Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

Chapter Nineteen

  Seneca found Booth’s driver and had him drive her back to the house, where she locked herself in the bedroom she would share with Luis. She went through the ritual of removing the makeup from her face before she showered and pulled on a pair of lounging pants and tee. Sitting yoga-style on the twin bed, she called Ithaca. Her father answered the phone. The instant she heard his deep voice her eyes filled with tears.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “How’s my birthday girl?”

  “She’s good,” she lied, blinking back tears.

  “You don’t sound so good.”

  “That’s because I miss you guys.”

  “What’s the matter, Seneca?”

  “I can’t talk about it now.”

  There came a pregnant pause before Oscar Houston said, “What’s going on, Seneca? You call to say you miss us, yet you’re too busy to come and visit with your family. You act as if we live on the other side of the world. Not only are we in the same time zone but we also live in the same state. I try not to take sides, but this time I’m going to agree with your mother when she says you’re only thinking of yourself. I’ve always tried to support you when you say you want to do something, but I’m not so certain about this modeling business.”

  “What’s wrong with it, Daddy?”

  “The question should be what’s right with it.”

  “I like it.”

  “Do you love it, Seneca?”

  Seneca chewed her lower lip as she thought about her father’s question. “I can’t answer that.”

  “You can’t because the answer is no. You can’t give something a hundred percent of yourself if you don’t love it. Your grandmother loved being an actress more than she loved being a wife and mother, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. What you’re going to have ask yourself is if modeling will be worth the sacrifices that you’re going to face in the future.”

  “What sacrifices?”

  “Your first sacrifice is giving up your education and—”

  “I’m going to go back to school,” she said, interrupting him.

  “Please let me finish, Seneca. The second sacrifice will be friends and family, because everybody is going to want a piece of you. And you’re going to want to please them. Designers will line up like vehicles at a car wash to beg you to wear their clothes. Then it’s the folks who want you to promote their products. People are going to expect you to smile when you don’t feel like smiling, and if a photographer happens to take a picture of you when you’re having a bad hair day, then tongues start wagging about what’s going on in your life. It’s going to happen, baby girl. I just want you to be prepared when it comes.”

  Seneca cried silent tears. Her father’s words cut her to the quick. Had he always harbored reservations about her becoming a model, or had Dahlia brainwashed him? Her mother equated models to whores and sluts. But she wasn’t a whore or a slut. What she’d done was marry the wrong man.

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “You don’t have to take it, Seneca. Just think about what I’ve said. No matter what happens, always remember that I’ll be here for you.”

  “I know that, Daddy. I’m going to Miami next week for my first show in the States. Instead of coming back to the city I’ll fly up and see you, Mama and Robbie.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Don’t say anything to Mama and Robbie. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “I won’t say a mumbling word.”

  Seneca laughed for the first time since hearing her father’s voice. “By the way, how is Mama?”

  “Other than complaining about hot flashes, she’s all right.”

  “She’s too young to have hot flashes.”

  “That’s what I told her, but she insists she’s going through the change.”

  “When I see her I’m going to try and convince her to have her estrogen levels checked.”

  “Good luck with that, baby girl. Did you have a drink to celebrate becoming legal?”

  “No.”

  “Good for you. The stuff can be poison to some people.”

  Seneca knew Oscar was talking about his younger brother, who’d been in and out of alcohol rehab for most of his life before he died of liver disease.

  “If I start drinking, then I’ll eat all the wrong foods.”

  Oscar’s deep laugh caressed her ear. “I suppose modeling has a few good perks.”

  “It does. It forces me to eat healthy.”

  “Look, baby, I’m going to ring off because I promised the ladies of the house that I would take them to the movies, and if we don’t head out now we’re going to miss that last show.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Thanks. Bye, and happy birthday.”

  Seneca held the tiny phone to her ear, then punched the end button. Her father had hung up. Slipping off the bed, she went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Staring at her reflection in the mirror over the pedestal sink, she hardly recognized the face staring back at her. Puffy red eyes were a telltale sign that she’d been crying.

  She was crying and hiding behind a locked door on what should’ve been one of the momentous days of her life. Seneca wasn’t as unsettled about her father’s change of heart about her modeling as she’d been about the altercation with Electra. That was totally unexpected. Now she knew what people meant when they said something came at them out of left field.

  She’d gotten Booth to agree to let her invite Electra and her playwright boyfriend to Francisco Abrams’s birthday celebration, and yet Electra wanted her to take Jayson by the hand and personally introduce him to the director. She didn’t expect her roommate to bow and kiss her hand, but Electra verbally attacked her—calling her a bitch—because Jayson was too timid to take care of his own business. She’d seen girls punched out because they’d called another girl the B-word.

  Seneca Houston was nobody’s bitch, and she knew that sharing an apartment with Electra was no longer an option. Finding another apartment in Manhattan and paying what she did for rent was nearly impossible, but she was confident she could find something. She would give Electra two month’s notice, and even if she didn’t find another place to live she knew she couldn’t continue to share the apartment.

  Seneca felt the comforting press of Mitchell’s hand on hers as the jet picked up speed in preparation for liftoff. She was flying to Miami to walk in Rhys Calhoun’s swimsuit show, and Mitchell Leon was going along as the photographer for Elle magazine.

  When she’d returned to Manhattan after her weekend on Long Island’s South Shore, it wasn’t to the Upper West Side brownstone. She’d checked into a moderately priced hotel near the Hudson River, spending hours on her cell calling Realtors and scouring classified ads for apartment rentals. What she didn’t want to do was share an apartment again, but with the price of New York City real estate she’d concluded her best option was renting in one of the other boroughs. Brooklyn had become her first choice, because it was easily accessible by public transportation.

  Mitchell had attempted to resolve her problem when he’d called to invite her out to a vegetarian restaurant they both liked, offering to pick her up. However, when she told him she was staying at the hotel, he calmly told her to check out and stay with him. He’d deflected her rejection, reminding her that she’d put him up on her sofa when he hadn’t had anyplace to stay. Her last comment to him on the matter was that she would think about it. After dinner, they returned to the hotel, and Mitchell took her luggage back to his loft.

  “Have you thought about it, Butterfly?”

  Seneca pulled her gaze away from the window where the tarmac whizzed dizzily by. “Thought about what?” She closed her eyes briefly as the jet gained altitude.

  “Moving in with me?”

  She opened her eyes, her gaze moving slowly over the sculpted mahogany face with mesmerizing gold eyes. “I’ll stay with you, but only until I find my own place.”

  Mitchell smiled, flashing his bea
utiful white teeth. When they’d walked through the terminal to their gate, stares and whispers had followed. Mitchell Leon hadn’t been away from the world of modeling long enough for people to have forgotten his tall, slender body and dynamic face. Both were flying first-class and had elected to carry on their luggage.

  Mitchell gave Seneca’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “Good. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re moving out, or do you want me to take a wild guess?”

  “There’s no need to play twenty questions.” Seneca recounted the conversation she’d had with Electra at Francisco Abrams’s beachfront home. “I’d never seen her so upset. I think it’s because she wants more for her boyfriend than he wants for himself. I would’ve excused her if she hadn’t called me a bitch.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Yes, she did. I prayed to the ancestors to keep me from stomping a mud hole in her ass. Five-inch stilettos can double as lethal weapons.”

  Mitchell laughed despite the seriousness of the situation. “I see why you checked into that hotel. I don’t want to say anything but…”

  “But what, Mitchell?” Seneca asked when he stopped talking.

  “You’ve got to toughen up,” he said cryptically. “You have what Electra wants—fame.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m not famous.”

  “Not yet. And she knows that. Remember, you invited her to come along to the Hamptons, not the other way around. You’re a BGM client, you know Phillip Kingston and she saw Francisco Abrams’s reaction when he met you. Your roommate wants to be you. She wants to be Butterfly. And because she isn’t, she turned on you.”

  “She can’t be jealous.”

  “No. She’s not jealous. She’s envious. Don’t forget envy is one of the seven deadly sins. And you’re not going to only get it from friends but also from family.”

  “You went through something like I did with Electra?”

  “If I’d had an Electra moment, then I would’ve thought of myself as blessed. Once I returned to the States after my first European show, every friend and relative I’d ever known had their hand out. If they weren’t asking for a little ‘spare change’ they were hounding me about how to break into modeling.” Mitchell leaned closer to Seneca. “Guys I’d gone to school with called me faggot and dick sucker, because they believed I’d prostituted myself to get modeling jobs,” he said in her ear. “Women I wouldn’t sleep with perpetuated the rumors and gossip because they weren’t used to men turning them down. As my grandmother used to say, God bless the dead, ‘Gird your loins, boy, ’cause theys gonna come afta ya.’”

  Seneca laughed when she didn’t feel like laughing and prayed Mitchell was wrong. Her family wasn’t destitute, so she doubted whether they’d ask her for money. Even her few distant cousins, Stefani included among them, rarely interacted with her. She hadn’t reconnected with Stefani until she’d graduated from cosmetology school. Her cousin had called to let her know she was working in a salon in Harlem.

  The flipside was that her cousin didn’t want her to come to the salon but to her apartment in Brooklyn to do her hair. The experience was one Seneca would never forget. Between screaming at her three children, all under the age of six, and attempting to appease her grumpy husband when he wanted her to stop what she was doing and cook dinner for him, it had taken more than four hours for Stefani to wash, deep-condition, set, dry and blow-dry her hair.

  She didn’t say anything to Mitchell, but she prayed he was wrong. The jet had reached cruising altitude and the flight attendants began serving breakfast. It was an added perk when airlines had downsized to the point where they charged for checked bags, snacks, pillows and blankets. She and Phillip had flown first class to L.A. and had taken a private jet to Vegas. It was a practice she could easily get used to.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Come on, ladies, it’s time for you to get into hair and makeup!”

  Seneca felt the pulsing excitement heating her blood. When they’d walked out of Miami International she’d been taken aback by the blast of heat and humidity. The hair she’d pulled into a ponytail frizzed and curled within minutes. As she sat in front of the mirror, wearing a dressing gown over a pair of bikini panties, she watched the stylist as he ran his fingers through her hair.

  “I’ll take this one,” said a familiar voice behind her. Seneca smiled when she saw Yancy’s reflection in the mirror.

  Reaching up, she caught his hand. “Hey, you.”

  Leaning down, Yancy pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hey, yourself.” He massaged her scalp, pulling her hair back off her face. “You ladies are going to be birds—beautiful, colorful, exotic birds.”

  “Does that mean I’m going to be wearing feathers?”

  Yancy nodded. “Lots and lots of colorful feathers.” He released her hair, resting his hands at his hips. “Only because you have the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a woman, I’m going to turn you into a flamingo.”

  Seneca clapped her hands as she’d done when she was a child, her eyes shimmering with excitement, praying she wouldn’t lose focus. When she and Mitchell had checked into their respective hotel rooms, she’d drunk a bottle of chilled water, then practiced her walk until she could do it perfectly in her sleep. The show was scheduled to be held later that evening in the ballroom of a newly constructed cultural arts center in Miami’s South Beach.

  She watched, transfixed, as Yancy, wielding a large brush and blow-dryer, straightened the front of her hair before securing it with an elastic band. He pinned up the rest of her hair into a tight knot on the crown of her head. The headpiece came next. Pure white feathers tipped with pink and orange were pinned tightly into the knot, truly making her look like an exotic bird. With her heels and the feathers she would appear even taller.

  Seneca was hustled over to makeup, where the artist applied bright splashes of red, orange, white and pink to her face. Her eyes seemed to disappear under the garish paint until they were outlined with kohl. The show’s coordinator was shouting orders like a marine drill sergeant.

  “Butterfly! Who the hell is Butterfly?”

  Seneca raced over the frantic man who wore entirely too much makeup. “I’m Butterfly.”

  “Rhys wants you to open and close. So please get to wardrobe and into your first outfit.”

  Seneca felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she was handed a two-piece red-and-yellow swimsuit that wasn’t much more than a scrap of fabric and ribbon. Taking off the dressing gown and her panties, she stepped into the bottom as a young woman tied the ribbons below her hipbones. Seconds later she had on the top and was pushing her feet into a pair of silk stilettos with ties that wrapped around her ankles. Rhys, who’d walked backstage, came over to her.

  He looked her over, his eyes narrowing. “Exquisite, but you need something.” He snapped his fingers. “She needs chicken fillets.” Within seconds she’d achieved a larger cup size when the rubbery breast enhancers were inserted into her top.

  The sounds of voices speaking English and Spanish and music with an infectious Latin-infused beat drifted backstage. Seneca closed her eyes, her hips swaying in time to the music. She shook her arms at her sides to relax them. If this was to be her first runway show, then she wanted it to be a memorable one—for the spectators and for herself.

  She’d come to the center earlier than scheduled and had walked the length of the runway, counting the number of steps it took for her to get to the end before falling off. Keane had cautioned her about knowing exactly when the end of the runway was, because too often he’d witnessed models falling after they were stunned by flashbulbs. Not only did she know how many steps it took to the end of the runway, but she was also cognizant of its width. There wasn’t much room if she had to pass another model coming from the opposite direction.

  The show’s coordinator peered through the curtain. “It’s a full house. Two minutes, Butterfly, and you’re on.”

  Seneca schooled her face until there was no expression. It wasn’t about sell
ing her smile but the garment she was wearing. She waited for the signal, then the curtain parted and, wearing a designer garment, she stepped out on the runway for the first time.

  She registered the gasps as her red heel hit the floor, her arms swinging loosely at her sides. Halfway down she folded her hands at her hips, and when she reached the end of the runway she stopped, counted three seconds, then raised her hands with the fluid grace of a flamenco dancer wielding a set of castanets, rested her hands on her hips and strutted back the way she’d come. A roar went up as flashbulbs caught the action. The curtain opened and she raced in to change into another outfit.

  Seneca changed her shoes for a pair of high-heeled mules and a one-piece suit that showed a liberal amount of her toned buttocks and barely covered her breasts. The crowd roared when she reappeared, and in that instant Butterfly took flight. She was high on adrenaline, drunk on the excitement that all eyes were watching her every move.

  She gave them high fashion and then some. When she returned for her final walk wearing a minuscule sheer black two-piece with a matching flowing sheer black sarong, the crowd went wild when she pirouetted and snapped the sarong as if she were a matador.

  All the models lined up for their final walk, applauding, Seneca in the lead. Rhys appeared onstage and bowed grace fully, his strawberry-blond hair sweeping over his shoulder. Turning, he applauded his models, then cradling Seneca’s face, he kissed her flush on the mouth. Taking her hand, he bowed again, and she following suit.

  The curtain opened and the beautiful birds fluttered back stage, where they promptly slipped out of the uncomfortable shoes. One model had had to wear a pair that were a size too small and stomp through the pain. Fortunately for Seneca, she wore a size seven and was able to find a pair in her size.

  Rhys walked backstage, grinning from ear to ear. “Ladies, you were the most beautiful birds on the planet. Thank you for making the show a rousing success. Of course, you are all invited to the reception.”

  He approached Seneca and kissed her cheek. “You know you were magnificent.”