thirty-three

MAY 4

I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who pulled up to Green Pastures on a bike that morning. I got there at 11:20, the dress in my backpack, accessories hanging in bags off my handlebars.

There were quite a few vehicles in the parking lot already. I guess I could have showed up earlier, but then I’d have had to be there for longer.

I locked my bike and stared at the front doors of the school.

My life felt like a cracked vase about to fall off a tall table.

Fashion people are completely focused on how things look. It’s like they operate via a feedback loop: look a certain way and you will be that way. If you were a certain way, you should look the part. Maybe there was something to that theory.

Before the contest I thought I was too deep to care about clothes, but maybe I was just sort of lazy and didn’t know myself.

I’d tried for a respectable outfit for the big day to at least show Mr. Carmichael and the committee that I was grateful that I got to take part. I wore a shirt with a collar and a sweater. Clean jeans. My newest sneakers. I told myself I wasn’t dressed up for Tesla, but that factored in.

I was getting ready to open the doors when a thin girl with hair mounded up into a helmet shape came out of the school, moving fast.

“Hey,” I said.

She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening. Up close I could see she was in her twenties, at least. Maybe older. She wore a plastic cape around her shoulders, and her face was painted off-white. There was a jagged red scratch down one cheek. Up close I could see that some of the hair was fake and dark ribbons and jewels were woven into it.

She moved her head stiffly, like she was afraid the arrangement of hair might fall over or collapse like a soufflé.

Keys jangled in her hand.

She made a face at me—I have no idea what it meant—and kept moving into the parking lot.

I could sympathize.

I took a deep breath and went inside. When I reached the dressing room, I could tell right off that everyone else had been there for a while. It was all laughing, talking, music, excitement, vanity lights, and mirrors. Clouds of chemicals and perfume that had something to do with hairdressing hung in the air.

Bijou and Tesla walked toward me.

I didn’t know whether to look at Tesla or not.

She’d put her hair up in a smooth silvery twist and wore a white blouse and neat black pants and flat shoes. She reminded me of someone who worked in a high-end art gallery. Not that I’ve ever been in a high-end art gallery, but I’ve seen enough movies to have a general idea.

She veered away before they reached me, saying something I couldn’t hear to Bijou. Bijou showed me to my station and took my music. My station had a chair that could be raised and lowered with a foot pump. In front of it was a brightly lit mirror. The screens on either side and the rolling rack at the back made it feel semiprivate.

I hung the dress on the rack, where it looked very small and simple, put the accessories on the counter, and waited. I’d told Esther to come at eleven forty-five.

At eleven thirty Bijou and Tesla called us all into the hallway, where Mr. Carmichael waited.

He told us the order—I was near the start, which suited me fine, and Charlie Dean was in the middle—and then he and Bijou and Tesla brought us out onto the stage and pointed to where the committee of judges would be sitting. There were chairs set out for the audience. A lot of chairs. Who was going to sit in them? Who’d want to voluntarily sit through something like this?

Carmichael reminded us that our models work “both sides of the runway” and that they should pause to show off “all angles of the looks to the judges.”

“Tesla?” he said. “Can you please demo?”

Tesla climbed the stairs and took a position at the end of the runway, looking completely at ease. Then she walked along the long platform, pausing several times to turn this way and that until she hit the end and came back, pausing for longer in front of the judges’ chairs.

Damn, she was three kinds of something.

We stood in a ragged group at the far end of the runway, and as she passed us her gaze caught mine, and I felt something tear when she looked away.

“After all the models have walked, they will come back onstage and take a bow. Then the contestants and models are invited to take refreshments and celebrate with family and friends while the judges deliberate. Tesla and Bijou will collect your croquis books and design materials now.”

Before we trooped back into the dressing rooms, and the contestants gathered up our drawings and whatnot to hand in, Carmichael reminded us to put our names on everything. He finished with a warning.

“The show will start on time, and we will not hold the show for anyone who is not ready. You will lose your turn. And that will be that.”

Maybe I’d get lucky and Esther would be a couple of hours late.