by Cowley, Joy
Banjo came out through the curtain, and Shog gaped. The black suit had gone and his friend was now wearing a cream shirt with a dark blue linen jacket and pants and brown shoes with thick soles. His skin and eyes looked darker with makeup and his hair was parted clean down the middle, hanging in perfect curves on either side of his forehead. Shog would not have recognised him on the street.This was not the grimy kid with oily hair and bones sticking through a T-shirt as thin as his skin. This was a rich kid! A real model!
Banjo put his hand on his hip and turned in front of them. He even moved like a model.
‘Fantabulous, man!’ said Jancie.
‘Very nice,’ said Mr Matisse. ‘But a little plain. You need jewellery, my dear. Do you have a hole through your lug? No? Never mind, we’ll pretend. Go back to the dressing room and tell them you want a silver hoop screw-on earring and a couple of silver thumb rings to match. And do hurry, Mr Banjo. This is taking simply forever and ever and I am not a nice man when I run out of patience.’ He pushed Banjo towards the curtain and came back to Jancie and Shog. He knelt in front of them so that his face was level with theirs. His eyebrows were dark, suggesting that his hair was bleached, and the lines round his grey-green eyes showed that he was not as young as Shog had first thought.
‘You two are really devastatingly lovely,’ he said with a great sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a photo test? Hmm?’
Shog looked at his sister and saw his own breathless hope reflected in her eyes. Would they be interested in a photo test? Would they ever!
‘I couldn’t do it until tomorrow morning,’ said Mr Matisse. ‘That would mean staying here the night. Is it at all possible, do you think? You could have rooms near Mr Banjo.’ He looked at Shog. ‘We’ll find you some gear for the photo sessions, including some decent footwear. Zeus boots are fun but not exactly fashion.’
Shog nodded, at the same time shifting his chair back so that Mr Matisse would not catch the swamp odour.
It was Jancie who asked the question right out. ‘Is there any chance of us being models?’ she said.
Mr Matisse’s wide thin mouth curled all the way back to show small but perfectly even white teeth. ‘Every chance in the world, my pretty,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Class Act Modelling School and Fashion House was built like a large four-layered horseshoe. One side of the basement belonged to administration and publicity and the photographic and video rooms. The rest, Mr Matisse said, was occupied by a gym, swimming pool, library, movie theatre, amusement arcade and shops.
The ground floor had two restaurants, an ice-cream parlour, and a long line of studios where young models were groomed and instructed. Jancie looked in one open door and saw about a dozen girls and boys in tights, practising dance with a teacher. In another room, a red-headed boy of about ten was having a manicure. His right hand was resting on a towel, with a pink-uniformed woman leaning over it. She was carefully painting each nail with colourless polish. His left hand held a remote control unit and he was changing channels on an overhead TV. He did not look at Shog and Jancie but the woman doing his nails turned and smiled at them and said, ‘Hi Banjo.’
‘Is that Elizabeth?’ Jancie asked.
‘No,’ said Banjo. ‘But Elizabeth is around somewhere. She’s one of the bosses. You’ll see her.’
He led them back to the stairs and the next floor where the accommodation curved the length of the house, two long lines of bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Banjo took them to his bedroom, number 47, and laughed when he saw their astonishment.
‘I told you guys you wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Shootin’ stars!’ was all Jancie could say.
The room was the size of most people’s living rooms, the walls all a dark red colour. In it, there was a queen-size bed heaped with red and gold pillows, a table with a lamp and four gold chairs, an entertainment cabinet which had the latest deck for hologram video, a walk-in wardrobe and, through a doorway, a bathroom with a spa bath and a massage chair.
‘This isn’t real,’ said Shog. ‘This is the movies!’
‘Your rooms will be the same,’ Banjo said. ‘They’re all alike. Just different colours, that’s all. See this button? Anytime I want anything I just push it. Everything’s free here. Food. Ice-cream. Movies. Even the stuff in the shops, although I haven’t been in them yet. It’s true. You just go in and get anything you want. All you have to do is sign your name. When I’ve finished my training, I get 500 dollars a week. Five hundred! And that’s just to start. It goes up to more than a thousand with experience. I’m going to save it, man. One year and I’ll have enough to get my dad to a real good hospital. He’ll stop drinking and we’ll get a house in the country where we can go fishing. My dad used to be fantastic at fishing.’
‘That’s great, Banjo!’ Shog said.
‘You know what?’ Banjo scratched his head. ‘I told Dr Frey my father was dead. I had to. It’s only orphans that get to come here for free. I hope Dad never finds out I said that.’
Jancie sat on the maroon satin bedspread and bounced a little, feeling the mattress move like a trampoline. She had never slept in a bed like this and she wondered what it would be like. She said, ‘Banjo, you don’t owe that father of yours sweet nothing.’
Banjo didn’t answer but closed up in his own way of silent argument, his head turned down, his eyes suddenly blank. That stupid kid, Jancie thought. Every bit of money he makes is going to get drunk up big by his rotten father. He will end up with nothing.
Shog said, ‘If Jancie and me ever get to be models, we’re going to buy our house back. They reckon it’s got to be sold to pay for Gran’s hospital but Gran always said the house was ours. It was bought with our mum and dad’s insurance money.’
‘But your grandmother needs to be in that nursing home,’ said Banjo.
‘Oh sure,’ said Shog. ‘But they don’t have the right to sell our house to pay for it.’
‘Then who does pay for it?’ asked Banjo.
‘I dunno. The government or something,’ said Shog. ‘They got funds for that.’ He opened up the entertainment centre and looked through a stack of discs and videos. ‘Man, I reckon this room would cost just about as much as our whole house.’
‘You’ll get accepted for the modelling course,’ said Banjo. ‘I know you will. And if your house gets sold, you can come and live with Dad and me.’
Jancie bounced across the bed and landed in a heap of pillows. ‘Banjo buddy, if we become models, then me and Shog will have our own house. Maybe not the same one we had. But it will be ours, bet on it. We’ll get Gran out of that nursing home and have a private nurse for her. A thousand dollars a week? We could buy a shootin’ hospital with that.’
‘Excuse me.’
Jancie turned.
‘Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting you.’ There was a girl standing in the doorway. She was tall, slender, darker than Jancie, wearing a blue dress with a short silver jacket. Her hair was perfectly braided and she wore diamond studs that glittered real, in her ears. ‘My name is Savannah. I was on my way downstairs and I thought I’d say hi. Are you new students?’
‘I am,’ said Banjo. ‘My friends are going to have photo tests in the morning. Come in.’
Savannah took two steps into the room. She moved as easily as water and was so beautiful that Jancie and Shog were suddenly shy.
Banjo gave her one of his puppy dog looks. ‘My name is Banjo. For real. That’s what my parents called me. This is Shog, short for Ashoga, and his twin sister Jancine. Grab a chair, Savannah. Can I get you anything?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’d like to but Mum and Dad are picking me up and taking me out to dinner. They’ll be here any minute.’
‘You got a mum and dad?’ said Jancie.
Savannah looked surprised. ‘Haven’t we all? Well, to start with, anyway. Are you—’ she turned to each of them ‘—fresh air kids?’
‘Fresh air kids
?’ said Shog.
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ She put her hand against her mouth and closed her eyes in apology. ‘It’s the name we made up for the free kids that come off the street. There are a few of you here. The rest of us have to pay.’
‘Why are we free?’ asked Shog.
‘Oh, some scholarship fund,’ said Savannah. ‘But there is a difference. Those of us who pay can work anywhere we like when we graduate. The fresh air—sorry, the kids who don’t pay—are contracted to Class Act. But we all want to work for Class Act, so it doesn’t really make any difference.’
‘How many students are there?’ Jancie asked. She was looking at Savannah with open envy and thinking, if Class Act had Savannah for a model, they wouldn’t look twice at Jancine Donoghue.
‘At present?’ said Savannah. ‘Forty. Fifty, maybe. It’s hard to keep track of numbers because they keep changing. Some go to Paris or Rio de Janiero to finish their training. Others, like me, graduate and go into one of the Class Act fashion houses in Europe. Then there are kids who come here from other countries. Last week, two fresh air—two kids—came in from Lima in Peru. The training is the same for everyone.’
‘How long is the course?’ asked Jancie.
‘Three months,’ said Savannah. ‘It seems like eternity. Mr Matisse is very strict about contact with the outside world. I wasn’t even allowed to speak to Mum and Dad for the first two and a half months. It’s easier for the free kids. They don’t get homesick the way we do.’
Shog said, ‘Do you know a guy called McCready?’
‘James McCready? Tall? Tattoos on his arms? They’ve got him modelling sports gear in Paris. Mr Matisse tells me he’s even speaking French.’
‘What?’ Jancie laughed. ‘McCready learn another language? You’re kidding.’
‘He sent Mr Matisse a message on the internet and some of it was in French, although the spelling wasn’t great, Mr Matisse said.’ Savannah smiled. ‘I rather fancied James. He was a lot of fun. I didn’t know he was your friend.’
‘More of an acquaintance,’ said Jancie. ‘We didn’t know his first name was James.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Savannah. ‘His name was Bud but they said Bud wasn’t suitable for a model. Don’t be surprised if they change Banjo. They tend to be a bit like that.’ She looked back at Jancie. ‘Are you Native American?’
‘With this hair?’ said Jancie. ‘No, we’re Jamaican Irish.’
‘You’ve got what it takes,’ Savannah said. ‘I’m sure you’ll do well in your photo tests.’
‘Miss Savannah?’ The attendant named Marlene appeared in the doorway. ‘Your parents are waiting for you downstairs, Miss Savannah.’ She smiled at Shog and Jancine. ‘If you two stay here with Mr Banjo, I’ll be right back to show you your rooms.’
‘Bye!’ Savannah waved. ‘Good luck for tomorrow.’
Shog’s room was opposite Banjo’s, a small palace decorated in apricot tones. Jancie’s room next door was pale green, the colour of a winter sea. Each room had the same furniture.
Jancie wanted to try her spa bath and massage chair but Marlene had them sit down at the table in Shog’s room, while she outlined the house rules.
‘Mr Ashoga, Miss Jancine, you each have a buzzer by your bed. Press it if you want anything. There is always someone on duty.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jancie. ‘What we kind of want right now is for people to stop calling us Mr and Miss. Just Shog and Jancie will do.’
Marlene gave her a gentle smile. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Jancine, but that is not possible. Mr Matisse is quite definite about this. If young people are going to look and behave like young princes and princesses, then that is how they must be treated. We don’t go as far as saying your highness, but we do hope that you will assume the dignity that we afford you. I can assure you that a model’s sense of self-worth shows in the way he or she stands and walks and wears the Class Act fashions. Do you understand?’
‘Sort of,’ Jancie mumbled.
Marlene nodded. ‘And that, to put it plainly, is why you get spoiled rotten. We want it to show in your attitude.’
‘But we haven’t had our photo tests yet,’ said Shog. ‘We don’t know if we’ll be staying.’
‘Oh,’ said Marlene, mysteriously. ‘Mr Matisse is very confident about that. Now, as far as the house is concerned. Mr Banjo showed you most of it. You have free access to all the shops, restaurants and recreation areas. Studios and publicity rooms are by appointment only. You may go anywhere you like on this floor, providing you respect the privacy of other students. Now, listen. This is important. At the end of the hall, you may have seen a fire door. Behind that there are stairs to the top floor. The door, the stairs, the top floor, are all out of bounds. We have the fashion design centre on the top of the building and the cosmetic laboratories. No unauthorised person may enter.’ Her voice had become crisp and cool. She stopped, smiled again and continued in a warm tone. ‘There are several juvenile fashion houses who are keen competitors and some Class Act models will work for these firms. You’ve met Savannah? She graduates next week and flies with her mother to London. She has a position with Class Act, but who knows? In a few months she might move to one of the other fashion houses. This is why our latest fashions and cosmetics must be kept top secret. I repeat, no student goes to the third floor. Even I don’t go up there.’ She stood and took a few steps towards the door. ‘Now, we’ve put fresh towels and toilet kits in your bathrooms and there is a range of sleepwear on a shelf in your wardrobes. In a few minutes someone will take your supper order. We thought that since this is your first night, you might like to dine with Mr Banjo in his room. Is there anything else you’d like?’
An hour later they were sitting in the gold chairs at Banjo’s table, eating chicken burgers, fries and ice-cream sundaes. Shog and Banjo were talking flat out and shooting away with the entertainment remote control, moving from hologram video to TV, to music, to interactive computer and back again, too restless with excitement to focus on any of it.
Jancie was quiet, partly because she was tired and partly because Gran’s voice was going round and round in her head. Life is an empty bucket, Gran had been fond of saying. You get out of it what you put into it. The words made her uneasy, or perhaps it was the suddenness of the change from poverty to riches which gave her discomfort and brought Gran to her thinking.
She pushed away her sundae. ‘If we do get accepted, we won’t be able to visit the Eventide Home.’
Shog was now watching a hologram western, small ghostly cowboys shooting each other on a silver stage. ‘She doesn’t know us, anyway,’ he said. ‘She won’t miss us.’
‘They might send us to another country,’ she said.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ said Shog. ‘Think of all the money! Heck, Jancie. Gran’s not going to die for years yet. It’ll be like you said. We’ll get her a private nurse and she can live with us.’
‘You’re not going to eat that?’ Banjo said, eyeing her sundae.
She gave it to him. ‘I’m real tired, you guys. Shoot! What a day! I didn’t think so many things could happen between sunrise and sunset. I’m going to bed.’
But she found she could not sleep in the soft bed that moulded itself like a cloud around her. She was not used to it. Eventually, she took her pillow to Shog’s room and slept on the floor.
Chapter Eight
Shog’s hair was shaved clean up the sides of his head, and the top back-brushed to stand up like black cotton candy. It made his face look older, more serious. Don’t mess with me, man, said the new Shog in the mirror. I am somebody and don’t you forget it.
Nothing could be done to style Jancie’s hair which was so short it sat on her head like a dark red woollen cap, but by the time they had finished shampooing and combing, her curls were separated into small copper springs on her scalp. She, too, had a new authority.
More was to come. Fresh pink towels were bunched round their necks and they were given what Anna
called photogenic facials, fragrant oils rubbed into their skin, hot cloths, warm cloths, cool cloths, a plaster of blue cream over every part of their faces except for mouths and eyes, more cleansing, more lotions and oils, a glassy ointment for their eyelids, a strawberry flavoured cream for their lips. For more than an hour they sat in two chairs in front of a wide mirror while Anna and Marlene worked to prepare them for their photo tests.
To begin, Shog had felt self-conscious and foolish. Nothing like this had been a part of his experience and he was not sure that he liked having his face worked on as though it was somebody’s painting. Little by little, the soothing massage of his hair, cheeks and forehead relaxed him and his eyelids grew heavy. Anna’s head, close to his own, became a blur of perfumed pink and yellow and her breath was a small peppermint breeze that fanned his face with hypnotic rhythm. He would have gone to sleep if she had not whisked the towels away, announcing, ‘Well, Mr Ashoga? What do you think?’
He blinked in the mirror, then smiled. Over the brand new denim shirt and waistcoat, the new Mr Ashoga smiled back at him. And new was the word. No one at the camp would recognise him or Jancie now, and fat old Peaches would not be giving them any garbage look, either. They looked class, man. First class, Class Act.
He said to Jancie, ‘Do you reckon Peaches is out looking for us?’
‘Dunno.’ She glanced narrow-eyed at Marlene and Anna to indicate that he should shut up about it, in front of them.
He stretched out in the chair and looked at his feet in fine brown leather shoes with eyelets punched across the top. Mr Matisse was right. Zeus boots were fun but they weren’t fashion, and they had caused more trouble than they were worth. It would be a disaster if Peaches turned up and ruined their dreams of modelling careers. It would be best to get rid of the Zeus boots, and then, when he could, he would pay for them. What was the man’s name? Mr Ramsay? He would send the money and a note of apology to him and the guy that got hurt.