When my alarm went off at six the next morning, it was still dark outside and Tatiana was not in her bed.
Good thing I’d given up waiting up for her and gone to sleep at ten fifteen, after soothing my loneliness with a long talk on the phone with Desi. Thank God for Desi: I felt like I could tell her anything, or just giggle on the phone with her talking about nothing important, but feel like I had a friend who understood me and cared about me no matter what.
Everything looked brighter this morning, though, figuratively and literally. The windows were still wide open and the air smelled fresh, like New York had taken a shower while I was asleep. The sun was beaming down and I saw that indeed it had rained in the middle of the night; all the sidewalks were wet and glistening.
I’d been planning to take a cab to the address Raquel had given me but on the spur of the moment I decided to walk. I’d figured out street numbers and the avenues from tooling around with Desi and Mom, and it was a beautiful morning. At first, I was a little nervous about being completely on my own; ironic, since I’d walked across the bridge and through Desi’s dangerous neighborhood all by myself the other night. But knowing my mom was in the same city, even if I would rather have died than been with her, had made me feel more secure. Now she was a thousand miles away.
But the more I walked, the better I felt. And everybody was so friendly—not at all the mean, rude types that some people in Wisconsin think New Yorkers are. “How ya’ doin’, sweetheart?” said a man spraying down the sidewalk in front of a grocery store. A cop smiled at me and put out his hand to help me down the curb. And at the bagel store, the guy laughed when I asked for extra butter.
Finally I arrived at the address Raquel had given me: 4 Times Square. I had to tilt my head all the way back to see to the top of the glass and steel building. Chic-looking women hurried around me and through the front doors as I stood and gawked. I was glad I’d walked because it helped cancel out the nervousness that suddenly washed over me.
Me, a model? For Vogue magazine? Who was anybody kidding? My fury at my mother had driven me to the Awesome offices, had fueled my signing of the contract and my sending my mother home without me. But now that I was faced with the reality of actually having to do this job, I was scared witless.
I could turn. Go home. Run. Forget any of this ever happened. I doubted anyone from Awesome Models would trek to Wisconsin and drag me back.
But then I imagined showing up in Eagle River tonight admitting that I’d made a mistake, telling my mother and Tom that it was too scary, I’d chickened out. And that would be it, there wouldn’t be another chance. It would be Eagle River forever, and even though just yesterday that was all I wanted out of life, now I couldn’t say for sure I could embrace that kind of peace without wondering what-if.
My voice trembling, I gave my name to the security guard and looked around the lobby, trying to gather my nerve. That’s when I saw them, the other women who were as young as me, as tall as me, as thin as me, even as plain yet unusual-looking as me. There were only two or three of them, but still: It was as if I had never known I was from another planet until I recognized these fellow members of my tribe. I had always thought I was just an oddly configured human, but now I saw I was a perfectly normal member of a different species.
This insight gave me a new injection of confidence that at least got me up the elevator to the twelfth floor and through the locked glass doors into the magazine’s reception area, with its caramel wood walls and huge black logo, hushed and elegant as a Swiss bank—or at least as the Swiss bank I read about in a mystery novel once. There the editor’s assistant greeted me and led me through narrow hallways, past jammed racks of clothing, and then into the fashion department, where the windows opened out onto a vista of the wild lights and colors of Times Square.
I’m at Vogue, I kept thinking, my fashion bible, most delightful companion through the long Wisconsin winters. Desi and I had our encyclopedic knowledge of Vogue in common: We discussed stories as if they were events in our lives. And now I was finally here, at the mother ship.
I expected thunder, I expected lightning, I expected at least dramatic music and fabulous clothes. But the Vogue offices were muted and neutral, something like the Motor Club offices where I went once with Mom. The desks were all squished together, there was gray industrial carpeting, and everybody was dressed like, well, kind of like Amish women, with higher-heeled shoes and without the hats. These women, with their makeupless faces and severe haircuts and their black and gray clothes, looked more like nuns than like the fashion editors in The Devil Wears Prada. When I was finally introduced to the trio of editors who were waiting to greet me, I couldn’t help but blurt, “You all are so plain!”
I was relieved when they laughed at that instead of reporting me to Raquel for violating the models-should-be-seen-and-not-heard rule. Then they instantly grew somber again, as if preparing to discuss the real reason we were gathered here: The atom bomb, or the AIDS epidemic, or some other Serious Subject. The leader of the pack, who was very small and very thin, with large brown eyes and a worried-looking face, like a chihuahua, said, “We’d like to see how you look in some clothes. Let’s go into the closet.”
“The closet” turned out to be a room bigger than the entire House O’ Pies, with mirrors along one long wall and cascades of jewelry and belts and scarves hung all up and down the other. Shoes were in a separate, smaller closet—though even the shoes lived in a room bigger than the bedroom I theoretically shared with Tatiana.
“We’ll start with this,” said the Chihuahua Woman, thrusting a pink silk Charmeuse bias-cut cocktail dress toward me.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, afraid to touch it. “Is that an Oscar?”
The three women exchanged glances again, though considerably less amused ones than when I said they were plain.
“Very astute,” said the blonde editor, who had a British accent. “You can change behind there.”
She indicated a folding screen set up in the corner near the mirror.
“And please take everything else off,” she said. Her accent made her sound like one of those teachers in the movies that even the baddest kids can’t help but obey.
“You mean…” I said, afraid to go on because of what Raquel had said. But afraid not to go on, also.
“Yes,” she said. “Even the thong.”
Well, I wasn’t wearing a thong, I was wearing my regular white cotton panties, but I knew what she meant. The air conditioning was on so high I had goose bumps all over my body, but I felt better once I zipped up the dress. The fabric was as thick and soft as Tom’s best old chamois shirt, the one he gave me to sleep in. I stepped out from behind the screen and the triumvirate surveyed me from the neck down.
“The thighs could be a problem,” said the third woman, the non-British, non-chihuahua one, who was a bit pear-shaped herself.
“What do you mean—jiggly?” British accent said.
“No, not fat. Too thin.”
“There’s no such thing as thighs that are too thin,” the leader cut in. “Besides, she’s got very long calves. That’s the key to everything.”
Long calves were the key to everything? To love, happiness, and great personal wealth? I snorted.
All three of them went silent, staring in my direction as if I’d belched. Finally, the leader extended a silver sequined sheath to me. “Put this on,” she said. I guess the Silent Rule included snorting.
I slipped the dress over my head and stepped out from behind the screen.
“This one is fabulous on her,” said the leader woman, walking over to me and tugging at the dress’s waist.
“Very Edie, very Andy,” said Pear Shape. “Very Liza and Halston at Studio 54.”
“She has fabulous tits,” said the leader, though she apparently thought I didn’t have ears.
Pear Shape nodded as I began to shiver. “We could put her in that black strapless,” she said.
“We could do it like Stella,” British said, “wi
th long feather earrings and bare feet.”
“Or like Marc,” the leader said, “with those high black shoes and one of those caps.”
“Or like my friend Desi!” I said excitedly, imagining how much Desi would love this dress, this whole place. “She’d probably go totally silver, with big mirrored earrings and shiny high-heeled sandals and something like those skinny silver Indian bangles all the way up both arms.”
Finally they all looked at my face. The British woman and Pear Shape both opened their mouths, just a little, but enough to let me know they’d never heard anyone say this particular thing before and had no idea how to respond.
Leader Woman, on the other hand, pressed her lips tightly together. She looked like a narrow pipe that was building steam.
“No!” she finally exploded.
Everyone stood there, stunned for a moment.
“You’re not here to offer your opinion, is that understood?” she said.
I hung my head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am—it makes me feel a hundred and twelve,” she snapped. “Didn’t Raquel go over the rules with you?”
Afraid to say anything at all, I mutely nodded.
They turned away from me then and began talking about locations, props, schedules. I slipped behind the screen and lifted the sequined dress over my head. I looked around for someplace to hang it, and finally let it drop onto the floor. When I had dressed and stepped back into the room, they were still talking, pulling jewelry from the accessory wall, beginning to lay out outfits on the floor the way I did when I was going out.
The only difference was that the outfits I laid out at home usually consisted of something like a huge shirt of Duke’s over patent leather hot pants from the thrift store over my old dance class leggings, with red sneakers and a necklace Tom had made me from pinecones, and the outfits they were laying out at Vogue were designed by Chanel and Marni with jewelry from Cartier and shoes from Louboutin. It was all I could do not to drool.
I put my hand on the doorknob, figuring this was my chance to make a silent getaway, when the Leader called out to me.
“You,” she said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Uh,” I said, nervous about speaking but feeling as if I had no choice. “Out?”
“Not so fast,” she said. “We’re going to need you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for the shoot. I’ll phone Raquel with the details.”
Now I really was speechless. If I’d understood her correctly, I was about to be in Vogue magazine.
Somehow I managed to keep my cool going down in the elevator and walking through the lobby. I even managed to push through the crowd in Times Square and head down into the subway station without grabbing any strangers and shouting my amazing news. But when a train roared into the station and I knew no one could hear me, I let myself scream at the top of my lungs from the sheer thrill of it.
Me, in Vogue magazine. If it hadn’t been for the sound of the train, they might have heard me all the way in Wisconsin.
The first person I saw when I walked into the loft where the Vogue shoot was taking place was Alex Pradels. That’s right, Alex, the snobby photographer who’d taken my picture.
When he saw me, his face broke into a smile and he stood up.
“You owe me a big kiss,” he said.
“Really?” The nerve of this man!
“I’m the one who got you this job,” he continued, still maddeningly calm.
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“When your roommate Tatiana didn’t show up for her fitting and they fired her, I recommended you.”
“Wow,” I said. “You did?”
“You are a star, my dear,” he said, zooming in as if to kiss me.
I leaped back in alarm. “Thank you,” I said, rubbing my cheek as if he’d slapped it rather than simply aimed his lips in its direction. “I better get to work.”
“Work,” for me at least, involved sitting around letting people fix me up. Now I know what a painter’s canvas feels like, I thought, as my face was painted and powdered, as my hair was brushed and teased. It was like it had been for the test shots the other day times ten—more people, more time, more tension, more excitement.
We were shooting in a loft as big as Tom’s uncle’s hay barn, looking over the Hudson River and all of New York Harbor. I kept trying to breathe deeply while focusing on the Statue of Liberty in order to calm my nerves, but my brain kept ping-ponging off in crazy directions. The statue itself, for instance, made me think of France and my real father. Then that made me think of Mom and how far away she was. I’d try to turn my attention to the sailboats that dotted the harbor, but that only reminded me of Tom.
So instead of looking out the window I turned my attention to the loft. It was so beautiful, like no place I’d ever seen before, with all white furniture and huge paintings on the wall and enormous bouquets of white roses in shining glass globes. If you lived in this place, I imagined, you would never have an excuse to worry about anything, and imagining a life like that made me feel tranquil as everyone poked and prodded me and bustled around me.
Just when we were finally ready to shoot, the caterers arrived and set up lunch along the endless expanse of black countertop in the kitchen. There was more food than I’d seen anywhere outside the Fireman’s Picnic—dishes unlike any I’d seen before coming to New York: plates of sushi as wide as the tires on Tom’s truck, a mountain of vegetables as tall as Mom’s Thanksgiving turkey, a salad like a pile of fall leaves just after raking, plus muffins and pies and cookies and candy that everybody ignored.
I imagined how much my mom would enjoy this spread, and then had to work to push her out of my mind so I didn’t start feeling too sad. Now that I wasn’t with her, I realized how often I thought about her, how many things—like, practically everything—reminded me of her.
Just think about what you’re going to have for lunch, I counseled myself. But I suddenly felt self-conscious about eating with all these people standing around. Instead of filling my plate, I decided, I would only eat the one thing on the table I really wanted: the candy.
When I thought everyone was too busy with their sushi and their salad to notice, I slipped one of the dark chocolate balls from the pile and popped it in my mouth. But as I chewed, I saw that everyone was looking at me.
“These are really good,” I said, figuring an explanation was called for.
They all kept staring until Yuki, Alex’s assistant, finally reached out and took one of the chocolates, then lifted the sharp knife that was lying beside the bagels and sliced into the candy, popping a tiny wedge into her mouth.
Now it was my turn to stare. “I didn’t know you could do that,” I said finally.
“What?”
“Cut a piece of candy like a pie.”
I noticed the others exchange glances.
“How long have you been working?” asked the hairdresser, a nice fellow who reminded me of my music teacher and dressed like him too.
I was so thrilled that someone had finally asked me a question that I wanted to give him a complete answer. “Oh, golly, I’ve been working as long as I can remember,” I said, casting my mind back. “I was probably five when I started digging night crawlers for the bait shop.”
Everyone took a step back, as if I had hit a fly ball.
“Amanda has recently arrived from the Midwest,” Alex said.
“Ohhhhh,” everyone said, as if he had explained that I’d recently been released from a mental hospital. I glared at him.
“You shouldn’t be eating those chocolates if you’re going to squeeze into the Charmeuse,” said the British editor, who was the stylist—translation: person who got me dressed for the shoot.
“Now I’m going to have to redo her lipstick,” said the makeup artist.
“You’ll redo it twenty times anyway,” Alex said, popping one of the chocolates into his own mouth. “Relax.”
But British
, whose name seemed to be Minty, was not to be deterred. “Come along, Amanda,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed.”
When the actual shoot started, an hour later, I stood teetering on heels so high I couldn’t actually walk, with a fan blowing my hair back and lights making me squint and more than a dozen people standing in a semicircle staring at me. Alex took only a few shots before Minty called, “Stop!”
I blinked.
“She has to move,” Minty said to Alex, loudly enough for me and everyone else to hear. “Will you please talk to her?”
He approached me. I stiffened. I mean, I stiffened more.
“Amanda,” he said, leaning close. I swayed backward. He brought his lips to my ear. “She’s got a stick up her behind, don’t pay any attention to her,” he mumbled.
In spite of myself, I smiled.
“Just do what you did the other day,” he said.
“But it was only you and me then,” I explained. “Plus, I didn’t do anything.”
“Wait here,” he said.
He went over near where his equipment cases were stacked and fumbled around until he found what looked like a few sheets of paper, then returned to where I stood waiting.
“You probably haven’t seen these,” he said, handing them to me.
They were the contact sheets from the test shoot we’d done. I knew that was me in the photographs, but it was some far more beautiful, elegant, otherworldly version of me.
I looked at Alex, my eyes wide.
“How did you do this?”
He shrugged, that smile on his lips again. “How did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s exactly it: Don’t do anything. But don’t stand there waiting for me to take your picture either. Ignore everyone. Even ignore me. Just do what you want to do.”
I knew what I wanted to do. Instead of going back into the spotlight, I headed to the food table. Minty started to protest but Alex shushed her. I got a chocolate. I came back to the light. Alex moved behind his camera. I stuck my tongue out and licked the chocolate.
“Great,” Alex laughed, clicking. “That’s beautiful.”
The Home for Wayward Supermodels Page 5