chapter 10

“Do I have a big butt?”

“For the last time, no.”

We were leaving the lobby, weaving through the models still waiting around. I was tagging along behind Summer. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. And stop squeezing your own bee-hind. The clients can see you.”

As if Elmo-hair and Pirate Man were wasting their eyes on me. Summer was the one every eye was on, with her long, buttery princess-in-the-castle hair and that electric glow she had. I felt the stares. When I went somewhere with her it was like being next to a chandelier. She was oblivious to the heads swiveling or, sometimes, the whispers. Those reactions were such a part of her environment that she didn’t really see them anymore, like the palm trees at every corner.

My feet were killing me. Today I’d walked to five castings, all over the art deco district. That spot on the front steps of the hotel looked like a good place to rest. I sat down, right near a gaggle of models smoking. Summer stretched out next to me. “Tell ya what, Allee, you need to git some Rollerblades or a bike, maybe a scooter. Why didn’t you drive your cute little car?”

“There’s no parking here. Ever. I shouldn’t have bothered bringing my car down.”

“You’ll need it for the commercial castings. Casting directors ain’t all on the beach.” She lifted a pair of Rollerblades out of her bag and started lacing one on. No wonder her bag looked so bulky.

Brynn was down on the sidewalk, squinting out at Ocean Drive, as if searching for somebody. “Don’t pay her no nevermind,” Summer said. “You don’t have a big butt. She’s just playing. Truth is, Brynn ain’t bad, really, once you get to know her. Aw, sugar and spice!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Forgot my sunglasses. Wait here for me, ’kay?” Summer clumped carefully up the steps in her blades, gliding past the NO ROLLERBLADES sign and on into the hotel. I’d noticed she was very spacey, always leaving something after castings and having to go back in and get it. I took out Wuthering Heights and started to read.

A ridiculously loud Harley pulled up, breaking my concentration. The driver had cornrows and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, probably to show off his tattoos. Brynn hoisted up the hem of her dress and climbed onto the back. She took the apple he handed her over his shoulder, and I heard him say, “Here’s your lunch, biatch,” just before they roared away.

That had to be Loco Luca, Brynn’s party promoter boyfriend. Miguel had warned me about him. He’s one slim shady. Stay away, Allee girl. Luca never came to the apartment. Brynn always met him out somewhere. What was she doing with that dirtbag? He was right about her being a biatch, but she was so hot she could have anybody. This guy, with his hooded eyes and that nose that looked like it had been broken a few times, looked like a lizard.

And that apple couldn’t be her whole lunch. Come to think of it, I never saw Brynn eating. Hmmm.

The thought of that apple made my stomach bark (it was way past the growling stage). I’d only had a fat-free blueberry muffin, a cup of coffee, two Nutri-Grain bars, and a water bottle all day, and it was three o’clock. I was exhausted. And hungry. And irritated, which is what I get when I’m exhausted and hungry.

“Allee!” It was Summer, bursting out of the hotel doors on her Rollerblades. She made it down the steps, BlackBerry in hand. “Guess what? I just heard some girls from Irene Marie talking about a casting for Dietra magazine this afternoon, so I called the agency and they’re gonna go ahead and try to get us in on it.”

Another casting? I didn’t think so. It wasn’t on my to-do list for today, and besides, my feet insisted I get off this insane casting train. “You go. I can’t deal with another casting.”

She gave me her you’ve-lost-your-cotton-pickin’-mind look. “Allee. This is Dietra! Uta Scholes is shooting it.”

“Okay, I don’t know what or who that is, but I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m finished. Besides, my butt’s too big, apparently.”

“It’s a German magazine, high fashion, real big over there, like Moda is in Italy. I reckon it’ll pay beans, but the tear sheets’ll be great for our books. And you need tears real bad. And it’s Uta Scholes. She’s the hottest photographer around right now. Been hearin’ her name a lot.”

“Not happening.” I yawned. “Stick a fork in me. I’m done.”

Now Summer was yawning. Yawns are always contagious. “I hear ya. I didn’t leave the club till three last night. I’m dawg-tired too, but I ain’t missin’ a Dietra casting. Might be for the cover. Oh, and Uta Scholes is a woman.” She waited for me to stand up and cheer. Which I would have done if I wasn’t so wiped. “Been wantin’ to meet her.”

“Forget it, Summer. Dimitri told me I’m not right for high fashion anyway. I’m in the commercial division and besides, it’s not going to make any difference on my chart if I go to another casting today or not.”

“With that attitude it won’t. You gotta stay positive. You’ll get there. Just ’cause there’s a goalie don’t mean you can’t score.” Summer liked to go all motivational speaker-ish on me. Some people were born sunny-side up, like flight attendants. “Let’s go home and nap before the casting. Claudette should be back from that Jose Cuervo job today. She might even be at our place by now.”

So I’d finally get to meet Claudette. I was curious about her, but I wanted to finish this chapter of Wuthering Heights. Cathy’s ghost was driving Heathcliff mental, and I loved this part. “I’ll meet you there in a little while.”

“Cool,” she said, vacant-eyed. “I’ll see ya back home. Love ya.” And she was off, rolling across the street.

Bzzt, bzzt. My BlackBerry was vibrating.

From: Dimitri@FinesseMiami

To: Alleecat1

Subject: Dietra mag/editorial go-see

Editorial casting at the Raleigh hotel, 5:00 TODAY. 150/day, 2-day booking. Six-page spread. Photographer is Uta Scholes. Wants young, innocent, fun look, playful. Commercial types who can cross over and be edgy too. Bathing suit under casual clothes. Natural hair and makeup, go soft-looking.

From: Alleecat1

To: Dimitri@FinesseMiami

Subject: Dietra casting

Any chance I can skip this one? I’ve been on a lot of castings today and I’m really tired.

From: Dimitri@FinesseMiami

To: Alleecat1

Subject: SKIP THIS ONE???

ARE YOU CRAZY? This is a major editorial casting, every model in town wants to be seen by Uta Scholes, and you think you can just “skip it” BECAUSE YOU’RE TIRED??!! YOU DON’T KNOW THE MEANING OF TIRED! You want to model, you better learn to function at 100% with no sleep. Go have an espresso and don’t let me EVER hear you complain about being tired again. Be there at five SHARP, look beautiful, and charm Uta. You can do it. You’re fabulous. Kisses,  Dimitri

 

Uta Scholes was nothing like the Elmo-hair/Pirate Man duo. Khaki shorts, loose T-shirt, Birkenstocks, she was more like a minivan mom than a fashion client. We were in the Raleigh hotel’s conference room at a shiny table scattered with clipboards, an agenda book, a laptop, and a pile of model comps. Mine was on top.

“Relax, you’re adorable.” Her German accent was so strong it took me a second to figure out what she was saying. And it wasn’t easy to relax, since I’d just had a four-dollar coffee. She speed-dialed through my book, flipped it shut, and slid it back to me. I knew this casting was a lost cause. While she was looking, I had a sudden, horrible thought.

What if my model-for-tuition plan was a lost cause? What if I wasted months here and ended up right back where I started, back home at Wal-Mart with no funds for Yale, with everybody in Comet knowing I failed?

“What’s wrong?” she asked me.

“What?”

“You look upset.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Come on, Allee. Activate fake grin. “Just thinking about something, that’s all.”

“Give me scared,” she said.

“Give you what?”

“Scared. You just did upset, now pretend you’re scared.”

Oh, I got it. She wanted expressions. No problem. I bugged out my eyes in terror, like Godzilla was coming right at me.

“No, no, no, not like a cartoon. Think about something that really, truly scares you.” Okay, well, there was death. And roller-coasters. Thrill rides didn’t thrill me. But there was only one thing that really, truly scared me, more than big, crunchy insects, more than that horrible toenail fungus commercial where they showed the bacteria.

What really, truly scared me was the fear that, twenty years from now, I’d still be in Cape Comet at some dead-end job, sitting in a cubicle staring at a computer screen all day, a nobody, a coulda-woulda-shoulda-been-a-great-somebody. What if I never got to Yale, never accomplished anything really great with my life, and this is my peak? I broke into a cold sweat whenever I thought about that possibility, the possibility of forever being…ordinary.

“Good job, Allee. Now give me sweet.”

It took me a sec to shake off the willies of doom. “What do you mean, sweet?”

“You know, sweet. Like Glinda the Good Witch.”

I batted my eyes and tried a sugary smile, then stopped. “I don’t know if I have Glinda in me. I always liked the bad witch better, the green one.”

She chuckled. “Why?”

“She got to drive a broom, hang out with flying monkeys, and live in a castle. Way more interesting.”

“But she was evil.”

“Misunderstood,” I said. “Like the Hulk.”

“Sounds like you saw this Broadway show Wicked,” she said.

“I wish. I’ve never been to a real play. I mean, I’ve been to plays at the community theater back home, but not one with professional actors.”

“Is that right?” she asked.

“Yeah. To be honest, I’ve never even been to New York. I read Wicked, though. Did you know the play was based on the book?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even know there was a book.” She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. Maybe she thought I was lying about reading the book. I doubted models read a lot. “You like books?”

I nodded. “I read all the time.”

“But what do you do for a good time? Are you hitting all the clubs like a good little model?”

“No. I can’t go to clubs. I’m not twenty-one.”

“Then what do you do at night?”

I shrugged. “Study for my online classes, e-mail, read.”

“You mean to tell me you don’t drink?”

“Not really. I think beer tastes like hot dog water.”

She threw back her head with a big, hearty laugh. “Hot dog water, ya, that’s exactly what it tastes like. I’m probably the only German who doesn’t like beer. Do you smoke?”

I wrinkled up my nose. “No.”

“And you’re not much of a drinker. Let me guess. You belong to this, uh, Models for Christ, right?”

“Never heard of it.”

“You must be from a little village, then.”

“Bingo.”

She asked me a lot of questions about myself and Cape Comet, and I was so pathetically grateful she wasn’t in a hurry to get rid of me, like clients usually were after they saw my book. It was actually nice to talk to an adult about stuff besides modeling. She almost seemed like a teacher, the kind that liked to hang out with students after class. This didn’t even feel like a casting.

The door swung open and Summer walked in, stopping short when she saw us. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t think y’all would still be here.”

“What did you forget?” I asked.

“Um, this.” She took her agenda book off the table, then tiptoed backward, whispering, “Sorry to interrupt, y’all. Love ya,” and she was gone. Uta took another look at my book, slower this time. She told me about the shoot that she and the art director for Dietra were planning, and that was when I knew, knew I had to book this job.

It was an Alice in Wonderland fashion story. Alice in Wonderland! That had to mean something, didn’t it? The very book I was reading to Robby when I left home. My all-time fave. This had to be fate. I told her all about how much I loved that story.

But she must have thought I was full of it and just telling her all that to get the job, because she answered by saying, “I’ll be in touch with the agency,” in the same flat way I’d heard all the other clients say it. Maybe fate was playing a practical joke on me. Now I kinda felt like an idiot for going on and on about how much I loved Alice.

Still, Uta Scholes was the nicest client I’d met. No wonder every model in town wanted to be seen by her. It wasn’t just because she was the photographer booking models for a major magazine. It was because she treated models like people.

Uta, book me please book me please book me pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…