“Get the hell out of my room!”
Amy and I shuffle back to the hallway, and I try to figure out what Marnie would do in this situation. She’d find some way to help Kelly talk through her obvious mother issues. Maybe convince her that her mom is doing the best she can. Marnie would stay until she and Kelly were friends, except that Kelly clearly doesn’t do “friends.”
In the hallway, I whisper to Amy, “I’ve never seen anyone get so upset over looking pretty.” Amy takes a deep breath through her nose strip and heads back into Kelly’s room.
She stands in the middle of the dimly lit carpet a moment then launches in. “So, a mushroom walks into a bar and climbs up on the barstool.” Amy mimics settling her bum on a stool. “The bartender looks at the mushroom and says, ‘I can’t serve you!’ And so the mushroom says to the bartender, ‘What’s the matter?’” She holds her hands out. “‘I’m a Fungi!’”
I laugh, and Kelly groans and throws a pillow in our direction. But we can hear the grin in her voice as she tells us goodnight.
Once I’m back in bed with my hair fanned out prettily, I have a hard time quieting my mind to go to sleep. I can’t believe how much Kelly’s and Amy’s makeovers have made them open up. Who knew Kelly Marco even had tear ducts? Maybe they’ve been glued shut with black eyeliner all this time. It makes me wonder what ways my makeover might change me.
I try to construct a quilt in my head called Star of My Own Reality Show so Go Uck Yourself Grace Douglas, but the designs and colors are too jumbled to take form. I suppose I can’t know what anything will look like until our show is all edited together.
Chapter Six
The next morning, I wake up to Victoria’s voice booming through a bullhorn from downstairs. “You’re burning daylight, girls!”
I pull the covers over my head. Daylight comes too damn early.
The next thing I’m conscious of is Victoria’s voice booming through a bullhorn—from my doorway. “Shannon! Time to seize the day!” I groan and fling the covers off my head. I’m greeted by the fat lens of a camera being aimed at my face by a man dressed in black.
“That’s just wrong,” I accuse.
“Up and at ’em!” Victoria sings happily.
I sit up in defeat, and she gives me a triumphant smile before spinning around and exiting with her bullhorn held high. I scowl at the cameraman.
Victoria’s amplified voice blasts from the next room. “Kelly, wake u-up.”
“Bite me, bitch!” Kelly doesn’t need a bullhorn. I stifle a giggle.
“Now, now, no need for profanity.” Victoria doesn’t sound at all discouraged. “After fifty-six pageants, I know how to deal with attitude. Miss Detroit once sabotaged my deodorant with superglue. I just smiled through the swimsuit competition with one armpit glued shut. It will take more than some sad, lonely high school girl to get the best of me.”
I hold my breath and wait for the sound of Victoria’s skinny body hitting the wall, but Kelly just mumbles, “Lonely, I wish.”
I hear Victoria in the hallway next, commending Amy for being up, showered, and dressed already.
“Okay, girls.” Bullhorn Victoria is back. “We need to seize the day! Meeting in the foyer in ten minutes.” Except she says “foyer” like it’s spelled “foy-yea” or something. At least ten minutes means I can sleep for another nine-and-a-half. I stick my tongue out at the cameraman and pull the covers back over my head.
When the three of us finally drag ourselves downstairs, we’re each followed by our own personal paparazzi ninja, and Amy’s the only one who looks ready to seize the day. Her weave is pulled back, and she’s already put on her Va-Va-Voom Red lipstick, which I have to admit looks pretty good on her. Plus, it seems to remind her not to suck on her lower lip.
Thankfully, Victoria goes over our schedule sans bullhorn. The day is going to be a patchwork of Personality Adjustment Class and Physical Boot Camp Conditioning with consultations with a licensed dietician thrown in for Mealtime Management Support. Our first day of Prom Queen training will culminate with Poise Perfection Class, which sounds like it might be painful.
Victoria leads us to the kitchen where the needle-thin dietician is already waiting for us. It’s obvious right away that Perky Patty is going to be a lot to take this early in the morning. Gleefully she tells us about the magic trick of eating grapefruit for breakfast. Too bad it will also make me magically super-cranky, since I’m used to eating actual food in the morning.
Kelly claims she never eats breakfast as she gnaws on her newly pink nails. Amy obediently chews her grapefruit down to the rind as if it’s a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns. I just sort of poke at mine, picturing myself squirting grapefruit juice into Perky Patty’s eye.
After we finish “eating,” Patty waves happily. “See you at lunch! Come hungry. We’re having steamed sardines and cottage cheese salad.” Ugh!
The first class we have is the personality adjustment thing, which is pretty much a waste of time. Our teacher is some low-budget motivational speaker named Larry who mentions the title of his book every third sentence or so. He’s teaching us to read body language using Thirty-five Steps to Winning Friends through Nonverbal Communication by Larry Phillips. We’ll also be learning how to manipulate our own body language to make everybody love us.
I’m counting the number of times Larry repeats, “As I say in my book…” and get up to thirteen before a response of some sort is required of me. Looking around, I see everyone looking in my direction, including the cameras. Grasping for a clue to what he’s just asked me, I shrug and say, “Yes?” Larry’s look of annoyance tells me his was not a yes or no question.
“Uh…three?” I guess, which makes Kelly snicker. That gets me going. “Yellow? Timbuktu? Kite? Boll weevil?”
Larry’s face turns red and he mutters to himself, “Stay positive…focus on the prize.”
I’m not sure if it’s my hunger, the power of Blonde or maybe just being on camera for twenty-four hours straight, but Larry seems to be bringing out my snide inner bitch. Camp’s working.
I add, “How about a2 + b2 = c2?”
“Okay. Sense of humor, very nice.” He gives me a creepy grin. “But how about paying attention?” Wider creepy grin. “Okay, sweetie?”
I realize our motivational speaker might need all his positive self-talk just so he doesn’t fulfill his true calling as a serial killer.
“I asked you,” he says calmly, “how would you describe your outlook on life?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” I say. “The answer really is yellow.” That gets Kelly laughing hysterically. Amy looks nervous, and I can’t believe how bold I’m feeling.
“Very funny…Shannon-is-it?” Larry grits his teeth into the widest creepy grin imaginable, and my bold feeling flees. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“I, um…” I what? “I like to think of moods as colors, and well, I’m always trying for a nice sunny yellow.” Take that, Mr. Motivation Man. His raised eyebrows bring some of my boldness back. “Would you like to know how the boll weevil applies?”
“No, that’s fine.” He sounds tired. “Let’s move on. Kelly? Can you please describe your life’s outlook for me?”
“Definitely black!” says Kelly, which makes even Amy give a snicker.
Personality Adjustment Class ends early. I think Larry has to go reread a few chapters of his book to talk himself out of murdering the three of us.
Next, we discover that Physical Boot Camp Conditioning is a very mean thing to do to a girl. Devices of torture include treadmills, stationary cycles, and a stair-climbing-to-hell machine that nearly kills Amy. Her face gets as bright as her hair, and she is forced to lie flat on the floor catching her breath as a cameraman circles her like a vulture. Then there’s mind-centering yoga that nearly kills Kelly. After each pose, she grumbles, “I need a cigarette.” Which runs somewhat contrary to the “free and clear” yoga breathing we’re supposed to be striving for.
&nbs
p; Next up for Boot Camp Conditioning is something called Diva Dance Class. I think they may be trying to combine every reality show ever made into one mega cracked-out, jacked-up production.
“Reality television may have just jumped the shark,” I say half to myself as I stand in the ballroom with Kelly and Amy. We’re waiting for some technician guy to finish testing the light levels.
“What’s ‘jump the shark’ mean?” Amy asks.
Kelly says, “It’s the point when a television show takes things one step too far.”
I tell Amy, “There used to be this show called Happy Days that everyone loved a long time ago. Then they had this one episode where the main character named Fonzie jumped over a shark tank on his motorcycle, and everyone watching was like, ‘What?’”
“So now,” Kelly says, “it refers to the beginning of the end of a show, and I think Shannon’s right. We may be jumping the shark for all reality television right now.”
With that, Victoria comes clacking in on her high heels with a giant openmouthed smile. “Everybody ready?”
She flings her arms out and announces, “Girls, meet your dance instructor. Direct from Dancing With Semicelebrities, it’s—Raul!” Except she drags his name out so it sounds more like Raaaaa-uuuuul.
A young and very sexy Hispanic man steps from behind the gold lip-logo curtain. He strides his gorgeous self to the middle of the room and strikes a few random manly poses. He’s wearing tight black pants and a white button-down shirt, and his jawline stubble has me thinking, Rick who?
Even Victoria is giggling and flirting, which makes her seem ridiculous since Raul can’t be much older than twenty and I’d place her at a well-preserved thirty-five. Amy is biting her lower lip for the first time since her makeover, and Kelly’s the only one who seems unfazed by Raul’s hot, steamy presence.
I’m so busy daydreaming about Raul I’m surprised when he walks over and sweeps me off my feet. Literally. He actually grasps me firmly—oh, so firmly—around the waist and smiles his chiseled features at me as he whisks me around the dance floor like a broom. Apparently, he’s trying to gauge what sort of dance moves I have.
I could’ve told him they’re the nonexistent sort.
I have a hard time not looking into the cameras as I’m swung around and am glad when it’s finally Amy’s turn to get swept off her feet. She’s blushing so hard I’m afraid she’ll have no blood left for the rest of her body. Raul is obviously a great dancer, but Amy and I don’t exactly emphasize his talent.
When it’s Kelly’s turn, she strides toward him with a bored expression. Raul’s amused look turns to one of surprise when she does an aggressive tango sort of maneuver. He quickly recovers and channels her moves into a close partner dance. The chemistry between them is obvious as they dance faster and faster. By the time the music stops, leaving them in a panting embrace in the middle of the dance floor, I think we can all use a cold shower.
Kelly immediately untangles herself and walks back to Amy and me, but Raul keeps watching her. I’d love to have a guy look at me that way. I picture Rick in the rearview mirror and remember I had that and left it behind for all this nonsense. I want Kelly to smile back at Raul, but she’s resumed her bored expression, and he eventually regains his cool.
He tells us we’ll be practicing our dancing skills for an hour a day for the rest of the summer. Then we’ll continue our lessons twice a week once school starts. “As a special surprise,” he announces, “the three of you will be performing a musical number at the live! finale at the Prom!” He raises his tanned, muscled arms, and I imagine half of our viewers fainting with lust.
But wait. Did gorgeous-man just say—? “Musical number?” I cry out. Kelly and Amy clearly share my horror.
“You’ll get to perform live! onstage for all of America.” Raul smiles winningly. “This is like a dream come true for you!” I’m never trusting Smoky Latin Hotness again.
“Do we have to sing too?” Kelly accuses.
“We’ll be evaluating your voices, and the show will be tailored to fit your natural talents,” he says. “Obviously we have a gifted dancer.” He winks at Kelly as if we’re not sure who he meant. Clapping his hands briskly, he asks, “So, can any of you sing?”
After a long pause that I imagine the sound editor will fill with crickets chirping, Amy shyly raises her hand. Victoria’s thin eyebrows lift, and we all look at Amy while she stares at the floor.
“Well, let’s hear it.” Raul smiles. “Anything you’d like, Amy. And one and two and…”
She pauses for a few counts, and I wait for her to run away flailing. Instead, she opens her mouth wide, just as natural as can be, and belts out, “SomeWHERE over the RAINbow,” so beautifully I can taste the freakin’ double rainbow.
After blowing our minds for a few minutes, Amy trails off in embarrassment and resumes her study of the floor. Raul starts a slow clap and the rest of us join in applauding. Amy blushes and tells the floor, “I sing in church sometimes.”
“Well, now you’re going to be singing at the prom!” says Raul. “How about you two? Got chops?”
Kelly scowls and gives a few fake karate chops, which makes Raul laugh but doesn’t stop him from forcing us to try singing. And try is the word you really want to pay attention to here because neither one of us can sing. At all. I’m talking, painful sounds emanate from each of us, like the delusional folks they trot out during Top Pop Star tryout week just for the humiliation factor.
Since Kelly can dance and Amy can sing, I get run through a series of random talent auditions. I fail spectacularly as an actor, magician, ventriloquist, acrobat, and juggler, but hold my ground and refuse to attempt fire swallowing. Once I’ve effectively crushed everyone’s dreams by proving I have no discernible performance talent, we break for lunch.
I’m so hungry I could eat a tube of lipstick, but lose my appetite when I see our green and pink lunch. There’s nothing on the menu anyone would want “supersized.”
Perky Patty meets with each of us privately to discuss our diets. If Mickey wants me to look anything like Patty, she’ll need to use post-production special effects. I wonder if they actually make an anorexia camera filter as Perky drones on about food points. She’s developed a program for rapid weight loss that requires a degree in accounting to figure out. I don’t mind flexing my math muscles a bit, but our meeting is enough to convince me she is a hateful woman whose skinny body houses a damaged soul.
Looking at the cameraman hunched in the corner, I wonder if we’re actually here so they can document us starving to death.
Chapter Seven
I’m trying to figure out if I can conceivably have a pizza delivered to the mansion while Victoria makes a series of strangled noises deep in her throat. We’re all gathered back in the ballroom, and she’s getting her voice warmed up to be our trainer for Poise Perfection Class.
Three men dressed in black walk in wheeling racks of clothes like a crew of underground moving men. They line them up across one wall and are quickly swallowed by the big-lipped curtain.
At Mickey’s command of, “Action,” Victoria flips to full power.
“Okay, girls. Welcome to your first challenge here at Prom Queen Camp. When I say go, the three of you will head over to the Nőrealique Fashion Center.” Victoria enunciates each word as she gestures toward the racks of clothes, which are apparently a Fashion Center now.
“You will each select an outfit that captures your own personal style and personality, or should I say”—she gestures for effect—“your Per-style-ality.” She pauses in case we feel like applauding. We don’t. “Per-style-ality is a term that Nőrealique has registered with the U.S. Trademark Office.”
When we still don’t react, Victoria switches gesturing arms to indicate where three oval mirrors hang on a wall over a waist-high counter. The counter is covered in a crapload of makeup, and according to Victoria, the area has been transformed into the Nőrealique Wall of Beauty.
“Then, fr
om there”—she gestures to a lip-shaped rug in the middle of the room—“you’ll stand on the Nőrealique Red Carpet and strike a pose.” She smiles, looking proud of her own stellar performance.
“Now, girls.” Her voice gets serious. “We understand you haven’t had any modeling training, yet.” She smiles wide. “Just do the best you can and have fun with it.”
“Wheee,” says Kelly under her breath.
I hear a pssst behind us and turn in time to see a bald man in headphones point to his watch. Victoria raises her perfect eyebrows and adds, “Oh yes, and…”—she gestures toward the three of us since she’s used up all her other gesturing targets—“the three of you will only have five minutes to complete this task.”
“Well, at least it’ll be over with quickly,” says Kelly.
“Okay. And three, two, one…” Victoria barks sharply, “Go!”
Timed tests always freak me out. No room for losing focus, getting sidetracked, taking tangents. Wait, where do we go first? Amy scrambles over to the racks of clothes and starts clawing at the hangers. Right, find clothing that defines me. Kelly leisurely plucks something black off the closest rack. How nice to be able to define one’s Per-style-ality™ so easily.
“None of this is going to fit me,” wails Amy as she sifts through the racks. Finally, she grabs a flowy, floral one-size-fits-all dress and pulls it over her head. Whoops, better make that one-size-fits-most. Amy looks down at the snug fabric and sighs before moving on to the makeup counter where Kelly is already scribbling thick black liner around her eyes.
How did that happen? I snap out of my observing and look at what I’m holding. It’s a shirt, bright lime-green and fitted. It seems a little too stylish for me, but I imagine I might enjoy being the type of person who’d choose a fitted lime-green shirt to define her Per-style-ality™. That could be me. Fashionable, bright. Lime-green fitted.
I glance over to Amy and Kelly working on their makeup. Must focus. I pull the shirt on over my clothes and belly up to the makeup bar. The pots of color are already pretty torn apart, and Amy roots through them like a dog digging up something dead. She’s actually doing a decent job on her face.
The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High Page 7