by Jay Manuel
They had a lot to talk about. Keisha had sprung a surprise “branding” makeover on the girls, who’d already undergone one makeover earlier in the season. The reason? Well, the real reason was that Keisha’s ringer needed help to win. The competition was too fierce. The problem was the Irish girl, Nichole; her thick red hair reached down to her very slim waist and she was slaying almost every photoshoot. The solution? Keisha ordered Nichole’s head shaved. It had been a moment of open-mouthed horror for all of the girls. Nichole looked hard at the Supermodel host and then acquiesced. “Under one condition.”
“Condition? You comply or you leave.” Keisha pointed to the exit.
“That my hair be donated to Locks of Love.”
“What’s that?” Keisha’s eyes were hard and mean, despite the girl’s willingness to be shorn.
“It’s a non-profit,” Pablo answered. “They make wigs for children who have lost their hair due to medical procedures, like chemo.”
“That’s so…” Keisha didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Generous,” Pablo chimed in. “We can certainly do that,” he assured the young model.
“Thank you.” Nichole bit her lips and nodded bravely. Her hair was bound in three sections before it was cut close to the nape of the neck. Then it was cut shorter. Then it was shaved. The cameras stayed on Nichole’s face. She didn’t drop a single tear. Keisha was furious.
Kayla’s makeover had also been radical. Like many young aspiring model wannabes, Kayla—an alluring Greek girl with doe-like brown eyes—idealized the Supermodel host. “I just wanna be like Keisha one day,” she had said during casting. Kayla had applied every season for five seasons in a row until she had finally made the semi-finals. She was also pushing the ringer off her rigged throne. Unfortunately for Keisha, Kayla had come out of her makeover looking hotter than ever and even more confident than usual.
Elyssa was an illustrated girl, tattooed with cursive ink that made her a colorful canvas the photographers loved. She was the quirky girl, but highly intelligent. Pablo liked her a lot, and Keisha loved her story—the smart girl who’d had it all and then lost it all and ended up living on the streets. Elyssa’s makeover utilized the art on her body to create a hairstyle that was equally interesting and set off some of her neck tats. But make no mistake, Keisha had predestined Elyssa to be eliminated during the last episode for some manufactured reason that the production team had yet to discover or fabricate. Pablo felt a little sick about it, but Keisha had a research team working on drumming up some reveal for the last show that would embarrass Elyssa and cause her demise.
“The Ringer” was Beth, the first plus-sized winner Model Muse would ever announce. She loved raiding the craft service table and hoarded bags of Cheetos in her room, which explained why her right index finger and thumb were permanently stained orange. If the other contestants had known that “Miss Flaming Cheetos” had already been hand-selected by Keisha, herself, they all would’ve lost their little minds. Beth’s makeover had been specially designed to help her win. The problem was that Kayla’s makeover turned out better than Beth’s. At least Nichole’s botch job gave Keisha an easy way to exit the model from the show without anyone guessing the fix.
“She did it on purpose,” Pablo overheard Nichole whispering to the others. “I feel like she scalped me before chopping my head off. I’ll be cut tonight, for sure.”
“I just don’t understand why she did it. It was your best asset,” Beth said. “I wish I had red hair like you have.”
“Had.”
“At least you didn’t freak out,” Kayla said. “You were so brave.”
“Stoic,” Elyssa added.
“She just wanted me to freak out, so they could film me having a meltdown. It’s all about ratings. I wish I’d never done this stupid show.”
“Nichole, you are beyond beautiful—inside and out.” Elyssa jumped in. “Even if you don’t win, people will be following you. You’ll get a contract.”
“I don’t even know if I wanna model anymore.” Nichole sounded like she was crying now. “If it means you have to be a bitch in this biz, what’s the point?”
“Keisha always picks some odd-looking girl to be the winner,” Elyssa added. “It makes sense she shaved your head bald. She’s just trying to ugly you up, for the win!”
“Fucking bitch!”
“Look at you. Your skin is flawless, your face is perfectly symmetrical. You photograph better than any of us.” Elyssa was being so supportive.
They all chimed in to support and encourage her. It really was sweet. Pablo wondered if lambs going to slaughter felt the same way about each other?
“You’re the obvious Model Muse.”
“Elyssa’s right, you’re probably gonna win,” Beth told Nichole, then looked pointedly over at Kayla, their resident slut. “And if you don’t, at least you didn’t fuck your way to the crown.”
“I just sucked him off. We never had sex.”
“Who are we talking about?” Elyssa asked.
“The hot DP.”
“Fine. She’s as innocent as Monica Lewinsky then.”
Listening to the girls, Pablo had walked over to the control room to let Rachel know the girls were chatting alone. As he walked in, he noticed the entire production crew were eavesdropping on the girls’ conversation too. En masse, they turned to glare at Bill, accusingly.
“Why does everyone always think it’s me?” Bill bellowed, defensively.
“Because it’s always you.” Rachel was fuming. “Damnit Bill, why can’t you keep your dick in your pants? You’re a hashtag Me Too nightmare.”
The crew looked at their Mr. Fix-It. The last thing Model Muse needed was a scandal that could shut down production.
“Bill, we could get shut down because of this, and you know it,” Pablo blurted. “And if Keisha finds out, you’ll be out of a job.”
“If she finds out,” Rachel’s voice raised an octave, “I should fire you now.”
“We have to do everything we can to protect the show,” Pablo said. “If you fire him, he could go to the press about how the show is fixed. Beth has to win.”
“The show is fixed?” the newest producer hire, Harper Phibbs, screeched.
So much for innocence. “You didn’t hear me say that,” Pablo told her.
“Oh, for God’s sake, grow up, Harper.” Bill added.
Harper was one of those annoyingly chipper types who was always overly positive—she got on everyone’s nerves. “It would be great to have a plus-sized champion, though.” She now seemed all too easily relieved of her ethics, though she feigned a stricken face. Harper was the Pollyanna producer who believed the show could bring a positive message about body image to young women. Pablo cringed at her high-pitched shriek. “She’ll be an amazing role model for big girls, like me.”
“Mr. Bill,” Pablo turned to the offending DP and used Keisha’s creepy voice trick, “yes, Kayla’s probably the best model of the bunch, but you can’t go promising girls a win in exchange for sexual favors.”
Bill looked uncomfortable.
“Now, we’re all gonna have to work double-time to dig up dirt to keep her quiet. She can’t come back and bite us in the ass when we ax her,” Pablo continued.
No one moved. No one said anything. “She just looks media hungry—we need something to keep her mouth shut.”
The producers looked at him with nothing but blank faces. “So, get research on it,” Pablo yelled at them. They jumped up and began scurrying around the room. Shit, he’d never yelled at the crew. “Sorry, guys.” He really was losing it.
Everyone began talking at once about what they should do. Pablo’s phone rang and vibrated. He looked down at the screen: the face of Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford from Mommy Dearest glared up at him. He held up his hand for quiet.
“Hey, Keisha.” He wondered what it would be this time—another pregnanc
y test? A dirty weekend playing her beard? Did she need a pedicure or pint of Dulce de Leche?
“Meet me at Virgil’s.”
“We’re shooting in 90 minutes.”
“Now.” She hung up the phone.
Feeling castrated, Pablo turned to Rachel. “Hold down the fort, I’ve gotta go.”
“She was supposed to be in hair and makeup 30 minutes ago,” Rachel shouted after him as he bolted out the door.
13
THE MADNESS UNFOLDS
IT WAS AN UNSEASONABLY warm March evening and Pablo let the windows down to smell the faintest tinge of spring in the air amid the exhaust fumes on the Queensborough Bridge. It hadn’t taken long to get into Manhattan from Silvercup Studios, but getting back to Queens was going to be a nightmare—traffic out of the city after 4 p.m. was like getting caught in a whirlpool with no way out. Why couldn’t Keisha have a refuge that was in Williamsburg instead of Times Square?
The dimly lit, mesquite smelling and smoke-filled restaurant was bustling with a pre-theatre crowd. Of course, Keisha never waited for a table; she practically had rent control on her regular table, she was there so much. The food was great, but Pablo had started to think the Supermodel ate there just to be seen sneaking incognito into her VIP back corner booth. She loved to hear the ripple effect of her passing. Isn’t that Keisha Kash? I think I just saw the star of Model Muse. Look, there’s Pablo too. Well, she almost liked the comments.
He entered the throne room of self-proclaimed Queen Keisha, who was holding court with three platters of pork ribs. Half-eaten sides of mac and cheese and collard greens littered the table like a crime scene.
“Here, eat something.” She shoved a cold platter under his nose while gnawing on a rib.
“I’m fine.” Pablo pushed the plate away as his iPhone binged at him from his lap. It was Miss Thing. Keisha was eating and explaining some drama in her life. Pablo knew the drill: listen, agree with her, express opinion (preferably outrage), offer support, and get her back to the set. He didn’t need to hear what she was actually saying to know how to respond. He looked down at the text.
Miss Thing TEXT: Where the fuck is she? We’re stranded on set!
Pablo discretely snapped a photo of Keisha sucking on a rib bone and texted the image back with a few words.
Pablo TEXT: Crisis in Keishaland.
He immediately regretted it, but text regret was a common millennial phenomenon. What had possessed him—his therapist would ask—to send that pic of Keisha chowing comfort food to her biggest frenemy on the show? He would say he didn’t know. He did, though. He did it because he could and he was too tired to care about not doing it.
Miss Thing binged back.
Miss Thing TEXT: Tell her to come suck on this meat!
Attached was a dick pic. Miss Thing’s. What little appetite Pablo might have had was now gone for good.
“I’m completely freaked out,” Keisha was saying. Pablo had missed most of her monologue, but since she generally repeated herself, he didn’t worry. He’d catch up on the next cycle. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a luxurious red Cartier box. Her hand trembled as she placed it in front of Pablo.
“Did T-Rex propose?” This was one plot twist he hadn’t foreseen.
“Just open it.” She was not in a joking mood.
He dropped the jewelry box on the table. “Is that blood?”
It was indeed. Between them, a vial of blood lay in Cartier’s velvety cushions, capped with a purple stopper. Pablo looked at Keisha in disbelief.
“It gets worse.”
She had his full attention now and just as his phone binged at him. He placed it on Airplane mode—there were some situations that nothing should interrupt and this was one of them. He took the scrap of folded paper that was grasped in her hand.
“What are you gonna do with it?” She sounded frightened.
He unfolded the note. “Read it.”
She watched every move on his face. Squeezed his hand when he reached and took hers. Closed her eyes as he sighed.
“What’s a Kimoru?” Pablo asked.
“I dunno.”
“Hmmmm…”
“Please, Pablo, I’m scared.” He could see the fear in her huge eyes the way she scanned the immediate vicinity, as if looking for the first sign of danger.
“Do you think you have a stalker?” he finally asked.
She grabbed his wrist and dug her nails into his flesh. “That’s why you’re here? I have no clue!”
“I’m gonna hang onto this.” He folded the note up and put it inside his jacket pocket. “Put the box in your purse. And don’t let anyone else see it.” Pablo’s mind was whirling. “I think we should go to the police.”
“No,” she blurted.
“Do you know who sent it at least?”
“No.”
“How’d you get it? I mean, this is some freaky shit, Keisha!”
“It was left with the overnight doorman. Some messenger kid with a baseball cap dropped it off.”
“So, whoever sent this knows where you live?” Pablo was horrified. “What in hell is going on?”
Keisha nibbled on one of the cold ribs, and then began nervously devouring what was left on the platters, pushing the cold and greasy collards towards Pablo. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, Pablo. Really scared.”
He nodded and reached forward again, putting his hand on top of hers. “I’m gonna figure this out. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
She looked eternally grateful, and for a moment it was just them, again—BFFs. “What would I do without you?”
From across the restaurant, a very angry looking Joe Vong power-walked his way through the crowd towards their booth. Clearly, not one of those die-hard fans looking for a selfie, the bouncer let him pass.
“I’ve been to six places looking for you guys,” he yelled at Pablo. “When the EP of the hottest show on TV calls, you pick up your fucking phone.”
“I had my phone on do not distur—”
“Back off, Joe,” Keisha snapped back. “I have an emergency situation and I needed Pablo to help me.”
Joe leaned towards Keisha. “I don’t care if your apartment is on fire. You’re supposed to be in the studio, on set. Filming. Now.”
“How dare you speak to me like I’m some flunky? I’m your boss. And I own you.”
“Do you really think I’m the only one who wants to know why you aren’t on set?” he hissed at her. “The network brass sent me.”
Pablo flipped his phone off airplane mode. Six messages from Vong binged at him. Joe Vong glared over at him. “Oh, now you’re receiving messages?”
Keisha slurped one last sip of her vanilla milkshake as Joe waved to the waiter to bring the check. Her signature was an aggressive slash that nearly tore the receipt. She stood up and looked at the two men. “Well, come on. We gotta go.” She turned and left them hurrying to catch up.
The traffic back to Long Island City was more like a parking lot. Joe sat up front in the Escalade. Keisha wouldn’t sit with him in the back, ever. When Pablo’s phone binged, twice, she complained that the high-pitched bell gave her a headache. It was going to be one of those nights. Pablo quickly flipped his device to vibrate, but it wasn’t Miss Thing texting now, it was Rachel.
Rachel TEXT: 911…damage control STAT!
Judges going to walk!
Pablo didn’t bother with a response. What could he do stuck in traffic? Miss Thing would blow a head gasket at the smallest inconvenience. He’d once lost his cool when the DP called for a “battery change” in the middle of one of his runway lessons. The problem with being a Mr. Fix-It was that Pablo couldn’t help feeling that he was somehow responsible after texting that photo of Keisha. For once, the Supermodel’s tardiness was justified, but it was a pattern. The more successful the show became, the later she got. They were two and a
half hours behind schedule and she still had to go through hair and makeup—which was easily a two-hour process on its own. If he was one of the judges, he’d go ballistic.
The evening clouds hung heavily over the enormous red Silvercup Studios sign, etched across the New York City skyline. There was a PA waiting for them on the sidewalk ready to usher Keisha to her dressing suite, while Pablo and Joe hurried to the main soundstage. In his head, Pablo went over the order of fires he was going to have to put out because Joe was better at pouring gasoline onto problems than dousing them with water. First up, was Miss Thing. He had to make sure the photo he texted of Keisha at Virgil’s didn’t fall into the wrong hands, or worse, end up on social media.
Rachel looked up at Pablo as he stepped into the control room. A wide shot of the judging room was on screen. Three of the Model Muse resident judges and guest judge, Christian Siriano—the youngest designer to win Project Runway—were sitting uncomfortably under the blaring lights, using small battery-operated fans to keep themselves from sweating.
“Thank God, you’re back.” Rachel looked relieved. “The fucking A/C is down.”
“That, I cannot help you with. What else can I do?”
“Hold on a sec,” Rachel barked over at three producers working at a long collapsible table. “Uh, excuse me, people. How about doing reaction shots, while we’re waiting for her highness?”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” the perpetually perky Harper chirped. She had one of those cheerful customer service voices that made Pablo want to strangle her. “Seeing as we always take so much time at the end of the night shooting reaction shots, I took it upon myself to shoot them now. Especially since Sasha is sober-ish, or was. She hasn’t had her evening bottle of Chardonnay with Adderall chaser yet.”