Whoops again, I think as she puts a swipe of pool-blue over each eyelid. She was doing a decent job. Ah, well, who would notice anyway with that muumuu she’s wearing. I turn my attention to Kelly, who has apparently misunderstood the instructions and is transforming herself into a zombie bride. She mock hisses at her reflection with approval.
At least Amy has the good sense to see the blue was a mistake and starts scrubbing at it with a makeup sponge. Unfortunately, pool-blue has serious staying power, and she’s quickly giving her eyes the Per-style-ality™ of a strung-out stripper.
I elbow Kelly so she won’t miss how funny Amy looks, but my elbow hits empty space and I realize she’s gone. Amy throws down the dirty sponge and races to the red lips carpet.
I look at my reflection and sigh. It has taken me five minutes to select one green shirt and throw it on over my clothes. Worse than that, the shirt is clearly the only item of clothing on my body that has nothing to do with my personality or style. Plus, it’s clear that green is not my color.
Smearing on a bit of tinted lip gloss, I slink to the center of the Nőrealique Red Carpet and pose with the others, sucking in my cheeks and lacing my fingers behind my head. Probably not very model-like, but, as Victoria says, we haven’t had any training. Yet.
This doesn’t stop her from being shocked over how bad we look. Her grimace rises into a plastic smile as she releases an “Okaaaaaaaaaay,” attached to a whoosh of air.
Bald headphone guy is grinning from behind the camera, which makes sense. The more cast members embarrass themselves, the better the reality show. I picture Victoria pulling out three giant, hissing cockroaches for us to eat next—and how sad is it that my stomach actually rumbles at that image?
Victoria repositions Amy so her waist twists one way and her torso twists another. She describes the visually slimming power of that stance, and I glance at Kelly. She’s bent over with a hand on her hip and a hand on her head and her lips are pressed out so far she looks like she’s trying to kiss someone in the next room. I try not to laugh as my arms start burning.
Victoria moves in front of me with eyebrows that would be furrowed if they weren’t botulized in place. “You aren’t being arrested, Shannon.” I drop my hands from behind my head in relief and put them on my hips. She twists me the same way she showed Amy, who’s already coming unwound. Frizzy wisps of her orange hair now frame her face, and with the traces of blue eye shadow and fitted muumuu, Amy should really drape a few stray cats over her shoulders to accessorize properly.
“Much better, Shannon,” says Victoria. “Now just give it a little more twist…” I pretend my body is two separate sections and twist until I can’t breathe. “Perfect!” she says as a spasm of pain runs up my spine.
“Kelly, you don’t honestly think that looks good, do you?” Victoria chastises.
“What?” Kelly asks innocently through her pursed lips. “This isn’t attractive?”
I admire her commitment to defying authority. I wait for Victoria to pull out her bullhorn and start yelling in Kelly’s face, but she just guides her to stand up straighter and twist herself in half like the rest of us.
“There.” Victoria seems pleased to have us tempting paralysis on national television. “Now, you’ll be putting on a little fashion show.” I look at my fellow freaks and envision the saddest fashion show ever. “Fortunately,” Victoria says, “before you attempt to rock the runway, you’ll each get rocked by your own personal stylist. They’ll help you select and channel your perfect Per-style-ality™.”
Three neatly attractive women sashay into the room and start poking at us. Mine shakes her head and clicks her tongue until I feel shame. I just hope her giant tackle box of makeup carries concealer thick enough to hide my quilt-sewing, day-dreaming, elf-ucker punch-line-earning true self.
The three of us are spackled and painted into model shape over the next hour. The stylists make it a point to hold up each Nőrealique product they use and recite a short love poem to it. The way my girl goes on about a mascara wand for the camera, you’d think it granted actual wishes.
But I can tell you she does know her stuff and transforms me from totally forgettable to actually-sort-of-hot-in-a-nonthreatening-way. A glance tells me Kelly’s and Amy’s stylists have mad skills as well.
Amy wears a softly tailored skirt and jacket that make her once-lumpy figure look downright curvy. Her clown weave is pinned back, revealing how striking her face is. When she gazes into the mirror, her eyes fill with tears and her shaking hands cup her face. It’s an emotional scene that will definitely get used on air.
Kelly is wearing flowy, sheer layers that capture her creative, artsy side without all the depressing blackness of her usual wardrobe. She seems surprised by how little she hates her new outfit.
My stylist puts me in a hot pink designer dress that shows off my halfway decent figure. I don’t know how much it captures my new Per-style-ality™, but I sure do look expensive. I wish Grace Douglas could see me now.
Next, a runway is quickly pieced together by more covert moving men from behind the giant-lips curtain. We’re each given a pair of spike-heeled pumps and get walking tips from a tall, skinny man in heels who has a sharp tongue and better legs than mine.
As Amy does her back-and-forth tromping, I notice she walks taller and seems more confident already. Maybe Victoria’s speech about attractiveness being 80 percent attitude isn’t complete bullshit. It still has to be mostly bullshit. I mean, how can anyone possibly measure that statistic?
When our runway coach sees Kelly’s fierce walk he says, “Wow, I’m impressed.” As if it’s a surprise that Kelly can channel fierce. That girl brushes her teeth fierce. The way Victoria and the walking coach rave, you’d think Kelly was curing cancer as she strode by.
When it’s my turn, everyone watches me in horror, like I’m committing a crime against nature with my walk. I clomp loudly down the platform trying to remember too many walking tips at once. Head high. Pelvis forward. Swing hips. Don’t swing shoulders. It’s amazing I’m able to move at all.
When I reach the end I pause, pose, and turn. And promptly trip over my twenty-six-inch heels and tumble directly off the runway.
Sprawled out in my least graceful position to date, I look over to confirm, Yes, of course the camera caught that. I envision my awkward fall getting played over and over in the previews for the show and resist the urge to run away flailing. My big ears burn as everyone laughs.
As I fantasize about escaping, Victoria starts talking, and I tune in on the word “shopping.” Amy looks so excited she’s about to pop a rib. “What did Victoria just say?”
Amy asks me, “Did you hit your head?”
Victoria seems pleased to have our full attention for a change. She smiles and announces for apparently the second time, “We’ll be adding to these starter wardrobe items during your all-expense-paid shopping trip to the New Nőrealique Boutique!” She says it as if the store is located on an exotic island far away. “Nőrealique Cosmetics is expanding its brand into a line of quality clothing and upscale accessories. They’ve hired three up-and-coming new designers to create a whole new look for each of you.”
“So now you’re adding Fashion Project to this shark jump?” Kelly asks.
Victoria ignores her and lets her voice go all game-showy as she announces, “And you will each be getting…your own…brand-new…Freus Hybrid!”
“Eeeeee! New car!” I punch my fist in the air. “I knew it!” I forget all about my humiliation as Amy and I jump up and down, hugging and screaming. Even Kelly grins from ear to ear. Victoria dramatically leads us out front, where our new cars are already waiting for us.
They look like advertising billboards on wheels. Each one has a giant Nőrealique Lip Logo painted across the hood and sides. My Freus is silver and says Nőrealique Elite, Amy’s is red with Nőrealique Glamour written in fat script, and Kelly’s is green with Nőrealique Natural’s lips and leaves logo.
Kelly
grouses, “What can be less natural than a car with giant lips all over it?” Low blood sugar must be making Kelly stupid, since honestly, we just got brand new cars! We can’t drive them until the show is announced since they’d blow our cover, but come next spring, the three of us will be the pimp daddies of fuel-efficient chick cars. Of course, my best friend may literally throw up when she sees the blatant product placement. But hopefully the environment-loving low emissions, plus having an actual sound system to listen to, will help her get over it.
Victoria says, “Okay, ladies, you’ve clearly had a long day.” She announces it’s time for dinner, and I imagine being led to the backyard to prepare our meal from grass and twigs. I can almost see the three of us wearing native hunting outfits and heels as we stalk small game with our eyelash curlers.
Perky doesn’t actually make us catch and cook our own chipmunk dinner, but a major ingredient does appear to be “lawn.”
I try to ignore the cameras watching us eat our foliage. Pulling a dandelion out of my “meal,” I tuck it under my napkin and take a stab at small talk.
“So, what do you guys think? Ready for six weeks of this?”
“Today was sort of fun.” Amy dutifully gnaws a plant root.
“Classic,” says Kelly. “We’re in beauty pageant purgatory, and the two of you are rating the experience.”
I look for some common ground. “Well, yeah, the food sucks.”
“I don’t know,” says Amy. “I kind of like eating healthier.”
“That’s because you have enough fat stores to survive all summer,” Kelly shoots.
“Hey, I’m cranky too,” I say, “but you don’t have to take things out on Amy.”
“Oh, you’re cranky?” Kelly spits, “Try spacey! It’s a good thing they finally matched your hair color to your dingbat personality.” Ouch.
There’s silence before Kelly gives a quiet, “Sorry.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing it already.” The two of them look at me. “I mean it. Girls on reality shows always end up fighting and I know this is supposedly a competition, but hating on each other already? What breed of bitches are we?”
The three of us fall into an awkward silence.
“I’m really sorry, guys,” Kelly sighs. “I just want a damn cigarette. I know you’re not dumb, Shannon. And that was a really cute mushroom joke you told last night, Amy.”
“And your voice is amazing!” I add, which makes Amy blush. “You should totally try out for Top Pop Idol. I mean, after this show’s done.”
“Your makeovers look really great,” Amy says shyly. “I especially like your Per-style-ality™, Shannon.”
I grin. “The school is going to freak when everyone gets a load of us.”
“Come on,” Kelly says. “Do you honestly believe new threads and a little lipstick will change the way the rest of the school sees us?”
“Will any of this even make a difference?” Amy asks.
My imagination must be on the fritz because as hard as I try, I can’t picture how people are going to react to the changes in us.
PART THREE
The Reveal
Chapter Eight
When Amy, Kelly, and I walk down the hallway of Westfield High on the first day of our senior year, it’s like we’re the end result of one of those shows on the baking channel. You know, where some cook mixes a bunch of goopy ingredients in a bowl but then sets that mess aside and pulls this gorgeous finished cake from the oven.
Here we are. Hot out of the intense oven of Prom Queen Camp. And we’re gorgeous.
The three of us are doing our best runway walks down the newly renovated hallways, and I have no doubt when this scene is aired, we’ll be in slow motion with dramatic music playing in the background.
Our classmates cup their hands and whisper to each other as we strut by. Nobody even seems to recognize us as the gooey cake-mix losers from last year. Amy and I glance at each other in amazement. Go us. Kelly keeps pace between us, quietly chanting, “I’m-a-whore, I’m-a-whore,” with each stride.
The heady feeling of having everyone’s attention actually makes me giggle. Then I remember Larry’s body language training, or “brainwashing” as Kelly calls it. I shake my blonde hair, tilt my chin slightly upward, and smile in the inviting way I’ve practiced all summer. As we move smoothly down the hall, eyes widen and feet point toward us. In body-language speak, that means everyone is interested in knowing more.
It’s no big surprise either. We look amazing. I’m wearing perfectly tailored clothes with pink pumps that show off how excellent I am at walking now. My slumping shuffle is gone, along with the I-don’t-give-a-shit-kickers. Victoria wasn’t kidding about burning them. We had a big, dramatic campfire scene where we each burned items that were holding us back. It started out okay, with Kelly’s pack of cigarettes and Amy’s Amish-looking dress, but we had to evacuate the area quickly when a huge toxic cloud emanated from my melting rubber soles.
Most of Kelly’s piercings have closed up, and she looks beautiful, but with enough edge to save her from being plastic. The boys are falling over themselves to watch us walk by, but I suspect their focus is mainly on her. I’ve gotten to know Kelly well enough to know she’s barely resisting the urge to shout, “What the hell are you lookin’ at?” as we pass clumps of gawkers. But Amy and I are loving all the positive attention.
Amy is by far the most changed of the three of us. She has embraced the exercise and diet regime dictated by Perky and even went through with a “touch” of lipo, which, yes, I know is wrong and dangerous and antifeminist and everything, but let me tell you, it does look good on her. She didn’t go too extreme, and her sexy curves compliment the fiery red hair that’s actually been tamed into a striking accessory.
But it’s Amy’s personality that’s completely unrecognizable from last year. Instead of being so painfully shy it makes everyone around her uncomfortable, she’s now the epitome of open confidence. Rather than biting her bottom lip, she holds her mouth in a relaxed smile. And she even learned a trick to stop herself from blushing all the time. When she feels her cheeks heating up, she actually tries to make herself blush harder. The first time Larry had her try it, I was a little nervous she would melt her own face off, but amazingly it seems to work.
Even Westfield High has gotten a full makeover. The sparkly new hallways are about five hundred watts brighter, and the light fixtures have a thick black border with Nőrealique written in white block letters. I recognize the font from the Nőrealique Metrosexual men’s line, which is kind of hilarious to see in such a rural school. I picture James wearing a light coat of ivory foundation on his face as he rides around on his family’s tractor. And perhaps a bit of arm bronzer to accentuate that farmer tan?
I notice the new locker numbers are on little silver plates shaped subtly like Nőrealique Lips. Of course they’re also fitted with hidden cameras in strategic locations.
The show can’t actually air any of the footage they’re shooting until releases are signed. Come April, if our classmates refuse to sign consent forms, the show will feature the three of us surrounded by a bunch of blurred-out faces. But as Mickey has pointed out, it’s not our job to worry about any of that. Our job is to become as popular as humanly possible between now and then.
Kelly, Amy, and I arrive at the bank of lockers that’s been strategically reserved for us. Located at the axis of student flow, we are offered maximum exposure plus given the opportunity to make deliberate eye contact with our public as often as possible.
Across the crowded intersection, I spot Grace, Deena, and Kristan. The competition. They’re busy smiling and hugging each other as if they didn’t just spend the whole summer posing at the pool together. Victoria devoted two full days of Prom Queen Camp to studying their weaknesses and suggesting ways we can overtake them. It’s part of our Popularity Plan of Attack, and as Victoria says, it’s nothing personal. Those bitches just need to be taken down a notch or three to make room for us
at the top.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to burying Grace Douglas. “Just look at them,” I whisper to Amy, as she hangs a mirror inside the door of her locker. “So full of themselves.”
“And to think”—Amy purses her lips at her reflection—“we can be just like them by the end of the year.”
“Yup.” Kelly’s busy drawing twisted trees and fairies on her locker door with a thick black marker. “You chop the head off the beast that is popularity in this hellhole, and a new one grows in its place. Or in this case three.” Her teeny diamond nose ring glints prettily.
“Don’t forget what Victoria said,” I warn.
“I’ll act pleasant.” She spits the word. “But this is just us.” She glances up to the ceiling tiles where cameras are hidden and adds, “Oh, right…aaand the rest of America.”
Just then I see Deena glance in our direction and raise her finely arched eyebrows. The universal symbol of unguarded surprise. She whispers something to Grace, and Grace’s eyes shift about before latching onto the three of us.
“Don’t look now, but we’ve been spotted by enemy forces,” I say.
“Bring it on,” Amy growls in a way that makes me wonder if it’s really okay to starve a girl for over two months. She looks ready to attack, and I point out that her body language is bordering on aggressive. She relaxes her shoulders and turns her left foot outward to appear more open and friendly. “Thanks, Shannon,” she whispers.
I can read by the Queens’ stances they’re agitated by our presence. Victoria predicts there’s no way they’ll ever embrace our new status but claims there’s a chance they may invite just one of us into their clique in order to enforce their dominance. If that happens, our Social Advisement Coaches will direct us how to proceed, but for now, our best strategy is to stick together as a hot new clique of our own. I secretly hope to get invited to join the inner sanctum of the Alpha Queens. It seems like a lot less work than inventing our own faction from scratch.
The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High Page 8