Model Madness

by Sheryl Berk

  A doorman dressed in a white uniform with gold epaulets on his shoulders jumped in front of them. “May I help you?”

  “Yes! You can!” Mickey piped up. “We need to get to Penthouse Suite A. We have a delivery for Gigi Harlowe.”

  The man looked them over and wrinkled his nose. “The penthouse floor is private and restricted. VIP guests only. No visitors allowed.”

  JC pushed Mickey gently aside. “You don’t understand, my good man,” he corrected the doorman. “We are VIPs. Gigi’s expecting us. Like, now.”

  The man walked over to a phone at the reception desk and dialed an extension. Mickey and JC could see he was speaking to someone on the other end but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Finally, he hung up. “No visitors,” he said firmly.

  “What? Gigi told me to be here!” Mickey protested, showing him her text as proof.

  “I spoke with her publicist, and she doesn’t know about any visitors. I need to ask you to leave. Like, now.”

  “Look, buddy,” JC said. “We’re not Gigi groupies. She actually wants my friend’s bag to wear to the party tonight.” Mickey showed him her bubble bag.

  The man sniffed. “I’m sure. The door is that way.” He blew a gold whistle hanging on a chain around his neck, and two security guards began closing in on them. “This way, please.”

  The guards escorted JC and Mickey outside to the curb, several feet from the hotel.

  “Thanks,” JC snarled at them. “Appreciate the hospitality!”

  Then he turned to Mickey. “Did you text Gigi? Tell her we’re stuck out here and they won’t let us up and her publicist is clueless?”

  “I did,” Mickey said with a sigh. “She’s not answering. And if I don’t get her that bag, she’ll never speak to me again.”

  Suddenly, a catering truck pulled up in front of the hotel. The doorman pointed to a service entrance around the corner.

  “Mick,” JC said. “We’re goin’ in.”

  Mickey shook her head. “JC, they’ll only bounce us out of the hotel again. Or worse: call the police.”

  “Not if we go through the back door.” He pulled her toward the catering van. Several workers were unloading dozens of pastries and desserts. They left the door to the van wide open as they hurried inside, arms filled with trays. JC waited till no one was at the van’s rear and seized the opportunity. While Mickey kept an eye on the driver, he reached in the back and grabbed two platters out—one for each of them.

  “Score!” he said triumphantly and whistled through his teeth to let Mickey know to follow. They walked through the service entrance, carefully covering their faces with the trays of éclairs and cream puffs. They strolled right past the security guard and into the service elevator.

  “JC, you’re amazing!” Mickey congratulated him. “How did you do that?”

  “Practice,” JC explained. “I’ve snuck backstage twice at Madonna concerts.”

  He hit the PH button, and the door creaked shut. “Next stop, Gigi!”

  They waited patiently for the old elevator to climb eighteen stories to the very top. When they reached sixteen, it suddenly bounced and stopped. The lights flickered and went dark.

  Mickey pressed the flashlight on her phone. “What just happened? What’s going on?”

  “Mick, don’t panic,” JC said, hitting the open button, then every other one on the panel.

  “I won’t panic if you tell me we’re not stuck in here.”

  “Okay, then panic. Because we’re stuck!” JC said.

  “Ring the alarm!” Mickey shouted.

  “And alert the security guard that we’re trespassing? Not a good idea.”

  Mickey was now frantic. “Well, what do we do? Stay in here forever while Gigi goes to her fund-raiser without my bag?”

  “We call in reinforcements,” JC said, thinking quickly. He checked to make sure his phone still had a signal and hit speed dial. “Madge?” he said. “We have a fashion emergency…”

  • • •

  It was nearly an hour before JC’s eighties-loving pal managed to get uptown to the Madison Plaza with everything JC told her she needed. She was dressed in a beret and white apron, carrying a white paper bag, and quickly walked past the security guard at the service entrance with a wave of her hand. “They forgot the crème anglaise,” she said in a phony French accent. “Incroyable! Who ever heard of serving my roasted pear and quince tarts without it?”

  Madge found the service elevator and pressed the button several times, but nothing lit up or budged. JC had warned her it might not work and she would have to improvise.

  “Monsieur…” She summoned the guard. “Could you perhaps alert someone to the elevator? There seems to be an issue.”

  The guard looked up from his newspaper. “What kind of an issue?”

  “My crème is getting warm. I must get it to the Pink Party.”

  The man nodded and issued an order into his walkie-talkie. “Give ’em a sec to restart it,” he assured her. “It gets a little sticky sometimes.”

  “Oui! Like my sticky toffee pudding!” Madge said, walking back to his desk. “Do you like toffee? Or chocolate perhaps?” She handed him a white paper bag with a chocolate éclair inside. “For you, mon ami—while we’re waiting.”

  He looked inside the bag, and his eyes lit up. “No one ever brings me a treat!”

  “Well, they should,” Madge said, batting her eyelashes. “They’re very lucky to have you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Albert,” he replied. “But you can call me Al.”

  “Well, Al,” Madge said. “Pleasure meeting you. My name is…” She paused for a second. She hadn’t really thought of a cover name! “Uh, my name is Marie Antoinette.”

  “That’s a lovely name,” Al said. “For a lovely lady.”

  His walkie-talkie crackled. “Elevator is up and running,” a voice said on the other end.

  Inside, JC and Mickey cheered as the lights came on and the elevator lurched to a start. “Yes!” JC said, fist-pumping the air. “Madge to the rescue!”

  They jumped out and raced for the penthouse suite. At the door, JC suddenly froze.

  “What’s wrong?” Mickey asked. “Why are you just standing there like a statue?”

  “I need a moment,” JC said, taking a deep breath. “I’m about to meet a fashion icon. I need to process.”

  Mickey glanced nervously at the time on her phone. “JC, no time to process! Ring the bell!”

  “Okay, okay.” JC sighed. He rang, then stood with his nose pressed against the door. A hotel maid answered. “Sorry, they’ve all gone,” she said.

  “Gone?” JC gasped. “What do you mean, they’ve gone? Where in the name of Gaga could they have gone when they knew we were coming?”

  “Gigi must have left for the party!” Mickey wailed. “What do we do now?”

  JC grabbed her hand and pulled her after him. “We take the stairs down!”

  After running down fifteen flights to the third floor, Mickey and JC raced into the grand ballroom. A woman was up at the podium giving a speech so no one was paying attention when they snuck into the room. There were dozens of tables draped in pink velvet fabric and tall floral centerpieces brimming with pink roses, begonias, and azaleas. The crystal chandeliers twinkled on the ceiling, but even more glittery were the dresses worn by all the celebrities and society elite.

  “This is amazing!” Mickey said, taking it all in. “I feel like I’ve walked into a magical land. And it’s all pink and sparkly!”

  JC nodded. “I have never seen cocktail shrimp that big,” he said, grabbing one from a waiter walking by. “This is impressive, all right.”

  They scanned the tables for Gigi, but there were too many guests to spot her.

  “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,
” Mickey whispered.

  “Don’t you mean looking for a beautiful model in a sea of beautiful people?” JC asked. “There must be over a thousand guests here!”

  “You go left, I’ll go right,” Mickey suggested.

  They split up and began making their way through the crowds and the waiters serving them dinner. JC’s stomach started to growl. They had been in that elevator a really long time! He saw an open seat—and a plate of prime rib waiting at it—and sat down. Gigi could wait a few minutes longer, couldn’t she?

  “Pardon me,” a gray-haired woman whispered to him. “I think you’re in the wrong seat.”

  “Nuh-uh,” JC replied, stuffing his mouth with potato au gratin. “I’m here.”

  The woman pointed to a place card that read, “M. Curtin.”

  “That’s me,” JC insisted. “Matt Curtin. Matty to my closest friends, but Mom calls me Matthew.”

  “Well, Matty,” the woman continued, “that must be your mother up there speaking at the podium. Madeline Curtin, chairwoman of the Pink Party?”

  JC gulped. “Gee, Mommy didn’t tell me she was giving a speech,” he fibbed. “Good for her. Gotta go!”

  He grabbed one last forkful of roast beef and ran off in search of Gigi.

  Meanwhile, Mickey was having no better luck. “Excuse me.” She tapped a pretty brunette on the shoulder. “Have you seen the supermodel Gigi Harlowe?”

  “Nope,” replied the young woman, who was wearing a pale-pink gown. “But if you do, tell her I’m mad she beat me out for the Calvin ad campaign.”

  Mickey looked puzzled—until she realized the woman was Kendyll Jansen, Gigi’s supermodel nemesis. The two of them were always on one magazine cover or the other. Kendyll was the face of Ooh La La makeup; Gigi was the spokeswoman for NOW! nail polish. Kendyll modeled Just Sew jeans; Gigi was the official representative of Dollz Denim. They were the ultimate competitors in the supermodel world, and their feuds were legendary.

  “Oh!” Mickey gasped. “Sorry!” As someone who was constantly being beaten out by Jade, she understood a little of what Kendyll was feeling.

  Kendyll sighed. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have someone constantly breathing down your neck, just waiting for you to mess up or fail so she can swoop in and outdo you?”

  “I do,” Mickey said. “Really, I do. I go to the Fashion Academy of Brooklyn, and there’s a girl there who always tries to one-up me. She makes fun of my designs, says I have no taste. It’s pretty annoying.”

  “No kidding,” Kendyll said. “I’m sick of it. It’s always Gigi this, Gigi that.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I loved your Marie Claire cover,” Mickey said. “The one with the Dior print jumpsuit?”

  “You did? Thanks!” Kendyll replied. “Gigi said it was lame, but I try not to listen when she moves her lips.”

  Mickey smiled. “That’s funny. That’s exactly how I handle Jade. I just tune her out and pretend it’s white noise.”

  Kendyll smiled. “Do you have a picture of one of your designs?”

  “Are you kidding? I have a whole folder on my phone!” She pulled it out and flipped through them.

  “Well, I can see why Jade gives you so much trouble,” Kendyll said.

  “You can? Why?”

  “Because you’re amazingly talented! She’s so jealous, she can’t see straight. This army jacket with the vintage patches is sick!”

  “That’s probably why Gigi gives you a hard time too,” Mickey said thoughtfully. “She sees you as a threat.”

  “Seems like we have a lot in common,” Kendyll said. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Mickey,” she replied. “Mickey Williams.”

  “Well, good luck, Mickey Williams,” she said. “With finding Gigi and with dealing with jealous Jade at school. Don’t let her get to you; you’re better than her.”

  Mickey actually wanted to hug her—but she felt like Kendyll might think she was weird if she did. “You too, Kendyll,” she said instead.

  Mickey continued wandering around the ballroom. There were many more high-fashion models, not to mention tons of designers, movie stars, and even a presidential candidate. She wished she had time to chat with them all, but the only thing she could think about was finding Gigi and putting the purse in her hands.

  “You!” a voice suddenly whispered behind her. “You were supposed to be here hours ago!”

  It was Gigi—and she didn’t look very happy to see her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mickey told her. “We got kicked out, then stuck in the elevator. Then Madge had to spring us…”

  “No excuses!” Gigi said, raising her hand. “I missed carrying the bag on the pink carpet in front of all the press.”

  “Oh no!” Mickey replied. “Please, take it now. I’m so sorry!”

  Gigi pouted. “No. I don’t want it anymore.”

  “Please!” Mickey pleaded. “I tried so hard to get here on time.”

  “Not hard enough,” Gigi huffed. “Go away.”

  “But you loved it. Remember?” This couldn’t be happening. First Mr. Kaye dissed her bag, and now Gigi!

  A woman in a big fuchsia hat interrupted them from where she was sitting at a neighboring table. “Excuse me, dear,” she said to Mickey. “Can I see that bag?” Mickey held it out to her, and the woman smiled. “It’s quite unique. Did you make it?”

  “Yes.” Mickey nodded. “For my class project.”

  The woman beamed. “Well, I think it’s wonderful.”

  Gigi suddenly grabbed the bag out of Mickey’s hands. “It is, isn’t it? I discovered it. It’s mine.”

  “Of course!” Mickey said, relieved. “I said you can buy it.”

  “Buy it?” Gigi laughed in her face. “I make fashion trends. You should be paying me.”

  “What?” Mickey asked. “That’s not fair!” She was counting on that five hundred dollars to buy a new sewing machine and a birthday present for Aunt Olive.

  “You were late, so I’m not paying you a cent for it,” Gigi said. “That should teach you a lesson about being punctual.” She snapped her fingers, and a security guard made his way over to the table.

  “We can take a hint,” JC said, appearing behind Mickey. “No need to kick us to the curb again.” Then he turned to Gigi. “Can I just take a quick selfie before we go?”

  “Out!” Gigi bellowed.

  • • •

  When they were outside once again, Mickey sat on the steps of the hotel and sulked.

  “I know things didn’t turn out the way you wanted them to,” JC said, trying to comfort her. “But look on the bright side: a psycho supermodel is sporting your bag. Yippee!”

  Mickey glared at him. “Really? Gigi didn’t pay me. She didn’t get photographed on the pink carpet carrying it. Tell me exactly, why should I be happy?”

  “Okay, so maybe that bright side is a little dim…” JC said.

  “It’s pitch-dark. As dark as that elevator we were stuck in for over an hour,” Mickey moped. “This has been the worst day of my life.”

  “Actually,” JC reminded her, “that might be tomorrow, when you have to apologize to Mr. Kaye for mouthing off to him.”

  Mickey had almost forgotten about her outburst in Apparel Arts! “Oh no. He’s gonna hate me.”

  “Hate is a strong word,” JC said, putting an arm around her. “Let’s just say you might not be his bestie at the moment.”

  “I’m not Gigi’s bestie either,” Mickey added. “I really thought she was going to love my bag and ask me to be one of her entourage.”

  “You can be one of my entourage,” JC offered. “As long as I don’t have to pay you five hundred dollars. ’Cause I’ve got my eye on an original Madonna ‘Holiday’ single at Madge’s and it’s pricey.”

  Mickey smiled slightly.
“You were amazing today, JC,” she said. “What would I do without you?”

  He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out an éclair wrapped in a napkin that he had nabbed from the pastry tray on the dinner table. “Go hungry, probably,” he said, offering her half. “What are best friends for?”

  Mickey knew she had to speak to Mr. Kaye before classes started for the day. The longer she waited, the worse it would be. But as she stood at his office door, poised to knock on it, she felt her knees knocking together as well. What if he yelled at her? What if he told her she was a terrible designer? What if he kicked her out of FAB?

  The door suddenly sprang open. “I was reading my newspaper, and I thought I heard something—or someone,” he said. “But then as you say, ‘What do I know?’”

  Mickey winced. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Mr. Kaye, I want to apologize for yesterday…” she began.

  “For your words, or for your project?” he asked her.

  “Both, I guess.”

  He opened his newspaper to the gossip page and held it up for her to see. There was a photo of Gigi, wearing Mickey’s Pop Star purse as she twirled around the ballroom dance floor.

  “Well, it photographs well,” he said.

  For a brief moment Mickey was excited. Then she remembered how mad her teacher was. “It was wrong of me to yell at you,” she said. “I was just mad.”

  “Mad at whom?” he asked. “I believe you were mad at yourself because you know my critique was spot-on.”

  Mickey thought for a second. “I guess you were right about the back being slightly oval. I can kinda see that in the photo of Gigi. And I had a hard time sewing the plastic strap, so a few of my stitches were uneven…”

  “My job is not to knock you down, Mickey—although I’m sure that’s what you think,” he explained. “It’s to make you a better designer. The only way you learn is to make mistakes and do better the next time.”

  Mickey nodded. “I know. It just hurt.”