Saturday afternoon, Andie stood in the mirrored elevator of Ford Models beside Lola, dragging her Kate Spade wedge heels across the red carpeting. Her hands shook as she stared at the buttons, and she felt like she’d downed fifty cans of Diet Coke. Number five glowed, then six. Just eight more floors to go.
She’d looked at the Ford Models website almost every day for the last year, and now she was here, minutes away from meeting with Ayana Bennington. She’d dreamed about being represented by Ayana—the same agent who represented Kate Moss, Heidi Klum, and Tyra Banks. Ayana was said to take on only three new models a year—if she agreed to represent you, you were destined for high fashion.
Andie smoothed down her skirt. She’d spent all morning figuring out what to wear, finally settling on a sleeveless blue Juicy Couture dress with crocheting down the front. She almost always wore her hair in a ponytail or a bun, but today she’d blow-dried it. It was shinier and smoother than Frédéric Fekkai extensions.
Lola clapped her hands together lightly. “You’re going to be famous.” Since the Fashion Week show, Lola had dubbed herself Andie’s “manager” and was taking her duties very seriously. She even insisted on wearing a “power suit” to seem “professional,” but it was really just a black skirt and a cropped Juicy jacket she’d stolen from Stella.
“I hope so,” Andie murmured. Her heart beat faster and faster as the elevator hit the twelfth floor. She imagined Ayana Bennington, former-model-turned-agent, in a corner office overlooking Fifth Avenue. She’d hold Andie’s face between her palms and just stare at it, falling hopelessly in love with every feature. Then she’d apologize for the trouble Andie had had with the website, for the fact that people hadn’t seen her photo and called her immediately. Idiots! Ayana would cry. Fools! She’d slide a contract across the desk. Welcome to Ford Models, Andie Sloane, she’d say, shaking Andie’s tiny hand. We’re happy to have you.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened to reveal a marble lobby, the walls covered with photographs of models on catwalks all over the world, framed advertisements of models awash in stilettos and luxury handbags. A slender young woman with bulgy fish eyes breezed past, and Andie recognized her immediately as Shiraz Artillion, the new face of Chanel. She grabbed Lola’s arm and took a deep breath. Hyperventilating in the Ford lobby didn’t exactly say Top Model.
The silver Ford logo hung above a chrome reception desk that looked like something out of an episode of Star Trek. A woman with a Kool-Aid red pixie cut handed a folder to the male receptionist, who wore guyliner.
Lola strode across the room, Andie following close behind. “Hello, I’m Lola Childs,” she announced, putting emphasis on her last name. “And this is Andie. We’re meeting with Ayana Bennington.” Lola tapped the toe of one of her Gap ballet flats against the marble floor.
The red-haired woman’s whole body perked up. “We’ve been expecting you.” She smiled. “Let me show you in.” She held the door open and pointed to a giant gold office just inside the hall. A wall of windows overlooked Fifth Avenue. On the building across the way, a window washer was perched on scaffolding, drinking a Colt 45.
Andie looked at the desk. There, going through the latest edition of Vogue with a highlighter, was the mistress of her destiny. Her long hair was secured in a massive bun by three sets of black lacquered chopsticks. She stood when she saw them. “Ayana Bennington,” she cooed. “It’s fabulous to finally meet you.”
“I’m Lola,” Lola said, shaking Ayana’s hand.
Andie smoothed back her hair. Be fierce, she thought, channeling her inner Tyra. Be fierce. She straightened up and looked Ayana directly in the eye—just like all the modeling blogs had told her to do when first meeting an agent. “I’m Andie,” she said confidently, making sure to enunciate every syllable. (Diction is done with the tip of the tongue and the teeth!) Then she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her neck—elongate!—before sticking out her hand.
Ayana gestured to the two massive leather chairs in front of her desk. Andie sat down in one, her feet barely touching the floor. Lola sat beside her.
Ayana clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her gaze shifting to Lola. “I saw you at Fashion Week. I should have known you were Emma’s daughter—I’d recognize those beautiful green eyes anywhere.”
Lola adjusted her headband, her face a deep red.
“I was there too!” Andie offered. “I loved Alexander’s fall collection,” she added, ready to gush about the metallics and clean lines.
“Yes, that’s right.” Ayana nodded. “I remember you now.” She eyed Andie carefully, and Andie kept her chin high and her neck long. “You must look more like your father.”
“Actually, Andie’s my stepsister,” Lola corrected. “Or, well, she will be, really soon,” she said quickly, shooting Andie a smile. “Our parents are getting married tomorrow!”
Andie tried to smile back, but her face was stiff, like her nana’s after a round of Botox injections. No, she didn’t have bright green eyes and blond hair, but was it so ridiculous to think she could be related to Emma Childs?
“Well, Lola…” Ayana scanned Lola’s body. “You’re stunning. Exquisite bone structure.”
Andie dug her fingernails into the black leather chair. What? Lola was stunning? Lola was exquisite? Andie pinched Lola’s arm, waiting for her to tell Ayana why they were really there.
Lola focused on a potted plant next to Ayana’s desk, a little embarrassed. Stunning, exquisite, stunning. No one had ever said those words before—at least not when talking about her. Dorky, clumsy, bowlegged. Those were words you used to describe Lola Childs.
“I’m sure you hear that all the time.” Ayana folded her thin arms over her chest.
Lola sat frozen, the compliments swirling around her head like snow in a snow globe. This whole week she’d felt like a circus freak in a Bloomingdale’s catalog. She’d half expected Cate and Stella to put her in a cage and charge admission to see her. It felt good to hear Ayana Bennington—agent extraordinaire—compliment her.
When Lola lifted her head, Ayana was staring at her, waiting for a response. “Right,” she said in a small voice, the tiniest smile creeping over her face. “All the time.”
Andie clenched her hands into fists and let out a deep breath. This was supposed to be her moment, her big break. This is what she had been studying and practicing and hoping for. She kicked Lola under the desk, trying to get her attention, but Lola just rubbed her leg.
“How old did you say you were?” Ayana pressed. She took one of the chopsticks out of her hair, which stayed miraculously in place, and tapped it lightly against the glossy desktop.
“I’m interested in modeling too,” Andie blurted out.
Ayana scanned Andie’s tiny frame and pressed her lips together. She put her fingers to her temples, as if Andie had just spoken Portuguese and her brain was slowly trying to translate it. “Well,” she began, “you have a beautiful complexion. Delicate features. There’s a real warmth to your look, especially your eyes.”
Andie straightened up in her chair and blushed happily. Ayana was talking about her. Forget Shiraz Artillion—she’d be the new face of Chanel, clutching a bottle of Coco perfume against her cheek, her hair slicked back.
Ayana rested her chin in her hands. “You have a more…commercial look. When Emma comes in we should discuss catalog work. We could start with JCPenney, Sears, Kohl’s.”
Andie felt her eyes welling with tears. Catalog work? In the modeling world, Ayana might as well have told her she should do dog food commercials. She wanted to go to bed, curl up under her red duvet, and not come out until she was five-foot seven…if she ever was five-foot seven. She was starting to feel like she belonged on Little People, Big World.
Ayana placed a hand on her computer mouse and pulled up her calendar on the screen. “I’d love for you to come in for some test shots,” she said, peering over the desk at Lola—gangly giantess Lola, with ears that Andie could’ve used for extra shoe storage.
Lola clapped her hands together excitedly. “That would be brilliant!” she cried. She’d never thought about modeling before, but actually, it really would be brilliant. She and Andie could both be models. Every Ashton seventh-grader would worship her, whether she wore days-of-the-week knickers or not. Cate and Stella would seethe with jealousy over her billboard in Times Square. And if Kyle didn’t fancy her now, he definitely would then. Forget the rehearsal dinner—she’d bring him to every Ashton Prep formal for the next six years. As her boyfriend.
Andie sank lower in her chair. She wished she could disappear, that she could suddenly just be somewhere else—a Star Wars convention, a medieval torture chamber—anywhere but here.
This was all Lola’s fault. She was the one who’d e-mailed Ford. She was the one who’d let Ayana ramble on and on about how stunning she was. And now she was agreeing to do test shots!
Andie saw herself posing next to a jungle gym in Oshkosh overalls, her hair in pigtails, while Lola graced the cover of Teen Vogue, CosmoGirl!, and Seventeen. She saw the Chanel ad again, but this time it was Lola clutching the bottle of perfume—her hair slicked back, exposing her massive ears.
Andie closed her eyes and let out a sigh. After everything, she’d been right: Modeling was her destiny. Modeling for Sears.