Modelland

by Tyra Banks

  Tookie looked around. Shiraz, Piper, and Dylan were still here, huddled under their maquillage tables. Relief.

  Just then, Gunnero Narzz entered from a dark space in the room, swinging in his hand the lantern that had been the light source beckoning the now-departed girls to the Home door. He glared at Tookie and her crew. “Figures you four survived.”

  Then he turned, addressing the winnowed-down group of girls that remained. “Fraudulent. Phony. Forgery. Fake. Close your eyes and think about the time when an item you adored, cherished, took such pride in owning, was taken from you … without your permission. Swiped! Swindled! Snatched! Stolen! Your world crumbles around you! Betrayed! Bitten! Backstabbed! Bereaved! Being the victim of theft doesn’t feel good, does it, No-Sees?”

  The girls shook their heads confusedly.

  “That’s how my cronies feel whenever you purchase or accept a gift of a counterfeit couturier creation,” Gunnero explained. “You may think you are sporting the latest fashions and fooling your pitifully clueless circle of friends, but you are merely concocting a deceitful world of pseudo luxury and corrupt make-believe, while the hardworking artisans who dedicate their lives to producing authentic wares are robbed blindly. And who produces these fake wares? Poor starving children who roam homeless in public squalor and live poverty-stricken in rodent-infested shanties.”

  Gunnero stopped right in front of Tookie and whipped the Dream Bag off her shoulder. Tookie hadn’t even realized it was still there. “How. Dare. You.”

  He turned to the group, eyeing the fake bags that rested on their laps and the counterfeit jewels that sparkled at their throats. “How dare you all! So, the lesson for phase three is what?”

  “For Gunnero designer friends, buying of the fake no good!” Shiraz offered.

  Gunnero looked pleased. “At least one of you is listening. Even if it is a knee-high Lilliputian.”

  “Lilli—wha?” Shiraz blinked innocently.

  “Oh, excuse me for being prêt-a-politically-incorrect,” Gunnero simpered. “I believe the acceptable phrase is Five P: Puny Pocket-sized Petite Particle of a Person.”

  Shiraz looked crushed. Tookie wanted to defend her. But she’d never defended anyone before—she’d never had an opportunity to. And anyway, now wasn’t the time.

  “On to phase four!” Gunnero trilled. “This next part is—heh—piercingly funny.”

  His heel attacked the floor again. A panel in the wall tilted backward and fell to the floor with a loud bang. Gunnero ushered the girls forward into a new space. Tookie did a rough count. Only seventy or so of the recruits were left.

  As Gunnero walked into the next area, he glanced at the girls over his shoulder. “Can any of you dimwits guess what the final phase is?” The Bellas just stared at him blankly, and he sighed. “Oh, I swear. The No-Sees are getting thicker and thicker each year. And I’m not talking about your hips.” Then, eyeing Dylan, he said, “Well, maybe I am.”

  Dylan bit her lip and balled her fists.

  “The final phase is the actual defilé, the sfilata di moda,” Gunnero trilled. He eyed Kamalini. “The tamasha. The fashion show. And ladies, you’ll love this. It will allow me to drill into you all you need here at Modelland.”

  One by one, ten exits marked HOME lit up around the perimeter of the space. The ceiling opened, revealing a gigantic, loud, mechanical contraption. Tookie realized it was a giant sewing machine with an enormous needle that was as long as her dining room table in Peppertown. Slowly, the machine descended upon the girls, its needle slamming up and down.

  “Have we all had our ears pierced, ladies?” Gunnero asked.

  Most of the girls nodded shakily.

  “Well, then this should be a piece of cake!” Gunnero shrieked. And then he was gone.

  “This look like trouble,” Shiraz whispered.

  Some girls scuttled away. Some dropped to the floor and covered their ears. But Tookie had learned by now that running was futile, so she remained completely still. Her three friends copied her. Together, they watched as the needle drew closer and closer.…

  Chaste was also standing still. Slowly, the needle bore down on her head, its tip piercing her skull and continuing all the way through her body to the ground. When the needle retracted, Chaste was … gone.

  The machine quickly sought out the next girl, then the next, puncturing them into the unknown. Tookie recognized one of them as Desperada, the sobbing girl she had seen in LaDorno Square at T-DOD. The needle punctured Desperada’s head and she howled, but Tookie couldn’t tell if it was from physical or emotional pain.

  The Home doors glowed even brighter than before. Angelîka from Icylann spun and dodged the needle, then scurried to the door. And with that, she was gone. A few more girls avoided the needle’s wrath and followed her through one of the Home doors.

  Within seconds, the needle loomed just inches away from Tookie. Her heart thudded as the tip jabbed close to her skin. Then closer, closer … until the tip was aimed straight at her head.

  She waited for a sharp pain. The moment the tip of the needle hit her skull, she suddenly felt like a million tiny appendages were tickling her skin. Her body tilted upside down and she felt her shirt, cargo pants, and underwear slip off. More fingers gently pulled at her limbs and clothed her body. The space she was in was incredibly dark, and Tookie rubbed her hands over the mystery fabrics that now touched her skin. They had dips and folds and tucks and felt extremely luxe.

  The enclosure turned her upright and deposited her into a soundless room. Floating in the air, bisque-colored orbs glowed like full moons. Slowly, faces appeared in the orbs. Tookie recognized one of the faces as Kamalini’s, her Headbangor still strapped firmly to her head. Zarpessa’s face appeared in another orb, then Chaste’s. By the startled way the girls were looking at her, Tookie realized that she must be inside an orb too.

  Music thumped in the distance. As Tookie floated behind the other girls through an entryway, it grew louder and louder, making her insides vibrate. It was a familiar sort of music. Kind of like the type of music one would hear at …

  A fashion show, Tookie thought.

  More orbs bearing girls’ faces floated behind her. Tookie spotted Shiraz, then Dylan, then a dirty-blond curly-haired girl she hadn’t seen until now, and then Piper. “You made it!” Tookie cried. But her friends didn’t appear to hear her. These orbs must be soundproof.

  A door appeared ahead. It pulsed to the beat of the music as if the fashion show behind the door wanted to burst through it. I’m going to be in a fashion show? Seriously? She feared falling on her face. She feared Gunnero laughing at her. But more than anything, she was almost … excited. Forgetta-Girls weren’t in fashion shows. Only Rememba-Girls were.

  Tookie’s orb approached the door, which began to glow a bright white. One by one, letters appeared.

  T

  H

  I

  S

  W

  A

  Y

  H

  O

  M

  E

  What? Tookie tried to pedal her orb backward, but it didn’t work. Up ahead, girls’ heads floated through the Home door: first Zarpessa, then Chaste. Good! They’re gone! Yes!

  But next to approach the Home door was Shiraz. “No!” Tookie cried. But her protests were futile: through the door Shiraz’s floating head went. Then Dylan’s head. Then Piper’s, then Kamalini’s. “No!” Tookie screamed. “Please! Don’t leave me here alone!”

  But to her horror, her own bubble was floating toward the Home door too. Tookie summoned all her might to turn herself around, but the bubble had a mind of its own.

  She closed her eyes and tried to hold on to all the good things that had happened to her on her journey here. She recalled Dylan’s sassy laugh, Shiraz’s spunky broken English, Piper’s intelligence and dry wit, and ZhenZhen’s contagious giggle and nurturing kindness.

  And finally, as she passed though the Home door, Tooke bid a silent goodby
e to Modelland.

  18

  LA LUMIÈRE

  Tookie’s eyes were shut tight. A stiff breeze made her face tingle. It smelled familiar, sort of like … tangerines? No. Blood oranges.

  Tookie opened her eyes. She was wearing exactly what all the girls in the O plaza had had on, except it was two-tone green.

  Her head felt foggy. I don’t remember how I got into these clothes. Where are Piper and Shiraz and Dylan? Am I sleepwalking? Was Thigh-High Boot Camp just a nightmare? Or … Oh no …

  Am I still IN Boot Camp?

  Way off in the distance, the M building stood proud and tall. In front of her was a mishmash of cubelike houses, connected by slivers of jade and turquoise opaque stones. Huge faces carved into hedges decorated the grounds. Vines and flowers made up the faces’ eyes and hair. One of the flower-eyes opened and stared straight at her.

  “Admiring the D, are you?” a voice asked.

  Tookie spun around. ZhenZhen scooped her into a huge bear hug. Then, over ZhenZhen’s shoulder, Tookie saw Shiraz, Dylan, and Piper walking toward her in slow motion, all wearing the same outfit she was. They’re walking in slo-mo. It is a dream. Wake up, Tookie.

  More girls appeared behind them. Kamalini … Desperada … and Chaste and Zarpessa. Yuck. No, it’s definitely a nightmare.

  “You made it, girl!” Dylan cried, running toward Tookie. Shiraz and Piper barreled toward her too, and the girls crashed together into a sloppy, love-filled reunion hug.

  Then Tookie looked at ZhenZhen. “Is Thigh-High Boot Camp really over?” Tookie asked.

  ZhenZhen nodded, and the girls erupted into hugs and applause.

  “But there was no fashion show,” Piper stated, interrupting their celebration. “Guru Gunnero stated, rather demonically, that the whole THBC process would culminate in one big fashion extravaganza.”

  “You mean you didn’t do the fashion show ending?” ZhenZhen frowned. She looked worried. “The BellaDonna is going to be so upset. Gunnero has been excluding the fashion show part of Boot Camp for the past two years. Word is he doesn’t want any fashion shows happening before the new Bellas get their walking lessons from him. It’s like he wants to take full credit for any walks.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m really sorry you had to experience such hell without getting a payoff of heaven. But you made it. I hope your time here is worth the agony you just experienced.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. My hairdresser’s personal trainer’s manicurist’s nephew has a friend who went through it before, so I already knew everything that was going to happen,” Zarpessa said smugly.

  Dylan rolled her eyes.

  “So how many made it?” Kamalini asked.

  “Fifty-four,” ZhenZhen said.

  Shiraz cocked her head. “Those who no make it? Where they go?”

  “They’re gone. Forever. Never to return.” Tookie and her friends looked at each other with wide eyes. If they’d buckled under the tests, they would’ve been gone too.

  Then ZhenZhen turned and faced the bizarre building. “So, guys, this is the D. Come, I’ll get you settled.”

  Dylan planted her feet. “Honey chile, I just been invaded by bacteria, sliced and diced by earrings, stabbed by a monster needle, and had my head imprisoned inside a bubble. I’m not goin’ in there until I know what that whacked-out place is.”

  ZhenZhen stepped up onto the porch. “It’s where you’re going to be living while you’re here.”

  She motioned for the surviving six members of her original dozen to follow her into the D. Sun streamed through high windows into a vast living room with couches, tables, and pillows. It was decorated in a blend of styles—Gothic, midcentury modern, art deco with a hint of … laboratory, in some strange way. The place smelled, as most places in Modelland seemed to, of blood oranges.

  “Modelland is now your home, home, home!” ZhenZhen trilled, beaming with pride. “This is the UnCommon Room, where you’ll all hang out!”

  “I get it!” Tookie announced, “The D stands for Dorms!”

  “Exactly!” ZhenZhen said. Six stoic-looking youngish Mannecants entered the room and stood next to ZhenZhen, holding stacks of what looked like stiff scarves draped over one arm.

  “Senturas!” Zarpessa yelped. “I’d know that shade of yellow anywhere!”

  “Same color as the dress you wore here,” added Chaste. “What a coincidence.”

  “Zarpessa’s right—these are Senturas,” ZhenZhen said. “The Senturas are very, very special. The more you wear them, the stronger your pow-pow-powers become.” ZhenZhen accented the pows with a pointed finger, like she was shooting a pistol.

  The Mannecants tossed the stacks of Senturas into the air. Miraculously, the strips of fabric circled above the girls in a brilliant air show. Some flew in formation; others did solo kamikazes into the crowd. The girls oohed and aahed at the performance, which ended with each Sentura nose-diving into the group, finding its recipient, and wrapping itself two times around the girl’s waist. Whap! One wrapped around Zarpessa. Zing! One circled Shiraz. And finally, a Sentura even cinched Tookie’s waist. She stared at it, barely believing her eyes. Is this really … mine?

  “Listen, up girls. Keep tabs on these magic golden cummerbunds,” ZhenZhen said. “You might have innate powers, but this is the only thing that can make the Bella magic happen.” She shook her head. “You all should see some of my photo shoots when I don’t have this darn thing on! Pitiful.”

  The girls gingerly touched their Senturas. Tookie held the ends of hers like they were the wings of a wounded bird. Zarpessa and Chaste scooted to a mirror at the far side of the space to admire themselves. Tookie could see them yanking their Senturas tightly and trying to find the most flattering spots on their hips for the sashes to rest.

  ZhenZhen clapped. “Okay, girls. Go up to the second level and look for your names.”

  The girls climbed the long suspended staircase that only had steps. No risers, no banister. And it floated in midair. Down a long, wide hall with immense fabric flowers and plants growing out of the artwork were a series of bedroom doors. Slowly, the names of the girls who would occupy each room appeared on the door graffiti-style, as though an invisible hand was doing the writing. Everyone ran to look for their names.

  “Piper, you’re here!” Tookie called, pointing to a door to her right and then waiting at the door for it to write the next name. “Dylan, you’re with her!”

  “Tookie, you here!” Shiraz beckoned Tookie from down the hall. “And … K-A-M-A-L—”

  “Kamalini! That is me!” Kamalini scooted to the entrance of the room.

  “Next one is …” Shiraz peered closely at the door. Her lips spread into a smile. “Shiraz Shiraz!”

  Tookie and Shiraz ran through the purple door and gasped. The room was a large, bright square lit by floor-to-ceiling windows. But there was nothing in the room save for four square burlap bags on the floor.

  Kamalini clutched her Headbangor. “We have to sleep on the floor? I guess we can make do.”

  Shiraz walked toward a window, but suddenly there was a loud clunk and she stopped short, as though she’d knocked into something. She lost her footing and fell forward. Instead of crashing to the floor, she stopped as something invisible broke her fall.

  “Huh?” Tookie whispered. She scuttled over to Shiraz to see what was there. It seemed like a cushion of air was now suspending Shiraz three feet above the floor.

  Shiraz grinned. “Is soft! Feels like a—

  “Bed,” Tookie finished. The outline of a bed materialized before their eyes. A cushy white comforter and four fluffy pillows rested atop the mattress.

  “Is fancy! Way better than Canne Del Abra cot!” Shiraz joyfully exclaimed, looking at the bed forming around her.

  Then the sound of a pencil scratching against paper filled the room. Black lines traversed the white comforter, slowly forming a picture. Shiraz jumped off the bed to give it a closer look. In no time, the lines formed a large eye, then a nose, then a
nother eye and a pair of full lips, and finally an abstract scribble made luxurious black hair flow from the head. When miniature dots began to cover the face, Shiraz gasped. “Is me!”

  Tookie and Kamalini looked at each other excitedly. “Where’s my bed?” they said at the exact same time.

  “Jinx!” Kamalini teased, bumping Tookie’s hip. Tookie smiled so hard, her cheeks hurt. No one had ever jinxed her before.

  Tookie walked to the left of Shiraz’s bed, Kamalini strode right. At almost the same time, their knees bumped into an invisible bedpost. They both allowed themselves to fall forward.

  “Delicious!” Kamalini exclaimed.

  “Like falling onto a cloud of whipped cream,” Tookie said.

  Sure enough, outlines of two beds quickly formed. Moments later, the pencil-scratching noise rang out. A drawing of Tookie appeared on the white comforter. The likeness was a bit goofier than she looked in real life, her mouth exaggeratedly big, her ears sticking out twenty degrees more than they truly did, but the comforter did draw one of Tookie’s eyes darker than the other. For a brief moment, Tookie took in the eyes of the girls in the room and longed for a set of matching irises.

  Kamalini’s comforter now depicted a caricature of her too. But Kamalini seemed almost saddened by the image, touching her Headbangor and sinking to the mattress.

  “Don’t you like it?” Tookie asked, peering at her.

  “Well, I …” Kamalini shook her head. “I love it. Really. It is just, I am nervous about being here. I didn’t really try as hard as all the girls from my country did. I was showering and this thing”—she pointed to her SMIZE—“just popped out. So here I am.”

  “You don’t think you deserve to be here?” Tookie could hardly believe Kamalini was saying such a thing—with her big, soulful eyes and her flawless brown skin, she was one of the most beautiful girls here.

  Kamalini shrugged. “My parents were so happy, though. But they are worried about my addiction to …”

  “The drugs?” Shiraz jumped in.