stared into the dark abyss. Dylan grabbed Tookie’s hand.

  “Thigh-High Boot Camp, ladies!” the same voice belted.

  A spotlight shone down on a figure across the room. It was the stunning three-quarter man, one-quarter woman Guru the girls had first laid eyes on at the O ceremony. The Guru stood on an ornate metal platform with arms crossed and feet splayed in ballet’s fifth position, surrounded by a halo of multicolored fireflies. The Guru’s gray eyes glowed alarmingly, almost from within.

  Suddenly, more lights clicked on, one by one.

  “I am Gunnero Narzz. Guru Gunnero to you cheap nylon No-Sees!” the instructor yelled at the girls. “I am head of Modelland security. Head of Run-a-Way Intensive class. Head of the THBC, and the head man in charge of all of you slovenly scrubs.”

  “That’s a man?” Tookie heard Chaste snicker.

  “There is only one person more powerful in Modelland than me,” Guru Gunnero continued. “But I’m not going to be singing you any songs.” He glared around the room with piercing, snakelike eyes. The scar on his face made him look even meaner. The girls leaned back or turned away. Tookie felt the creep of goose bumps from her toes to her head.

  “Your assignment, my ladies—your mission, if you will—is my specialty … a fashion show!”

  “A fashion show?” Angelîka exclaimed. “How fun!”

  “I always want to do fashion show!” Shiraz jumped up and down.

  Gunnero stared at them. “This sfilata will not be runway-of-the-mill. So if at any time you feel like you need a permanent breather, if the going makes you want to go on a go-see to go see your mommy and daddy, along this journey will be doors for the most delicate dames marked Home.”

  The girls’ smiles faded abruptly.

  “But remember,” the Guru went on. “Once you step your trembling toes through any door marked Home, there is no coming back. Choosing the Home door is not like choosing a vintage designer gown that will indeed come back into fashion. You leave through those Home doors and you are forever banned from these gates, like Nehru jackets!”

  Guru Gunnero’s laugh sent chills up Tookie’s spine. “Now. You will be experiencing a fashion show from start to finish, in five phases. So let’s get started. Phase number one. Measurements!”

  Shiraz turned toward Tookie and mouthed, How bad can be it?

  Gunnero kicked his high-heeled boot hard on the floor, and the room instantly changed. Suddenly, all the girls stood in a stark white round room. There was only one visible door. It was marked HOME.

  Mannecants poured in through a dozen hidden entrances, pushing carts full of various apparatuses—rulers, T squares, compasses, miniature scales, gauges, and meters. They marched to the girls and instantly got to work. A Mannecant forcefully held Kamalini by the shoulders to measure the angle of her chin and the distance between the ruby in the middle of her SMIZE and her eyebrows. “Supreme,” the readout announced. Another Mannecant pinched Dylan’s arm with a caliper. “Ow!” Dylan screamed. Yet another Mannecant yanked Shiraz by the top of her head, presumably trying to get her to stand a little taller. “I not growing taller!” Shiraz protested. And one more Mannecant waved a meter across Piper’s cheeks. “Lack of pigment,” a woman’s robotic voice proclaimed. “Skin prone to burning, blushing, and flushing.”

  Piper wrenched away from the wand.

  Then a Mannecant approached Tookie and carefully measured the space between her eyes. “Too far apart,” the meter announced. It measured the length of her arm next. “Proportionately too long,” the meter said. And then her neck: “Too ostrichy. Preferable fowl neck: swan.”

  And finally, when the Mannecant waved a comb-shaped device over Tookie’s hair, the readout proclaimed, “Unfortunate condition. Both oily and dry, limp and frizzy, completely uncombable, uncurlable, and unstyleable.”

  “Phase one complete!” Gunnero roared.

  The measuring Mannecants vanished just as quickly as they’d arrived. Tookie peered around at the other girls and they looked just as flustered as she felt.

  Gunnero barked, “Well, your class seems to have near-perfect degrees of beauty supremacy, almost as becoming as I. Quite the rarity. All except four of you.”

  Everyone knew exactly which four Gunnero was referring to, without his even having to look in their direction.

  Then Gunnero began to strut around the room. “But measurements are just the beginning of this acid-washed denim trip. It’s time for phase two.”

  “Is this where we get our thigh-high boots?” Zarpessa interrupted. “My hairdresser’s stepcousin’s uncle who works in the marketing department for Zoozeeton, the thigh-high boot designer, told me the THBC boots are amazing this year!”

  Gunnero’s eyes widened at her outburst. His lips curled into a smirk. “Well, my mother’s youngest and only son said that he heard you were a wannabe, kiss-ass, brownnosing Bella and that he wants me to tell all the girls here to tell you to shut the heck up!” He whipped around at the girls. “Well? Tell her!”

  The group of girls awkwardly obeyed. Even Tookie sputtered, “Shut your hole, I guess.” Zarpessa looked shaken.

  “Merci, ladies,” Gunnero said primly. “Now, moving on … Cathedra!”

  One hundred salon-style chairs dropped from above. Each girl’s first name was engraved in the back of a chair. Even Tookie’s.

  “Spiegels!” Gunnero roared.

  On cue, one mirror for every chair appeared.

  “Locate your seats and plop your firm newbie fannies into them!” ordered Gunnero. “Move!”

  The flock of girls stepped down the aisle. Some girls who had found their chairs jumped into them excitedly. Tookie, however, was suspicious.

  “What is all this?” she asked Piper as they walked to their designated seats.

  “I don’t know,” Piper said grimly, seeming frustrated she didn’t have the answer.

  Once all the girls were seated and facing their mirrors, Gunnero screamed again: “Maquillage!”

  A high-pitched sound like a missile approaching filled the room. Everyone looked up. One lone white lacquered cart plummeted from the ceiling and landed in the middle of the aisle with a crash. Amazingly, it was still intact after impact. The cart wasn’t very big and contained five drawers that spilled over with every type of makeup and beauty tool Tookie had ever seen: thickening, lengthening, and multiplying mascaras. Lipsticks, lip glosses, and stick-on faux-lip attachments. Eye shimmers and shadows and lash curlers that promised to make lashes retain t
heir curve for two years. Face shimmers, glitters, and pills that promised an instant inner glow once ingested. False eyelashes made from deceased daddy longlegs. Tookie spotted an area of the cart that held multiple hair-removal systems: tweezers, razors, and black wax that slowly dripped to the floor. The label on the wax jar said LP WAX: RECYCLED FROM VINYL ALBUMS OF YESTERYEAR.

  Gunnero announced the next order in a wavering falsetto: “ARRR-TISTES!”

  One hundred Mannecants fluttered out from behind Gunnero and made their way to particular chairs.

  Tookie looked at the Mannecant who had come to her chair. Her black-filled eyes had many lines and wrinkles around them, reminding Tookie of the dry and cracked lake beds at home in Peppertown. They reminded her of Creamy too, and she winced. All she could think of was Creamy’s horrified, enraged face as Ci~L lifted Tookie above the LaDorno square. And how her parents had fought, arguing to get rid of her. She swallowed a lump growing in her throat.

  “FLURRY!” screamed Gunnero.

  With that, the Mannecant-Artistes moved at superhuman speed. They all ran to the cart and grabbed handfuls of products, then dashed back to their designated girl and got to work. The Artistes tossed mascaras and sponges, eyeliners and lip glosses across the aisles to each other in a spectacular juggling display. Tookie’s Artiste had five sponges and brushes flying through the air while applying a kohl blue-black liner to Tookie’s lower inner eye. After she was finished with it, she passed the liner to Piper’s Artiste, who then used it and passed it to Zarpessa’s.

  The Artiste slathered creams on Tookie’s face and had a feather-light touch as she swept mascara across her lashes. The pampering and the attention lulled Tookie into a trance. She couldn’t see herself because her Artiste was standing in the way of her mirror. But it didn’t matter. Never before had Tookie been fawned over in such a way. The closest anyone had ever come to examining her face was when Creamy took her to the doctor last year for tests to figure out why her forehead seemed to be growing faster than the rest of her face. Tookie was loving Thigh-High Boot Camp. She thought the name was especially fitting because she felt like she was flying on a natural Thigh High.

  Gunnero’s voice broke Tookie out of her trance. “Two minutes left, Artistes! Use every muscle in your bodies on the dung you’re working on. The transformation of shaggy No-Sees is no runway walk in the park.”

  After two more minutes, the lights went out. The girls let out a chorus of surprised screams, and then the lights snapped on again.

  “BEHOLD YOUR REFLECTIONS!” Gunnero screamed.

  The Artistes had disappeared. For the first time, the girls had unobstructed views of themselves in their mirrors. Tookie opened her eyes a crack, her old fear of mirrors flooding back. This isn’t going to make me look good, she thought. I’ll be the same old kooky Tookie as before.

  But she had to look. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared at the reflection before her. Her mouth dropped open. Who is that? There was a brilliant stroke of eye shadow above her eyes. A perfect swipe of iridescent lip gloss on the middle of her bottom lip. Those spider legs were glued to her lids, making her lashes look a zillion miles long. She almost looked … good.

  Tookie glanced at her friends and gasped. Shiraz’s berry-stained lips looked edible. With the help of periwinkle and sienna eye shadow, Dylan’s eyes were now a bright, electric lavender. Piper’s skin glowed as if lit from within. She looked even more like a marble statue than before, reminding Tookie of a saint.

  Suddenly, Shiraz’s eyes bulged. “Tookie!” Shiraz wailed, pointing shakily at her. “What happening?”

  Tookie turned to see what Shiraz was pointing to. An older, unrecognizable person was staring at Tookie. It had a boil growing on its nose, letting out a smoke that smelled of rotten eggs and animal droppings. Much of its hair had fallen out in clumps, and many of the hanging strands had fused together into what looked like chunks of petrified wood. Its eyes were bruised, swollen nearly shut, and its ears were swollen into what looked like bulbs of cauliflower.

  “Oh my God!” Tookie and the creature whispered. That was when she realized.

  The gruesome creature … was her.

  17

  HOME, SOUR HOME

  Everyone in the room screamed, their faces melting and warping just like Tookie’s was.

  Piper’s skin was so raw it was transparent. Her blood was visible, pumping wildly through her face. She resembled a skeleton with muscles and veins, with a thin layer of clear plastic keeping it all together.

  Dylan’s ponytails had completely fallen out and she was cradling them in her arms. Her nose had become detached from her face and was sitting on top of the bed of hair. Shiraz’s grapefruit-sized eyes bulged and bulged like they were about to pop out of her head. The spot where the ruby had been on Kamalini’s SMIZE was now a gaping hole four inches wide, exposing her brain. Angelîka’s ZipZap head injury had split open wide from the top of her head to the base of her neck. When she screamed, her exposed vocal cords, which lay in a spaghetti-like tangle at her throat, vibrated.

  “My heads hurt so much!” both sides of Angelîka cried. Even Zarpessa and Chaste looked like mutants, their noses falling off and their lips turning into slugs.

  Three monster girls instinctively ran toward the white door marked HOME. As soon as they went through, huge sighs ensued. “I’m beautiful again!” one girl said through the door. “I’m not melting anymore!” another cried.

  “Last chance! Anyone else want to go through the Home door?” Gunnero teased. “It’s dreadful to be hideously fugly, isn’t it?”

  Tookie’s muscles twitched. She couldn’t take this. Is this what Modelland is about? Bringing lovely—well, mostly lovely—girls up here and turning them into ogres? Who would be left to become an Intoxibella?

  Suddenly, she sat up straighter. Wait a minute.

  She turned to Shiraz, who sat to her left. “It’s a trick.”

  Shiraz’s lips, which were now also the size of grapefruits, parted. “What you mean?”

  “It’s a trick,” Tookie repeated. “We’re going to be okay, I think. Stay in your seat. Tell Dylan and Piper too.”

  Shiraz looked uncertain but turned and gave Dylan and Piper Tookie’s message. For a moment Tookie feared she might have been steering them wrong. But she stayed put. It’s a trick, it’s a trick, it’s a trick.

  Ten more harried girls ran through the door marked HOME. It slammed shut once more and the room went dark. More screams filled the air.

  “Oh dear, ladies,” Gunnero’s voice purred in the blackness. “I am very disappointed. A mere baker’s dozen skinless chickens chickened out. I thought I could count on more of you No-Sees leaving by now. C’est la vie. Let this be a lesson to you, ladies. Here in Modelland, we have a golden rule about passed-around beautification apparatuses.”

  “What is it?” Kamalini asked.

  Gunnero sighed deeply. “The first thing you must know about cosmetics, feebleminded females, is to forget everything Mommy and Daddy ever told you about sharing. Unless, of course, you want your face to fall off just like it has now—shared utensils give you creepy conjunctivitis, gory gangrene, bubonic boils, atrocious abscesses, styes, and staphylococcus! So from this moment on, you have my personal permission to be stingy, selfish wenches when it comes to your maquillage. Got it, No-Sees?”

  Everyone said yes, and bright searchlights immediately shone in their faces, making everyone cringe. Piper yelped and shielded her face with her hands.

  Tookie peeked at her reflection. The grotesque effects of the contaminated makeup had miraculously vanished.

  “Moving on to phase three!” Gunnero crowed. “Embellishments!”

  More Mannecants appeared, this time carts full of jewelry that sparkled like raindrops on clean windows—chunky rose gold necklaces, beaming bangles and bracelets, pairs of enormous hoop earrings that were connected to each other via a thin rope of platinum, and rings, rings, rings galore. The Mannecants draped layer upon la
yer of brilliant adornments onto the girls.

  Shiraz leaned over in her chair. “You so smart, Tookie! You make us stay! And we pass first round!”

  Her other friends grinned gratefully at her as well. “You guys would’ve figured it out on your own,” Tookie said bashfully, ducking her head.

  Then she looked in her mirror, marveling at the accessories chosen for her. Each bore a name that looked vaguely familiar.

  “Receptacles!” Gunnero screamed.

  Another group of Mannecants rolled in a much larger cart full of every kind of purse imaginable. Studded clutches, hobo-chic bags, drawstring styles, quilted ones with sparkling chain straps, antique leather satchels, rare over-the-shoulder treasures. The Mannecants went down the row of girls like a factory assembly line, placing the purses across the girls’ bodies, shoving them into their hands and onto their shoulders. Tookie ended up with a snazzy black nylon backpack; a short-handled, boxy purse made of stiff but fine leather; and … a Dream Bag! The very same yellow tote Zarpessa had, the one all the girls at B3 envied!

  “I got a Helly!” Chaste trilled, holding up a monogrammed tote.

  “I got a Xizo!” Zarpessa cried happily, holding up a hobo bag that bore a logo of interlocking Xs.

  The Mannecants scuttled out of the room as fast as they had come in. Almost instantly, the jewelry and bags began to revolt. Chaste’s tote handles bound her wrists and squeezed. Dylan’s earrings turned into two-pound weights, dragging down her earlobes. She screamed in pain. The necklace Tookie was wearing started to get warm, then scalding hot, and then it wrapped several times around her neck and squeezed and squeezed. Tookie clutched at her neck, barely able to breathe.

  A door appeared across the room and a lantern swayed back and forth. HOME. Then it swung open, giving way to lush tropical scenery, golden sunlight, and the sound of surf hitting the sand.

  Eleven girls made a mad dash for the exit. “Ahh,” they all said in chorus as soon as they crossed the threshold. The Home door closed with a boom.

  With that, the necklace unwound from Tookie’s neck. All the other accessories fell limply in the girls’ laps, inanimate again.