Modelland (7 page)

“Oh,” Tookie said quietly, feeling a little ridiculous that she’d thought for a moment that they wanted her to walk on T-DOD.

“I suppose it will be funner-er if you’re there, Dookie,” Myrracle said in a conciliatory tone.

“Tookie,”
Tookie said, feeling a barb of anger.

“That’s what I said!” Myrracle protested.

Yeah, right
, Tookie thought. She noticed Brian snickering behind his hand.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Myrracle said, frustrated. “I’m on my periodical right now! It makes me forgetful!”

“It’s
period
, not periodical!” Tookie growled.

Myrracle smirked. “How do
you
know? You haven’t even
gotten
yours yet!”

Tookie turned away, her face flooded with heat. Myrracle never resisted the urge to remind her that
she
had gotten her period already, even though she was two years younger.

Then Myrracle suddenly ran out of the room, perplexing everyone. She returned moments later, swirling and twirling, wearing an elaborate flamenco-style fuchsia costume.

“Here’s my dress I’m gonna wear, Creamy! It moves like a chow-chow dancer when I do my model dance!”

“It’s
cha-cha
, girl, not chow-chow.” Brian stifled a snicker.

“And it’s
walk
, not dance!” Mrs. De La Crème sounded like she was going to burst a blood vessel. “Besides, the dress is hideous and has nothing to do with couture. Take that thing off. Congratulations, Tookie, that dress is now yours.”

Great
, Tookie thought.
Another
that dress is revolting and will look marvelous on Tookie
hand-me-up
.

“Now, as for a Day of Discovery dress for my Myrracle,” Mrs. De La Crème continued, “Myrracle, Tookie, and I are going to LaDorno tomorrow, and we will find a dress that is fit for fashion, not flamenco.”

“But—” Myrracle whined.

“Me?” Tookie said again.

Mrs. De La Crème looked annoyed with both of them. “My decision is final. One of you will be trying on lots of dresses and the other will be busy picking them up.”

Everyone marched out of the kitchen—well, Myrracle danced. Only after they had all dispersed did Tookie realize she’d forgotten to tell her mother about the piece of roof slate that had nearly sliced her head open on her way in. Tookie dejectedly walked to her room, sadly realizing that the Forgetta-Girl had actually forgotten about her own forgettable self.

A few minutes later, Tookie stood in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Myrracle. She was trying to enter the room, but a pile of leotards blocked her way, as well as a pair of toe shoes, two pairs of jazz shoes, and one stray sandal.

A long piece of duct tape bisected the room, separating Tookie’s side from Myrracle’s, but it made no difference—Myrracle’s mess had invaded every corner in the same way mildew grew on tub tile. Dirty clothes were piled on the floor. Makeup trays and brushes and used cotton balls and a pair of dirty socks lay strewn about Tookie’s otherwise neatly organized dresser. There was a sweat-stained leotard on Tookie’s pillow; ample-cupped bras that certainly didn’t belong to Tookie were draped across Tookie’s
carefully made bed, and torn-out pages from
Modelland
magazines were scattered across the floor like leaves that had fallen from a fashion tree. Tookie tossed the bras, three pairs of dance shoes, and a variety of necklaces, bracelets, and leg warmers off her bed and onto Myrracle’s side of the floor. Every evening, Tookie flung Myrracle’s junk to her side. And every afternoon when she came home, it had all migrated back to Tookie’s side once more.

Tookie slumped down on her bed.
Myrracle is walking on The Day of Discovery with a SMIZE
, she thought once more. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much—
everyone
in her class was walking. Abigail, Zarpessa.

Zarpessa
.

The image of Zarpessa and Theophilus kissing in the hall flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. If only Zarpessa hadn’t come up when Tookie and Theophilus were having their moment! Had Theophilus
really
spoken to her? Would she ever get a moment like that again?

She closed her fingers around the newly defective
T O OKE
button. This piece of Theophilus fit perfectly in the heart of her palm, the metal pin cold against her dry skin. She gazed at its lacquered message.

Theophilus, oh, Theophilus
. Tookie swooned. She closed her eyes and licked her lips.

Your salted-caramel eyes, Theophilus …

She imagined Theophilus right in front of her. She leaned toward him, her eyes closed, her lips caressing the air.

We can call our boy Tookophilus and our girl Thoodie!

She puckered and her lips connected with a solid, cold surface.

Theophilus
, she thought.
Oh, yes, baby. I’m so happy you’re giving me my very first kiss
.

“What are you
doing
?”

Tookie opened her eyes. She was face to face with herself. Her lips were in contact with Myrracle’s full-length mirror. There, on the reflective glass, was the blurry outline of her broad, puffy lips. Tookie whirled around. Myrracle stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip.

Myrracle’s eyes glimmered. “Are you making
in
with yourself?”

Tookie ducked her head.

Myrracle pirouetted to Tookie’s perfectly made bed and flopped down on the mattress. “Who do you wanna kiss?”

Tookie turned away, clamping her mouth shut.

“Brian Quincy?” Myrracle teased.

“Ugh, no!”

“Who, then?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t feel bad about not doing kissing yet,” Myrracle said in a teasing voice. “It feels like a little wormy man is crawling in your mouth, anyways.”

A wave of humiliation rushed through Tookie. “Who says I haven’t kissed anyone?”
Okay, so maybe it’s true, but is it written all over my face?

Myrracle sniffed. “Come
on
. But it’s okay. Doing kissing with yourself is better than doing no kissing at all, Dookie.” She giggled a little as she left the room, managing to drop a cardigan sweater, a tap shoe, and several gum wrappers on Tookie’s side as she left.

Tookie’s eyes popped open. Cold, chipped tile pressed against the bottoms of her feet. Icy wind gushed around her flannel hand-me-up pajamas. She wasn’t in bed, as she was supposed to be, but standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
How did I get here?
She couldn’t remember turning the knob of her bedroom door, walking down the stairs, or padding through the hall.

She then looked into the dark room in front of her and gasped. Balanced on one hand in the center of the living room’s tattered carpet was her father, clad in a colorful unitard. His waist twisted in the air. His legs were bent at an awkward angle. His muscles strained and shook. An empty bottle of TaterMash, a colorless distilled beverage imported from Kremlingrad, lay tipped over on the floor. Next to it was a faded photograph of The Incredible Chris-Crème-Crobat, otherwise known as Christopher De La Crème. In the photo, Tookie’s father still possessed both of his green eyes. And he didn’t have the couch-potato paunch.

Tookie ducked behind the wall. When she was much younger, she’d assisted her father during many of his acrobatic practices; he’d even told her, lovingly, that they made a good team. And she had attended many of her father’s performances with the Circo del Soul troupe before his tragic accident. She could still remember that day in almost perfect detail—the sparkling-gold cover of the programs, the plush red velvet seats, the set-your-mouth-on-fire taste of the bag of Gouda-and-habanero-flavored popcorn, and the sharp, five-foot swords that pointed skyward all along the perimeter of the stage. Three tumblers juggling fire with their
tongues while jumping on humongous translucent trampolines suspended over the audience had been the first act. Next was a group of ten-year-old girls, contortionists who had backflipped into deep, hot-pink-dyed swimming pools full of crocodiles. And then the lights had dimmed, and mysterious music filled the air. A single spotlight shone down on Tookie’s ripple-bodied father, the headlining star of Circo del Soul. Tookie had swelled with pride as her father looped and danced and climbed a dental-floss-thin wire.

Her father, the mighty Chris-Crème-Crobat, was going to execute a new move that evening. Circo del Soul had billed it as the first time any human had ever attempted such a feat. Mrs. De La Crème was full of pride that evening too.

However, right as Tookie’s father had reached the seventh-story landing on the stage, Mrs. De La Crème pulled out her mirror to add a bit of Wrinkle Redux to her tanned and hideously lined face—“I want to look my best when the cameras all turn to me after his feat is done,” she murmured. But the mirror caught a beam of light that shone right into Chris-Crème-Crobat’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. In a panic, he lost his footing and fell seven stories. Most acrobats would have had extensive injuries or even died, but not Tookie’s nimble father. He tucked his body and landed smoothly on his upper back, propelling himself forward into a smooth tumble. The audience erupted into cheers. Chris-Crème-Crobat then arched upward to stand from his backbend and face his adoring, applauding, whistling, screaming fans. Ever the devoted showman, he thrust himself forward into a deep bow, impaling his eye on one of the five-foot swords at the perimeter of the stage.

Tookie had wrestled past the security barricade and run to the
stage. Pools of her father’s blood splattered the stage floor, along with pieces of flesh. And there, staring up at her, was her father’s eye. Disembodied, lifeless on the stage floor, gazing at Tookie accusingly as if asking,
Why?

In the days that followed, Tookie was afraid her father would die. But when they’d gotten word that the blade had caused no brain or nerve damage, she’d rejoiced, which angered her mother. “Don’t you see?” she cried in Tookie’s face. “This is the end for him. He only has one damn eye. He’s damaged.
Defective
. Done!” Her mother had then calmed down and held Tookie’s shoulders. “It was a freak accident, okay. You and I do not have
any
idea where that beam of light came from that made him fall.”

Tookie had been only eight years old, but she’d fully understood what her mother was telling her:
Forget what happened. Tell no one
.

Tookie let out a loud sniff, caught up in the memory. Mr. De La Crème’s head shot up. His good eye squinted into the dark kitchen. “Who’s there?”

Tookie bit down on her bottom lip and didn’t move.

“I
said
, who’s there?”

Tookie slowly padded into the hall and showed her face. Mr. De La Crème ran over to the couch, tore open the packaging of a new chenille blanket, and quickly covered himself with it. “What the—”

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” Tookie said. “I was sleepwalking again!”

“You scared the hell outta me, girl!” he slurred.

Tookie backed slowly away. She pointed at the photo on the floor. “You doing your old routines?” she asked. “You’re still really good.”

Mr. De La Crème harrumphed. “In some quadrants, spying on
people is punishable by death.” But as he ducked his head, Tookie saw a tiny smile flash across his face.

“You want me to spot you?” Tookie asked.

Mr. De La Crème considered the offer for a long moment. “Like when you were a wee little thing?”

Tookie grinned. This was the first time since the tragic incident he agreed to let her help him. Mr. De La Crème got on his hands and knees once more and spread his palms wide. “All I need you to do is watch. For two things. One, if it looks like I’m going to fall, you gotta warn me before I do, so I can right myself. Two, watch out for that mean mother of yours. Understood?”

“Absolutely, Daddy,” Tookie said. She watched as her father pressed into the handstand again, the veins in his arms bulging, his paunch shaking, sweat pouring down his face. Tookie stared at her father’s flabby stomach and glass eye. Her mother obviously loved him less, or had fallen out of love completely, now that he was
defective
. In a way, it only made Tookie connect with her father more: they were two defectives in a world that was obsessed with perfection.

Suddenly, her father let out a groan and tipped over. Tookie jumped out of the way to avoid his heavy falling legs, which nicked the coffee table. “What the hell, girl?” he roared. His face had flushed as red as a spit-polished apple, and his hair was streaked with sweat. “Why weren’t you paying attention? Why didn’t you tell me I was out of position?”

“I’m sorry!” Tookie cried, instantly regretting her daydreaming. “I promise it won’t happen again!”

Her father stared at her for a moment, carefully examining her. A startled, disgusted expression flashed across his face, as if a
light had flipped on inside his head. It was a look Tookie had seen before—but one he’d never explained.